But thou wert Freedom's too
As well as Joy's. She drew
From every mountain breast
An air that could endure
No foreign foe — so pure
That Lycabettus neighbors the Corinthian crest.

Nor was thy love of life
For thee alone. Thy strife
Was for the race, no less.
Thee, to whom wrong is done
While wrong confronts the sun,
The oppressor cannot crush, nor teach thee to oppress.

By thee for lands benighted
Was Freedom's beacon lighted
That now enstars the earth.
Welcome the people's hour!
Passed is the monarch's power,
Dread waits not on his death that trembled at his birth.

As down a craggy steep
Albanian torrents leap
Impetuous to the sea —
Such was thy ancient spirit,
Still thine. Who that inherit
Hatred of tyranny inherit not from thee?

Look to the West and see
Thy daughter, Italy —
Fathered by Neptune bold
On Cumae's sheltered strand
(Forgot but for the hand
That saved to Art her sibyl many-named and old);

That temple-sated soil,
Whose altar-smoke would coil
To hide the Avernian steep,
Grows the same harvest now —
Best increase of the plow,
Fair Freedom, of thy seed, sown for the world to reap.

Though regal Rome display
The triumphs of her day;
Though Florence, laurel-hung,
Tell how she held the van
In the slow march of man —
Greek was the path they trod, Greek was the song they sung.

Look farther west and there
Behold thy later heir,
Child of thy Jove-like mind —
Fair France. How hath she kept
The watch while others slept?
Hath Wisdom hastened on while Justice lagged behind?

Like thee, full well she knows
Through what maternal throes
New forms from olden come;
Her arts, her temples, speak
A glory that is Greek,
And filially her heart turns to the ancestral home.

For her no backward look
Into the bloody book
Of kings. Thrice-rescued land!
Her furrowed graves bespeak
A nobler fate: to seek
In service of the world again the world's command.

She in whose skies of peace
Arise new auguries
To strengthen, cheer, and guide —
When nations in a horde
Draw the unhallowed sword,
O Memory, walk, a warning specter, at her side!

Among thy debtor lands,
See, grateful England stands;
Who at thy ranging feet
Learned how to carry Law
Into the jungle's maw,
And tempers unto Man or cold or desert heat.

All that thou daredst she dares
Till now thy name she bears —
Mother of Colonies.
What if thy glorious Past
She should restore at last,
And clothe in new renown the dream of Pericles!

If she but lean to thee
Once more thy North shall be
Uplifted from the dust.
Mother of noble men,
Thy friends of sword and pen,
England, though slow to justice, shall again be just.

And now from our new land
Beyond two seas, a hand!
Our world, for ages dumb,
Part of thy fable-lore,
Gathers upon her shore
Each dying race as soil for one chief race to come.

But of our beating heart
Thy pulse how large a part!
Our wider sky but bounds
Another Grecian dawn,
Lament not what is gone;
Pentelicus grieves not, for Fame hath healed his wounds.