Our Country
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights,
She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gathered in her prophet mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.
Then stepped she down through town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men revealed
The fullness of her face.
—Alfred Tennyson.