Thou, of the living lyre,
    Thou, of the lavish clime,
Whose mountains mix their lightning-fire
    With the storm-cloud sublime,
We, of thy sister-land,
    The empire of the free,
Joy as those patriot-breasts expand
    With genial Liberty.

Thy flowers their fragrant breast
    Unfold to catch its ray,
And Nature's velvet-tissued vest
    With brighter tint is gay,
More blest thy rivers roll
    Full tribute to the Sea,
And even Woman's cloister'd soul
    Walks forth among the free.

Aid with thy tuneful strain
    Her bold, adventurous way,
Bid the long-prisoned mind attain
    A sphere of dazzling day,
Bid her unpinion'd foot
    The cliffs of knowledge climb,
And search for Wisdom's sacred root
    That mocks the blight of time.

Say,—"Break oblivion's sleep
    And toil with florist's art,
To plant the germs of virtue deep
    In childhood's fruitful heart,
To thee, the babe is given
    Fair from its glorious Sire,
Go, nurse it for the King of Heaven,
    And He will pay the hire."