Long after her last stone hath ceased to stand:

Yet, thou, Virginia! art a prouder land,
For when thy hills become red shrines to Right;
Thy plains become the spots, where, smiling, stand,
The angels, gentle Peace and true Delight.

And now, how fair thy homes! on every hand,
Thy cities and thy country domes arise,
From mountains vast, to ocean's shelly strand,
And bring a pride into our gazing eyes!

How brave thy polished sons! their hearts how free!
How far above the plotting of the mean!
How they contemn all base chicanery,
And proudly move, as men, through every scene!

And when thy daughters, an angelic train,
Roam mid thy flowery walks, how sweet their love!
And when they speak--the sound seems like a strain,
That wander'd from a blissful clime above!

Immortal land! my soul is proud, to think
I yet can walk upon thy mother soil,
And, willing that her mouldering frame may sink,
Back to thy breast, after its lifetime toil.