ODE: WRITTEN FOR THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBRUARY
Upon the shore of God’s unfinished years,
Waiting impatient while the slow mist clears,
The younger sister of the nations stands,
And shades her eyes with mighty, eager hands.
So great, so proud, so strong! with youthful scorn
She leaves behind her sisters elder born,
And stands before the parting of the ways,
Unburdened with their weight of yesterdays.
Hard eyes and restless hers, agleam for gain,
And peevish children struggle in her train;
Yet her broad brows have bloody laurels pressed,
And she hath nourished heroes at her breast.
Half scornful of her children of to-day,
She dreams how long ago and far away
Her firstborn brought across the new-found seas
Their mighty faith, long gone, alas, from these!
She sees them, where th’ untrodden forest waves,
Building new homes upon their thick-set graves,
Raising new altars to a stern, high creed,
Training in fear of God their stalwart breed.
She hears them fling across the hostile sea
That cry that cheered her on to victory;
She feels again the thrill that shook her soul
When wondering nations watched her flag unroll.
She sees—and ah, her heart grows big with tears
From out the mists of those long-vanished years,—
She sees her best beloved come, her pride;
There stands again her hero at her side.
Her eyes are soft with love, and to her heart
There comes anew with sweet, resistless smart
Her long-forgotten motherhood, she turns,
And toward her children as of old she yearns.
“Oh, grown beyond my power to curb or stay,
Turn ye a moment from your sordid way,
Lift ye your restless, weary eyes on high,
This son your mother bore in days gone by!
“Ye will not see me old before my time!
Ye will not make me barren in my prime!
Help me to bear ye men again like these!
Make me the greatest land the great sun sees!”
Ashamed and dumb her summoned children stand,
And love with the old love their Mother-land.
Deep in their hearts her elder son is set:
Thinking on him, they cannot quite forget!
Before his gracious calm their fevered schemes
Awhile are gone, and flushed with the old dreams,
They see in him writ large the old, high aim,
They point, though backward, to one perfect fame!