Our grand Society has won its way.
And as the lichen plant, when tempest-torn,
And roughly from its native hill-side borne,
Sucks moisture from the whirlwind's shivering form,
And grows, while yet hurled onward by the storm,
And when at last its voyage well is o'er,
Thrives sweeter, purer, stronger than before,
Our gallant little band has ever grown
Stronger for all the struggles it has known;
And, 'mid the smiles and frowns that heaven out-sends,