Graven deep with edge of steel, Crowned with Victory's crimson seal, All the world their names shall read! All the world their names shall read, Enrolled with his, the Chief that led The hosts whose blood for us was shed. Pay our sires their children's debt, Love and honor, nor forget Only Union's golden key Guards the Ark of Liberty! While the stars of heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever may the circling sun Find the Many still are One! Hail, Columbia! strong and free, Throned in hearts from sea to sea Thy march triumphant still pursue! Thy march triumphant still pursue With peaceful stride from zone to zone, Till Freedom finds the world her own. Blest in Union's holy ties, Let our grateful song arise, Every voice its tribute lend, All in loving chorus blend! While the stars in heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever shall the circling sun Find the Many still are One! POEM FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE FOUNTAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON, PRESENTED BY GEORGE W. CHILDS, OF PHILADELPHIA WELCOME, thrice welcome is thy silvery gleam, Thou long-imprisoned stream! Welcome the tinkle of thy crystal beads As plashing raindrops to the flowery meads, As summer's breath to Avon's whispering reeds! From rock-walled channels, drowned in rayless night, Leap forth to life and light; Wake from the darkness of thy troubled dream, And greet with answering smile the morning's beam! No purer lymph the white-limbed Naiad knows Than from thy chalice flows; Not the bright spring of Afric's sunny shores, Starry with spangles washed from golden ores, Nor glassy stream Bandusia's fountain pours, Nor wave translucent where Sabrina fair Braids her loose-flowing hair, Nor the swift current, stainless as it rose Where chill Arveiron steals from Alpine snows. Here shall the traveller stay his weary feet To seek thy calm retreat; Here at high noon the brown-armed reaper rest; Here, when the shadows, lengthening from the west, Call the mute song-bird to his leafy nest, Matron and maid shall chat the cares away That brooded o'er the day, While flocking round them troops of children meet, And all the arches ring with laughter sweet. Here shall the steed, his patient life who spends In toil that never ends, Hot from his thirsty tramp o'er hill and plain, Plunge his red nostrils, while the torturing rein Drops in loose loops beside his floating mane; Nor the poor brute that shares his master's lot Find his small needs forgot,-- Truest of humble, long-enduring friends, Whose presence cheers, whose guardian care defends! Here lark and thrush and nightingale shall sip, And skimming swallows dip, And strange shy wanderers fold their lustrous plumes Fragrant from bowers that lent their sweet perfumes Where Paestum's rose or Persia's lilac blooms; Here from his cloud the eagle stoop to drink At the full basin's brink, And whet his beak against its rounded lip, His glossy feathers glistening as they drip.