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The hater of all freedom! a spirit in whose power
The light of liberty would be the meteor of an hour.
One stands within a gorgeous hall, amidst that despot band,
A stranger from the western world—our freedom-favored land;
Where th' heaven appealing vow hath said, that all mankind are free,
And where Europe's poor down-trodden, for hope and refuge flee;
A son of our America! a wanderer where the soul,
The life of freedom sleeps enchained in tyranny's control!
Where crowns and titles, and the pomp of kingly power have crushed,
And trampled myriads of the poor and suffering to the dust;—
Will he not scorn the princely hand, that binds a brother down?
And hate the land of lord and slave—of fetter and of crown?
'So, thou art from America—and pray what dost thou there?
'Toil like our Servian vassals—or trade in merchant's ware?'
Bland are the tones of Metternich—but a bitter smile reveals
The hatred that his tyrant heart for freedom's birthplace feels:
