HAIL, awful pile! Child of Time's midnight age,
Now Mother in its youth renewed! The tomb
Of regal priests who banqueted on joys
ARE dreams a portion of our active life?
Are they the living movements of the soul,
Which grows more wakeful while the body sleeps;
TRUTH is growing—hearts are glowing
With the flame of Liberty:
Light is breaking—Thrones are quaking—
Hark!—the trumpet of the Free!
A SONG for the Free—the brave and the free—
Who feareth no tyrant's frown:
Who scorneth to bow, in obeisance low,
THE time shall come when Wrong shall end,
When peasant to peer no more shall bend—
WHAT meant that glancing of thine eye,
That softly hushed, yet struggling sigh?
Hast thou a thought of woe or weal,
SIR Raymond de Clifford, a gallant band
Hath gathered to fight in the Holy Land;
And his lady's heart is sinking in sorrow,
'Tis midnight, and the broad full moon
Pours on the earth her silver noon;
Sheeted in white, like spectres of fear,
ROMARA'S skiff is on the Trent,
And the stream is in its strength,—
For a surge, from its ocean-fountain sent,
Pervades its giant length:
PLANTAGENET hath dungeons deep
Beneath his castled halls;—
Plantagenet awakes from sleep
To count his dungeoned thralls.