III.

For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread, High and unmark’d by mortal footstep lay; And there, where torrents, mid the ice-caves fed, Burst in their joy of light and sound away; And there, where freedom, as in scornful play, Had hung man’s dwellings midst the realms of air, O’er cliffs the very birthplace of the day-- Oh! who would dream that tyranny could dare To lay her withering hand on God’s bright works e’en there?