Manhatta! Glory flings his arms round thee

And proudly holds thee in his high caress.

What charms him, Mother, is thy nobleness

Of spirit. How his features beam to see

Thy scorn dash in the bay the tyrant's tea,

And hear thee call to Boston: "Do no less;

Else on sunlight, heart, soul—all we possess—

Will tyrant's next exact their deadly fee."

In thee I glory. Can the world else boast

A harbor, like thy heart, for every sail

In flight from sea-toss, white with horror's gale,

Or icebergs from despondence Polar coast?

Oh, fleets whose throngs, glad Freedom well may hail;

For, landing, they became her staunchest host.