  Our destiny was cast in an imperial mold,— Our mission drawn on an immenser plan Than marked, in deathless lines, our sires’ high faith of old,— Earth’s broadest-visioned prophecy of man. From ancient feuds removed, and favoring seas between, In isolation enviable, supreme, We dwelt apart content,—self-center’d and serene,— The Old World’s wonder and the Ages’ dream. When suddenly a cry from out the surging deep We fondly deemed the guardian of our peace:— A wail of anguish sore from breaking hearts that weep Sweet Freedom’s doom and savage Wrong’s release. Deep calling unto deep! the Island’s bitter cry Awakes the Continent to sleep no more:— Heart ever answers heart:—America’s reply Is Santiago’s world-resounding shore. Manila’s equal miracle foreshowed The Providential path, with yet unsealÈd sign, Where first our arms to scathless triumph rode. True to the unsought task we could not comprehend,— By foes maligned, by friends misunderstood, This faith sustained us still, to the appointed end:— Heaven serves the Sword unsheath’d for human good. Clear, now, the purpose of the Highest,—plain His plan:— To mould the Nation after His own mind, And give, in common emprise with the Son of Man, The moral leadership of all mankind.
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