Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/298



hail! thou noble Land, Our Fathers' native soil! O stretch thy mighty hand, Gigantic grown by toil, O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore: For thou with magic might Canst reach to where the light Of Phœbus travels bright The world o'er!

The Genius of our clime, From his pine-embattled steep, Shall hail the guest sublime; While the Tritons of the deep

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