Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/210

206 Of sacred Eloquence, the soul-felt power, The palm of Science, and the wreath of Song.

And thou, blest Mother! with unfrosted hair, Still made by age more beautiful and strong, Pour a glad welcome, at thy threshold fair, And breathe thy blessing o'er the filial throng.

Enfold them warmly in thy fond embrace, And with thy counsels of true wisdom guide, That, like themselves, their yet uncounted race May be thy glory, as thou art her pride!