Republican Herald

And rang through Roman skies:
On! ever bright the land must be,
Blessed as where it lies!
The rose crowned Summer ceaseless shines
An orient clime of gold.
The honeyed peace of eddying lakes,
The triumphs of toil:
By ages on their firm base borne
As aye the loftiest tone.
Yet lies upon the lands of Morn
A still unbroken spell.
The West-Oh! while its forests wave,
By Jove, the setting sun
Fain blushed to see the toiling slave
Oh! his freedom won:
Still misery in their seaward path
Reign o'er the ancient woods,
That miss the untrammelled of their youth,
The dwellers of the woods.
The North, with misty mantle, lowers
On England's wise and brave.
Who gave her throne a thousand shores
The wealth of land and wave:
But stains are on their boasted shore;
Though, freedom's shrine be fair,
'Tis empty-or they bow before
A gilded idol there:
The South-the cloudless South-expands
Her deserts to the day,
Where rise those still unconquered bands,
Who own no sceptre's sway:
But wherefore is the wrong with
Our gilded age, but?
For
the hands of brothers reach forth
In many a region bright
And far may all
But where on mortals see the light
Of freedom's ?
The search is vain -from human skies
The angel ? :
O'er ocean, round old freedom's isle-
The country of the dead!