Can there be one whose blood from England finds
Nurture and source, who sees her war to-day
And yearns not for the liberative fray?
If such a one there be, what darkness blinds.
His vision, or what craft of cunning minds
Have made that vision their corrupted prey?
Now is the season of the world's dismay,
And now a cry goes forth on all the winds.

Now calls the Lioness, and one by one
Her whelps make answer, east and south and west;
But thou, the greatest of that royal line,
America! dost slumber in the sun,
Nor loose the allegiant thunder in thy breast,
Nor dream what world-derision shall be thine.