So God doth mould, as pleaseth Him, the nations of His choice;
Now, in the battle-cry is heard His purifying voice;
And now with Orphic strains of peace He draws to nationhood
The scattered tribes that dwell apart by mountain, sea and wood.
VII.
He took the lonely, poet Celt and taught him Roman lore,
Then from the wealds of Saxony He brought the sons of Thor;
Next from his craggy home the Dane came riding o’er the sea,
And last, came William with his bands of Norman chivalry.
VIII.
And now as our young nationhood is struggling into birth,
God grant its infant pulse may beat with our fore-fathers’ worth!
And as we gather into one, let us recall with pride
That we are of the blood of those who fought where Harold died.
October, 1866.
THE NAUGHTY BOY.
(From H. C. Andersen’s Tales.)
A good old poet sat by his hearth,
While the wind and rain were raging abroad;
And he thought of the poor who roamed thro’ the earth
Without a home or friend but God,
While he was as snug as he could desire,
Roasting his apples before the fire.