The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.

Ah! never shall the land forget.

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.

Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!

A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.