Liberty’s Latest Daughter
By Bayard Taylor
(Third Canto.)
Foreseen in the vision of sages,
Foretold when martyrs bled,
She was born of the longing of ages,
By the truth of the noble dead,
And the faith of the living, fed!
No blood in her lightest veins
Frets at remembered chains,
Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head
In her form and features still,
The unblenching Puritan will,
Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace,
The Quaker truth and sweetness,
And the strength of the danger-girdled race
Of Holland, blend in a proud completeness.
From the homes of all, where her being began,
She took what she gave to man:
Justice that knew no station,
Belief as soul decreed,
Free air for aspiration,
Free force for independent deed.
She takes, but to give again,
As the sea returns the rivers in rain;
And gathered the chosen of her seed
From the hunted of every crown and creed.
Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine;
Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine;
Her France pursues some dream divine;
Her Norway keeps his mountain-pine;
Her Italy waits by the western brine;
And, broad-based under all
Is planted England’s oaken-hearted mood,
As rich in fortitude
As e’er went world-ward from the island wall.
Fused in her candid light,
To one strong race all races here united;
Tongues melt in hers; hereditary foemen
Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan;
’Twas glory, once, to be a Roman;
She makes it glory, now, to be a man.