“ ‘Let there be Liberty!’ God said, and, lo!
The skies were red and luminous. The glow
Struck first Columbia’s kindling mountain peaks
One hundred and eleven years ago!”
So sang a patriot whom once I saw
Descending Bunker’s holy hill. With awe
I noted that he shone with sacred light,
Like Moses with the tables of the Law.
One hundred and eleven years? O small
And paltry period compared with all
The tide of centuries that flowed and ebbed
To etch Yosemite’s divided wall!
Ah, Liberty, they sing you always young
Whose harps are in your adoration strung
(Each swears you are his countrywoman, too,
And speak no language but his mother tongue.)
And truly, lass, although with shout and horn
Man has all-hailed you from creation’s morn,
I cannot think you old—I think, indeed,
You are by twenty centuries unborn.