Hopeless of all he dared to hope so long, The music born within him dies away; Even the song he loved becomes a pain, Full-freighted with a yearning … - Edmund Clarence Stedman

The year of jubilee has come; Gather the gifts of Earth with equal hand; Henceforth ye too may share the birthright soil, The corn, the wine, and all the harvest-home.

In the lap of hoary Europe lie her children ill at rest, Reaching hands of supplication to their brethren of the West; Pale about the lifeless fountain of their ancient freedom, wait Till the angel move its waters and avenge their stricken state. Let me then, a new crusader, to the eastward set my face, Wake the fires of old tradition on each sacred altar-place, Till a trodden people rouse them, with a clamor as divine As the winds of autumn roaring through the clumps of forest-pine. I myself would seize their banner; they should follow where it led, To the triumph of the victors or the pallor of the dead.

I dare aver He is a brave discoverer
Of climes his elders do not know.
He has more learning than appears
On the scroll of twice three thousand years.