XIII.
The fires of worship, and of war,
De Courcey’s marshalled hosts,
The rude sea-rovers from afar
Have vanished from our coasts;
And out of these an ampler field
Found Freedom, mind and hand,
Toward unattempted ends to wield
A world-enchanting wand.
XIV.
What tho’ in oft ignoble cause
The wave of war still rolls,
The hate of sects, the clutching claws,
The strife of armoured souls;
What tho’ the thousands, born to fail,
In darkness come and go,
Be ours no pessimistic wail
Of fear for larger woe;
XV.
For even now the dawn doth give
Some promissory gleams,
Tho’ most ’tis ours in night to live,
Participant in dreams
Of some broad-beamed and brighter morn,
Some elemental balm,
Some purer peace, of battle born,
Some tempest-cradled calm!
