And tyrants forged their bloody, clanking chains;
A cloud, that when the Mayflower's precious cup
The misty, treacherous deep held proudly up,
By waves that leaped and dashed each other o'er,
But onward still the ark of Freedom bore,
Some fair and peaceful Ararat to find,
Plumed its black wings, and swept not far behind.
To-day it lowers o'er this great, free land—
O'er farms and workshops, offices and spires—
Its baleful shadow casts on every hand,