Ho! thou vast and wealthy nation, Wing thy fleets to every place, Fertilising all Creation With the Anglo-Saxon race! England's frank and sturdy bearing, And the Welshman's honest pride,- Let, as erst in Magna Græcia, Nobles, sages, join the ranks; And for vacant Austral-Asia Leave for good these swarming banks; Not as exiled,-but with honour, Told in tale, and sung in song; With the Queen,-GOD's blessing on her!-Speeding this good work along. Then the wilderness shall blossom, Then shall Britain gladly number Crowds of children, now her dread, THE NEW HOME. That her onward march encumber With the living and the dead! Ay! for bitter is the contest Haste, then, all ye better natures, To Despair's own dungeon hurl'd ;— There, instead of scanty wages, 333 There,-instead of festering alleys, Noisome dirt, and gnawing dearth,— All she gives is-every neighbour THE CONQUERORS AT METZ. (A CHRISTIAN INCIDENT.) A THRILLING touch of Nature A gleam of angel-feature On Moloch's horrid front, A beauty and a glory To gild the soldier's scar ;- Fair Metz, in all her vastness, And their panoply of pride. THE CONQUERORS AT METZ. By stern starvation vanquish'd The hosts of gallant France And pile their weapons mutely, How then didst thou receive them, What welcome didst thou give them In all their want and woe? Did hate exulting loudly Shout as the conquered past? Did spiteful glances proudly Their scorn on Frenchmen cast? No! silently, if gladly, Their enemies they raise Half thankfully, half sadly, And giving GOD the praise,— Thus, the whole army meets them As brothers in distress, And generously greets them With looks of kindliness. Each soldier gives his ration And saves him from starvation, And soothes his bitter woe, 335 And, all the host united In that grand act of love, Unwittingly delighted The Host of Heaven above! GREY HAIR. LIGHT as flakes of falling snow Drop the silent-footed hours; And the days, they come and go, And the years we scarcely know How their frosts, and fruits, and flowers, Transient crops of weal and woe, A variable kaleidoscope: By tens and twenties over head, Have grown to snows-that never melt! |