There where the Tyrant long has loomed, wreck-crowned,

Are young and old hurled to the coast and blast.

Frail are their ships; still, Sun, why glare aghast,

Watching the billows monstering around?

The soul of man was not born to be drowned.

It mounts and mounts, till, at God's throne, at last,

And freedom welcomes it with arms, sky-vast,

As down it comes to meet Thrall and confound.

O, deathless spirit, born of hosts sea-hurled,

Who hast out soared night's stars with agony's cry

For justice! Thou hast come down from the sky,

Heralding doom to Thrall, whose flag unfurled

By steel, or craft, shows, as 'tis hoisted high,

The blood of man and ruin of the world.