Agnes Maule Machar (1837–1927)

WITH head uplifted towards the Polar star,

And feet half buried in the vines and corn,

Our country, of the nations latest born,

Stretches one hand the Atlantic’s waves to bar,

The other—to the setting sun afar—

Rolls back the wide Pacific towards the morn!

And yet, methinks, distracted and forlorn

She looks—from things that were to things that are—

With doubtful eyes, that all uncertain sweep

The wide horizon, as if searching there

For one strong love to make her pulses leap

With one strong impulse! Wayward passions tear

The heart that should be set in purpose deep,

And cloud the eyes that should be raised in prayer!

O God of nations, who hast set her place

Between the rising and the setting day,

Her part in this world’s changeful course to play,

Soothe the conflicting passions that we trace

In her unrestful eyes—grant her the grace

To know the one true perfect love that may

Give noble impulse to her onward way—

God’s love, that doth all other loves embrace!

Gird her with panoply of truth and right

In which she may go forth her fate to meet—

Ithuriel’s spear, to crush with angel might

The brood of darkness crouching at her feet;

With faith to nerve her will and clear her sight,

Till she shall round a destiny complete!