Can praise be simply said of such as these? Such men as Standish, Winthrop, Endicott? Such souls as Roger Conant and John White? Rugged and great as trees, The oaks of that New World with which their lot Was cast forever, proudly to remain. That world in which each name still stands, a light To beacon the Ship of State through stormy seas. Can praise be simply said Of him, the younger Vane, Puritan and patriot, Whose dedicated head Was laid upon the block In thy name, Liberty! Can praise be simply said of such as he! Needs must the soul unlock All gates of eloquence to sing of these. Such periods, Such epic melodies, As holds the utterance of the earlier gods, The lords of song, one needs To sing the praise of these! No feeble music, tinklings frail of glass; No penny trumpetings; twitterings of brass, The moment's effort, shak'n from pigmy bells, Ephemeral drops from small Pierian wells, With which the Age relieves a barren hour. But such large music, such melodious power, As have our cataracts, Pouring the iron facts, The giant acts Of these: such song as have our rock-ridged deep And mountain steeps, When winds, like clanging eagles, sweep the storm On tossing wood and farm: Such eloquence as in the torrent leaps,-- Where the hoarse canyon sleeps, Holding the heart with its terrific charm, Carrying its roaring message to the town,-- To voice their high achievement and renown. VI. Long, long ago, beneath heaven's stormy slope, In deeds of faith and hope, Our fathers laid Freedom's foundations here, And raised, invisible, vast,-- Embodying naught of doubt or fear, A monument whose greatness shall outlast The future, as the past, Of all the Old World's dynasties and kings.-- A symbol of all things That we would speak, but cannot say in words, Of those who first began our Nation here, Behold, we now would rear! A different monument! a thought, that girds Itself with granite; dream made visible In rock and bronze to tell To all the Future what here once befell; Here where, unknown to them, A tree took root; a tree of wondrous stem; The tree of high ideals, which has grown, And has not withered since its seed was sown, Was planted here by them in this new soil, Who watered it with tears and blood and toil: An heritage we mean to hold, Keeping it stanch and beautiful as of old.-- For never a State, Or People, yet was great Without its great ideals;--branch and root Of the deep tree of life where bud and blow The dreams, the thoughts, that grow To deeds, the glowing fruit. VII.