Not wan from Asia's fetiches,
Nor red from Europe's old dynastic slaughter-house,
(Area of murder-plots of thrones, with scent left yet of wars and scaffolds every where,)
But come from Nature's long and harmless throes—peacefully builded thence,
These virgin lands—Lands of the Western Shore,
To the new Culminating Man—to you, the Empire New,
You, promis'd long, we pledge, we dedicate.
You occult, deep volitions,
You average Spiritual Manhood, purpose of all, pois'd on yourself—giving, not taking law,
You Womanhood divine, mistress and source of all, whence life and love, and aught that comes
from life and love,
You unseen Moral Essence of all the vast materials of America, (age upon age, working in
Death the same as Life,)
You that, sometimes known, oftener unknown, really shape and mould the New World, adjusting
it to Time and Space,
You hidden National Will, lying in your abysms, conceal'd, but ever alert,
You past and present purposes, tenaciously pursued, maybe unconscious of yourselves,
Unswerv'd by all the passing errors, perturbations of the surface;
You vital, universal, deathless germs, beneath all creeds, arts, statutes, literatures,
Here build your homes for good—establish here—These areas entire, Lands of the Western
Shore,
We pledge, we dedicate to you.