LO! Victress on the peaks!
Where thou, with mighty brow, regarding the world,
(The world, O Libertad, that vainly conspired against thee;)
Out of its countless beleaguering toils, after thwarting them all;
Dominant, with the dazzling sun around thee,
Flauntest now unharm’d, in immortal soundness and bloom—lo! in these hours
supreme,
No poem proud, I, chanting, bring to thee—nor mastery’s rapturous verse;
But a book, containing night’s darkness, and blood-dripping wounds,
And psalms of the dead.

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