A glorious destiny is thine,

To rule this land of Freedom’s birth,

When it has reached the highest niche

Among the nations of the earth;

When stretching from the Polar Sea

To ever-blooming Darien,

It feels alone the tread of free,

Of brave, and loyal-hearted men.

Doth Fancy sometimes lift the vail [sic]

That hides the future, dim and vast,

And show how high a nation’s voice

Will elevate thy name at last?

Or no bright visions, no fair views,

Pictured in golden hues by Hope,

Glorious and bright with radiant light,

Appear in Fancy’s horoscope?

Perhaps thy hand, which yet will wield

The rod of empire o’er this soil,

Now swings the sickle in the field,

And gathers strength from manly toil.

Is poverty thy daily lot?

Does study waste thy midnight oil?

Still must the ancient fight be fought

By those who gather learning’s spoil.

How few of us now, stout of heart,

And strong of limb and keen of eye,

Will ever hear the shouts that send

Thy name in triumph to the sky!

Will ever see the glorious day

That ushers in thy new-born state,

When for a time to thee is given

The moulding of a nation’s fate!

Whatever be thy present lot,

Or rich or poor, or high or low,

To us, to you, it matters now,

So thou in truth and wisdom grow;

And may thy prayer be that of him

The wisest being God designed,

Who asked not wealth or honors great,

But, better, a discerning mind.