  Proud England brooding on the days to come— Mother of peoples and of song undying— Hears in all lands the doubling of her drum, Sees on all winds of the world her lone flag flying. And Russia, young, barbaric in her power, With untried tendons, cramped in all her length, Chafing in snowy lair, dreams of the hour When she shall loose on Earth her hairy strength. And Germany, whose blonde intrepid might Once sent her Saxon fire on every land, Hears the great Labor Angel down the night, Crying, “Behold, my judgments are at hand!” And elder kingdoms by the Midland Sea, Whose every crag has burned with battle fire, And hear far voices call them to aspire. But harken, my America, my own, Great Mother, with the hill-flower in your hair! Diviner is that light you bear alone, That dream that keeps your face forever fair. Imperious is your errand and sublime, And that which binds you is Orion’s band. For some large Purpose, since the youth of Time, You were kept hidden in the Lord’s right hand. You were kept hidden in a secret place, With white Sierras, white Niagaras— Hid under stalwart stars in this far space, Ages ere Tadmor or the man of Uz. To strike down Mammon and his brazen breed, To build the Brother-Future, beam on beam; Yours, mighty one, to shape the Mighty Deed. The armÈd heavens lean down to hear your fame, America: rise to your high-born part! The thunders of the sea are in your name, The splendors and the terrors in your heart.
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