Long-crushed desires that freedom bids to bloom,
The yoke thrown off, for lawlessness made room.
How could it other? Shorn of lords and guides
They pressed atow’rd thee over westering tides.
From lands of Czars and Princes still they come,
Some young and lusty, open-browed, and some
Oppression-stunted, famine-driven, sad.
All praying thee for welcome fair and glad—
A niche, a shelter, honest toil and home,
And these thou givest, Queen beside the foam.