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POEMS.
And ye, whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away,Come from the depth of her green land, As mighty in your march as they;As terrible as when the rains Have swelled them over bank and bourne,With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn.
And ye, who throng, beside the deep, Her ports and hamlets of the strand,In number like the waves that leap On his long murmuring marge of sand,Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim, He rises, all his floods to pour,And flings the proudest barks that swim, A helpless wreck, against his shore.
Few, few were they whose swords of old Won the fair land in which we dwell;But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well.
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