Not yet one hundred years have flown
Since on this very spot,
The subjects of a sovereign throne--
Liege-master of their lot--
This high degree sped o'er the sea,
From council-board and tent,
"No earthly power can rule the free
But by their own consent!"

For this, they fought as Saxons fight,
On bloody fields and long--
Themselves the champions of the right,
And judges of the wrong;
For this their stainless knighthood wore
The branded rebel's name,
Until the starry cross they bore
Set all the skies aflame!

And States co-equal and distinct
Outshone the western sun,
By one great charter interlinked--
Not blended into one;
Whose graven key that high decree
The grand inscription lent,
"No earthly power can rule the free
But by their own consent!"

Oh! sordid age! Oh! ruthless rage!