Not all thy beauteous daughters costly gowned, But of thy women chastely wived and crowned; Not all thy gold in public service spent, But test of equal, honest government; Not creeds or churches, tabernacles, shrines, But faith that lives and love that shines; Not courts and Judges multiplied, But justice throned and glorified; Thy reasons clear before the world avowed, Not voice of easy conscience of the crowd; Not by thy thousand colleges and schools, But culture greater than their sums and rules; Not by thy topmost reach of speech and song, But by their lift of light and art that’s long, And from the mingling races in thy blood, The wane of evil and the growth of good; Not the high-seated but the undertrod; The brother love of man for man, Ideals not ambitions in the van; Not thy lip-worship but the imminence of God. But we who’d mete thy steps upon the heights, And thy soul-message ask Know well the battles that thy day’s work brought. No Greek Atlantis are thou, Plato’s thought Made sudden real; No fair Utopia thou of mounts ideal, Eased of thy burden and thy task With long surmountings in the darkness fraught. Swift thy foundations grew, but nights of tears And days of dark foreboding marked thy years. Here freedom battled with the tyrant’s might, Here Washington—Immortal One—made fight. Here swung the prison ships and here the jail Whose gallows freed the soul of Nathan Hale. The orange flag of Holland flew Above thee for a space. Then England’s red for decades few Flushed crimson in thy face, Until our arms set over thee The flag none may displace; That waving free shall cover thee While lasts the human race— The flag that to the breeze we threw When skies of hope were bare, Its red our blood, the sky its blue, Its stars our watchlights there. Full oft the ocean harvests at thy doors Shed sodden grain upon thy threshing floors, The sound, sweet ears with wild tares reached thee mixed, Long-fixed beliefs came hitherward unfixed. Long-crushed desires that freedom bids to bloom, The yoke thrown off, for lawlessness made room. How could it other? Shorn of lords and guides They pressed atow’rd thee over westering tides. From lands of Czars and Princes still they come, Some young and lusty, open-browed, and some Oppression-stunted, famine-driven, sad. All praying thee for welcome fair and glad— A niche, a shelter, honest toil and home, And these thou givest, Queen beside the foam.