Which Freedom with her magic wand
Hath touch’d, to clothe with bloom, and bless
With peace, and joy, and plenteousness.
The rains have ceas’d—the struggling glare
Of sunset lights the misty air,
The fierce wind sweeps the myriad throng
Of broken ragged clouds along,
From the rough saw-mill, where hath rung
Through all the hours, its grating tongue,
The raftsman sallies, as the gray