Emily McManus

SOFTLY the shadows of prairie-land wheat

Ripple and riot adown to her feet;

Murmurs all Nature with joyous acclaim,

Fragrance of summer and shimmer of flame:

Heedless she hears while the centuries slip:—

Chalice of poppy is laid on her lip.

Hark! From the East comes a ravishing note,—

Sweeter was never in nightingale’s throat—

Silence of centuries thrills to the song,

Singing their silence awaited so long;

Low, yet it swells to the heaven’s blue dome,

Child-lips have called the wild meadow-land ‘Home!’

Deep, as she listens, a dewy surprise

Dawns in the languor that darkens her eyes;

Swift the red blood through her veins, in its flow,

Kindles to rapture her bosom aglow;

Voices are calling, where silence has been,

‘Look to the future, thou Mother of Men!’

Onward and onward! Her fertile expanse

Shakes as the tide of her children advance;

Onward and onward! Her blossoming floor

Yields her an opium potion no more;

Onward! and soon on her welcoming soil

Cities shall palpitate, myriads toil.