Classic Poem

My faith is in my native land;
Her maids are pure, her sons are brave;
And Liberty sails from her strand,
That free-born men may free the slave.
Her courage is the fear of God:
From Him she gathers strength complete,
To tread the path that One hath trod,
And One, alone, with naked feet.

She is not what she yet may be;
And, therefore, till her work is done,
I know she marches onward free,
On to the setting of her sun.
Great splendour will the world behold;
The West will shine with wondrous light,
And she, on clouds of crumbling gold,
Will sink to her immortal night.

A welcome hand she reaches out
To modern friend, or ancient foe;
Nor can her grasp give birth to doubt
Of honest faith, or friendship slow.
In forward steps her sons are bold,
But to her system firm and true,
They know the value of the Old,
They feel the virtue of the New.

Her may the Arts for evermore
Ennoble for their nourriture!
Her may the distant sheening shore
Enrich; and may her temples pure
To all men preach the living truth!
But never let her missions roam
Unblest abroad, while age and youth
Are pining to be taught at home.

Her mighty names can never die;
The Fountain-spring baptised their years:
She is the foremost in the eye
Of Destiny, through them and theirs;
And while her sons remain sincere,
And what they feel speak freely forth,
The moving world may never fear
The icy fetters of the North.