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.