The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.
But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.
I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.
Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind!
What millions died that Caesar might be great!
Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.