Thou of the starry wing, that canst not soar,
Confuséd power, still seeking, still unblest;
For ever clutching to a braggart breast
The hope portentous and the worldling's lore.
Furiously futile, with a raucous roar
Thy dizzy moments mock th’ eternal quest;
To feverish ends, by factions fierce distrest,
Toiling, a sanguine Titan evermore,—
America!— Ah, burthen of the mind!—
Cradled in truth, and‘ mid distractions born
To pure emprise on that despotic morn
When freedom yearned along the westering wind,
And tyranny, that hound among the blind,
Bayed toward the deep where faith went forth — forlorn.