Has it crost the immemorial plains,
To coasts where the gray Pacific roars
And the Pilgrim blood in the people’s veins
Is pure as the wealth of their mountain ores?
Spirits of sons who, side by side,
In a hundred battles fought and fell,
Whom now no East and West divide,
In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell;
Say, has it reached your glorious rest,
And ruffled the calm which crowns you there,—