The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[74]
     Whate'er hath touched His garment's hem
At Bethany or Bethlehem,
     Or Jordan's river-side.
For Freedom in the name of Him
     Who came to raise Earth's drooping poor,
To break the chain from every limb,
     The bolt from every prison door!
For these, o'er all the earth hath passed
     An ever-deepening trumpet blast,
As if an angel's breath had lent
     Its vigor to the instrument.

And Wales, from Snowden's mountain wall,
     Shall startle at that thrilling call,
As if she heard her bards again;
     And Erin's ‘harp on Tara's wall’
Give out its ancient strain,
     Mirthful and sweet, yet sad withal,—
The melody which Erin loves,
     When o'er that harp, 'mid bursts of gladness
And slogan cries and lyke-wake sadness,
     The hand of her O'Connell moves!
Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill,
     And mountain hold, and heathery hill,
Shall catch and echo back the note,
     As if she heard upon the air
Once more her Cameronian's prayer
     And song of Freedom float.
And cheering echoes shall reply
     From each remote dependency,
Where Britain's mighty sway is known,
     In tropic sea or frozen zone;
Where'er her sunset flag is furling,
     Or morning gun-fire's smoke is curling;