III

Oh, what if lone and long thy lofty flight,

My country? Is thy vision not as clear

As that of Vesper, dauntless pioneer

On Twilight's altitude? As from that height,

He sees plain through the thick black walls of night,

The stars all massing; so dost thou, his peer,

Behold all peoples gathering, year by year,

To scale the clouds to thy White Range of Right.

How thy lone loftness, aloof from wrong,

Refracting man-ward, God's enrapturing smile

Of fruitful fields, leads legions! On they file

And phalanx, and the vision makes thee strong:

What, though God's searchlight flares the sky the while?

It nears not thee, ear-close to heaven's high song.