 | The harp and plow |  |
202
SONG.
‘Where Liberty dwells, there is my country.’—
Franklin.
Franklin.
From where Penobscot's flood reflects
The morning's ruddy beams,
To lone Itaska lake that feeds
The infant King of Streams,—
Vast region! from whose ample midst
Niagara's anthem swells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
The morning's ruddy beams,
To lone Itaska lake that feeds
The infant King of Streams,—
Vast region! from whose ample midst
Niagara's anthem swells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
A voice is in each nameless brook,
Each river of our land;
Amidst the mountains, Titan piled,
That loom cloud-capt and grand;
The breeze that rolls the prairie wave,
This voiceful hymning tells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
Each river of our land;
Amidst the mountains, Titan piled,
That loom cloud-capt and grand;
The breeze that rolls the prairie wave,
This voiceful hymning tells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
Within the shieling on the hill,
The hamlet in the vale;
Within the mart whence commerce sets
The snowy, seaward sail;
Within our hearts, my countrymen,
A conscious feeling tells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
The hamlet in the vale;
Within the mart whence commerce sets
The snowy, seaward sail;
Within our hearts, my countrymen,
A conscious feeling tells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
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