Her other the broad gates of dawn unbars;
O’er silent wastes of snows,
Crowning her lofty brows,
Gleams high her diadem of northern stars;
While, clothed in garlands of warm flowers,
Round Freedom’s feet the South her wealth of beauty showers.
Sweet is the toil of peace,
Sweet is the year’s increase,
To loyal men who live by Freedom’s laws;
And in war’s fierce alarms