Classic Poem

Behold the myriads at the gate
Who from the Old World saw thy light,
Thy hand is strong to bless or smite
These pilgrims, and thy " yea " is fate.

They as our fathers come from far;
From shores where blazes Dante's sun,
And from the bleak dominion
Where fall the lashes of the Czar.

Their strong untiring arms have hewn
A path o'er Alpine mountain-crest,
Them England nurtured at her breast,
And over them rose Erin's moon.

Yet though their necks for menial toil
Are bent to build our empire, they
Shall bear within no distant day
Strong sons and daughters of this soil.

But now we need their labour; mute
Our engines lie in barren rest,
And in our gardens south and west
Ungarnered rots the mellow fruit

And the white cotton. We are shorn
Of many gifts of priceless worth;
The yellow gold cries from the earth
And from our fields the yellow corn.

They shall reap wealth from ore and coal
Such as no Eastern king beheld,
And build the iron roads that weld
Our nation in one splendid whole.

Not only bent on distant quest
In tropic skies, thou shalt at length
Bethink thee of thy native strength,
Young Titan of the boundless West!

Within the compass God has set,
Between these shores from main to main,
Thou hast new victories to gain,
And thou hast worlds to conquer yet!