I’ll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.
And muse on Nature with a poet’s eye.
An original something, dear maid, you would wish me to write; but how shall I begin? For I’m sure I have not original in me, Excepting Original Sin.
The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.
Ye are brothers, ye are men, and we conquer but to save.
What millions died that Caesar might be great!
The patriot’s blood is the seed of Freedom’s tree.
Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, and robes the mountain in its azure hue.
To bear is to conquer our fate.
Tomorrow let us do or die!