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 cluster containing night's darkness and blood-dripping wounds,

And psalms of the dead.