The cannon is mute and the sword in its sheath—
Uncrimsoned the banner floats joyous and fair:
Yet beauty is twining an evergreen wreath,
And the voice of the minstrel is heard on the air.
Are these for the glory encircling a crown—
A phantom evoked but by tyranny's breath?
Are these for the conqueror's vaunted renown—
All ghastly with gore, and all tainted with death?
Bright Star of the West—broad Land of the Free,
The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!