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,