Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old—
My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,
Back to the earliest days of Liberty.
O Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream,
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap
With which the Roman master crown’d his slave,
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,
Arm’d to the teeth, art thou: one mailed hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,