Chapter LXXXVI

Glorious! most glorious! proudly let me stand,
With the rapt fervor of a Poet's eye,
And pour my blessings on my native land;
Oh! for the gift to tell thy destiny,
And mould it to the telling--thou should'st rise,
Eternal, as the stars that bless thy skies,
And sparkle in thy banner--thou should'st be
All that thy brave hearts wish'd, who will'd thee to be free.