Page:Poems, Volume 1, Coates, 1916.djvu/122



HE vast cathedral-crown of the high hill,

The long, low-vaulted nave, the transepts where

The light is glory shed through windows rare

In rainbow tintings: glory deep and still,

Gift of a past forever present there!

Beyond the lantern, the carved Gothic Choir,

And, as interpreting the hallowed place

Athrob with harmonies, a boyish face—

English, yet with the look of awed desire

Which speaks America,—the younger race.

In the half-parted lips without a smile,

In the whole rapt, impassioned gaze,

I read the travail of the distant days,

The wistful hunger of the Long Exile—

The yearning that survives through all delays

I read thy soul, my Country! thou dear Land

Across the deep and all-dividing sea!

I read thy soul and theirs who founded thee