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[148] Above the tyrant's pride of power,
     His iron gates and guarded wall,
The bolts which shattered Shinar's tower
     Hang, smoking, for a fiercer fall.

Awake! awake! my Fatherland!
     It is thy Northern light that shines;
This stirring march of Freedom's band
     The storm-song of thy mountain pines.

Wake, dwellers where the day expires!
     And hear, in winds that sweep your lakes
And fan your prairies' roaring fires,
     The signal-call that Freedom makes!


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1848 AD (1)
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