The genius of our clime
        From his pine-embattled steep
      Shall hail the guest sublime;
        While the Tritons of the deep
  With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
      Then let the world combine,—­
      O’er the main our naval line
      Like the Milky Way shall shine
        Bright in flame!

      Though ages long have passed
        Since our Fathers left their home,
      Their pilot in the blast,
        O’er untravelled seas to roam,
  Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! 
      And shall we not proclaim
      That blood of honest fame
      Which no tyranny can tame
        By its chains?

      While the language free and bold
        Which the Bard of Avon sung,
      In which our Milton told
        How the vault of heaven rung
  When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;
      While this, with reverence meet,
      Ten thousand echoes greet,
      From rock to rock repeat
        Round our coast;

      While the manners, while the arts,
        That mould a nation’s soul,
      Still cling around our hearts,—­
        Between let Ocean roll,
  Our joint communion breaking with the sun: 
      Yet still from either beach
      The voice of blood shall reach,
      More audible than speech,
        “We are One.”

WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

* * * * *

HANDS ALL ROUND.

First drink a health, this solemn night,
A health to England, every guest: 
That man’s the best cosmopolite
Who loves his native country best. 
May Freedom’s oak for ever live
With stronger life from day to day: 
That man’s the best Conservative
Who lops the moulded branch away. 
Hands all round! 
God the tyrant’s hope confound! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.

A health to Europe’s honest men! 
Heaven guard them from her tyrants’ jails! 
From wronged Poerio’s noisome den,
From iron limbs and tortured nails! 
We curse the crimes of southern kings,
The Russian whips and Austrian rods: 
We likewise have our evil things,—­
Too much we make our ledgers, gods. 
Yet hands all round! 
God the tyrant’s cause confound! 
To Europe’s better health we drink, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round!

What health to France, if France be she,
Whom martial progress only charms? 
Yet tell her—­better to be free
Than vanquish all the world in arms. 
Her frantic city’s flashing heats
But fire, to blast the hopes of men. 
Why change the titles of your streets? 
You fools, you’ll want them all again. 
Hands all round! 
God the tyrant’s cause confound! 
To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.