Far-breathing o’er one wilderness of bloom,
Through princely gardens ne’er by mortal drest,
Amid the broad savannas of the west.
A bark was gliding down the silvery stream
That claims its birth from far Itasca’s fount,
And bids its waves o’er many a valley gleam,
And join the well-springs of full many a mount,
Till, proud, at length, Columbia’s wealth to drain,
It sweeps, deep-freighted, to the Mexican main.
About that vessel’s prow the foam-wreaths hung,