George Hill (1796–1871)

THERE is a spirit working in the world,

Like to a silent subterranean fire;

Yet, ever and anon, some monarch, hurled

Aghast and pale, attests its fearful ire.

The dungeoned nations now once more respire

The keen and stirring air of Liberty.

The struggling giant wakes, and feels he’s free.

By Delphi’s fountain-cave, that ancient choir

Resume their song; the Greek astonished hears,

And the old altar of his worship rears.

Sound on, fair sisters! sound your boldest lyre,—

Peal your old harmonies as from the spheres!

Unto strange gods too long we’ve bent the knee,

The trembling mind, too long and patiently.