Quailed not, nor blenched, while she, above the ire
Of elemental ragings, dared aspire
On victory's wings resplendently to soar.
What matters all the losses of the years,
Since she can count the subjects as her own
That share her fortunes under every fate;
Who weave their brightest tissues from her tears,
And who, although her best be overthrown,
Resolve to make her and to keep her great.
EDWARD ROKESON TAYLOR,
in Sunset Magazine.