O Freedom, in thy cause I fought, 
   For twenty years I fought in vain; 
And in my mountain shelter naught
   But worthless trophies now remain. 
Yet in my heart I hear a cry, 
   Which never there makes a vain appeal:
I would once more beneath thy sky
   Brandish my sharp and shining steel. 

How much one stakes upon thy dream, 
   How much for but thy name we pay; 
How cheap the passing ages seem, 
   When years are given for thy day. 
How many still would fight and die
   In thine old cause and for thy weal! 
I would once more beneath thy sky
   Brandish my sharp and shining steel. 

The purest love I give away, 
   The bliss of it I set at naught; 
Again I'm on my wayward way 
   Seeking what I have often sought. 
My wounded hopes, my bleeding ties, 
   No peace inglorious e’er shall heal: 
I would once more beneath thy skies 
   Brandish my sharp and shining steel. 

O Freedom, though thy price be high, 
   Though one for thee his life must seal, 
I would once more beneath thy sky
  Brandish my sharp and shining steel. 

Now thou art risen, and thy day begun.
How shrink the shrouding mists before thy face,
As up thou spring’st to thy diurnal race!
How darkness chases darkness to the west,
As shades of light on light rise radiant from thy crest!
For thee, great source of strength, emblem of might,
In hours of darkest gloom there is no night.
Thou shinest on though clouds hide thee from sight,
And through each break thou sendest down thy light.

O greater Maker of this Thy great sun,
Give me the strength this one day’s race to run,
Fill me with light, fill me with sun-like strength,
Fill me with joy to rob the day its length.
Light from within, light that will outward shine,
Strength to make strong some weaker heart than mine,
Joy to make glad each soul that feels its touch;
Great Father of the sun, I ask this much.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
     Where knowledge is free;
     Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
     Where words come out from the depth of truth;
     Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
     Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
     Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action— 
     Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I'll not play hypocrite
To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but
That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows
Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?

O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
He comes to brood and sit.