Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloomed!

VI.

Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven,

When Transatlantic Liberty arose,

Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven,

But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes,

Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes;

Her birth star was the light of burning plains;[47]

Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows

From kindred hearts—the blood of British veins—