Macdowell

Rejoice! Rejoice!
The New World hath a voice;
A voice of tragedy and mirth,
Sounding clear through all the earth;
A voice of music, tender and sublime,
Kin to the master-music of all time.
Here ye, and know,—
While the chords throb with poignant pause and flow,—
Of the New World the mystic, lyric heart,
Breathed in undaunted art:
Her pomp of days, her glittering nights;
The rich surprise
And miracle of iridescent skies;
Her lovely lowlands and imperial heights;
Her glooms and gladness;
Her oceans thundering on a thousand shores;
Her wild-wood madness;
Her streams adream with memory that deplores
The red inhabitants evanished and undone
That follow, follow to far lands beyond the setting sun.
And echoes one may hear of ancient lores
From the Old World's well-loved shores,—
Primal loves, and quenchless hates;
Striving lives, and conquering fates;
Elves innocently antic
Or wild-eyed, frantic;
Shadow-heroes, passionate, gigantic, —
Sons and daughters of the prime
That moved the mighty bards to noble rhyme.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
The New World hath new music —and a voice!