Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/44
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
8
The Battle of the Free.
Untrammelled Nature past all loveliness,The roofless toil that shapes the hard, clean life,And lighting all—clear on the snows of fateThe perfect goal that crowns the upward way.The sun that flames the iron from the EastEnshrouds at eve the crest of furrow-waves,The axe-song rings its triumph to the stars,And ceaseless toil is burnt upon my soul.Yet spirits whisper as the furrows heaveSweet promise of the end I shall not see,Of law-shod Empire bridging all the world,Stainless and just—serene as circling suns:An end of ends—as man has ne’er conceivedSince God first fired ambition in his heartAnd lit his soul with flame of patriot’s love.And every stroke that seeks the timber’s heartSwings into place another fretted stone,Or shapes to loveliness some breathing curveUpon the branching temple of our name.God-summoned to the ripening cause I stand,Upon the van of Empire, hand to task,To work the purpose of the centuries.
vi.
The Battle of the Free.
To arms! To arms! Hear ye not the trumpet’s peal? Hear ye not the clash of steel,—