IV

O Liberty — the dearest word A bleeding country ever heard,— We lay our hopes upon thy shrine And offer up our lives for thine.

You gave us many happy years Of peace and plenty ere the tears A mourning country wept were dried Above the graves of those who died

Upon thy threshold. And again When newer wars were bred, and men Went marching in the cannon's breath And died for thee and loved the death,

While, high above them, gleaming bright, The dear old flag remained in sight, And lighted up their dying eyes With smiles that brightened paradise.

O Liberty, it is thy power To gladden us in every hour Of gloom, and lead us by thy hand As little children through a land

Of bud and blossom; while the days Are filled with sunshine, and thy praise Is warbled in the roundelays Of joyous birds, and in the song

Of waters, murmuring along The paths of peace, whose flowery fringe Has roses finding deeper tinge Of crimson, looking on themselves

Reflected — leaning from the shelves Of cliff and crag and mossy mound Of emerald splendor shadow-drowned.— We hail thy presence, as you come

With bugle blast and rolling drum, And booming guns and shouts of glee Commingled in a symphony That thrills the worlds that throng to see

The glory of thy pageantry. And with thy praise, we breathe a prayer That God who leaves you in our care May favor us from this day on

With thy dear presence — till the dawn Of Heaven, breaking on thy face, Lights up thy first abiding place.