Welcome! a shout like the war-trumpet’s swell Wakes the wild echoes that slumber around! Welcome! it quivers from Liberty’s bell; Welcome! the walls of her temple resound! Hark! the gray walls of her temple resound! Fade the far voices o’er hillside and dell; Welcome! still whisper the echoes around! Welcome! still trembles on Liberty’s bell! Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea! Yours are the garlands of peace we entwine; Welcome once more to the land of the free, Shadowed alike by the palm and the pine; Softly they murmur, the palm and the pine, “Hushed is our strife, in the land of the free;” Over your children their branches entwine, Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea! 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. “SCUM O’ THE EARTH”[16] BY ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER I At the gate of the West I stand, On the isle where the nations throng. We call them “scum o’ the earth”;