New Zealand Verse/The Empire-builder
v.
The Empire-builder.
The night wind moans the sorrow of the world,
The league-far surge sobs out eternity—
And I, who stand for conquest on a tract
That knows no footsteps save mine own, that draw
The silent protest from the stoic pines—
Keep vigil at my joyous altar fire,
And worship at the shrine of Empire’s God.
The league-far surge sobs out eternity—
And I, who stand for conquest on a tract
That knows no footsteps save mine own, that draw
The silent protest from the stoic pines—
Keep vigil at my joyous altar fire,
And worship at the shrine of Empire’s God.
The leaping gold surrounds an angel’s face,
Rose-budded in the wealth of English lanes,
Crowned above price, and smiling as the land
Returning thanks for riotous rains of spring.
The image fades—and through the flame there looms
The marble eagle-forms and tombs of those
Who sleep beside the altar of our race,
Bathed in the incense-music of the past
That floats from every stone and speaking scroll.
Humble my offering, yet I justly claim
A brotherhood with these defiant souls,
And share the praise that rings a shouting world.
Rose-budded in the wealth of English lanes,
Crowned above price, and smiling as the land
Returning thanks for riotous rains of spring.
The image fades—and through the flame there looms
The marble eagle-forms and tombs of those
Who sleep beside the altar of our race,
Bathed in the incense-music of the past
That floats from every stone and speaking scroll.
Humble my offering, yet I justly claim
A brotherhood with these defiant souls,
And share the praise that rings a shouting world.
Where be the mystic dreams I loved to dream
Of holy priesthood in the shrine of soul,
Of life groove-rolling to the song of Art,
And gliding slowly to a faultless West?
The strings are broken on the breast of song,
The unseen page is dimmed—the golden line
Shrinks from the strangeness of my halting lips,
And Action triumphs—foot to neck on Art.
Of holy priesthood in the shrine of soul,
Of life groove-rolling to the song of Art,
And gliding slowly to a faultless West?
The strings are broken on the breast of song,
The unseen page is dimmed—the golden line
Shrinks from the strangeness of my halting lips,
And Action triumphs—foot to neck on Art.
But mine the sacrament of taintless sky,
The unstained landscape and the virgin wave,
Untrammelled Nature past all loveliness,
The roofless toil that shapes the hard, clean life,
And lighting all—clear on the snows of fate
The perfect goal that crowns the upward way.
The sun that flames the iron from the East
Enshrouds at eve the crest of furrow-waves,
The axe-song rings its triumph to the stars,
And ceaseless toil is burnt upon my soul.
Yet spirits whisper as the furrows heave
Sweet promise of the end I shall not see,
Of law-shod Empire bridging all the world,
Stainless and just—serene as circling suns:
An end of ends—as man has ne’er conceived
Since God first fired ambition in his heart
And lit his soul with flame of patriot’s love.
And every stroke that seeks the timber’s heart
Swings into place another fretted stone,
Or shapes to loveliness some breathing curve
Upon the branching temple of our name.
God-summoned to the ripening cause I stand,
Upon the van of Empire, hand to task,
To work the purpose of the centuries.
The unstained landscape and the virgin wave,
Untrammelled Nature past all loveliness,
The roofless toil that shapes the hard, clean life,
And lighting all—clear on the snows of fate
The perfect goal that crowns the upward way.
The sun that flames the iron from the East
Enshrouds at eve the crest of furrow-waves,
The axe-song rings its triumph to the stars,
And ceaseless toil is burnt upon my soul.
Yet spirits whisper as the furrows heave
Sweet promise of the end I shall not see,
Of law-shod Empire bridging all the world,
Stainless and just—serene as circling suns:
An end of ends—as man has ne’er conceived
Since God first fired ambition in his heart
And lit his soul with flame of patriot’s love.
And every stroke that seeks the timber’s heart
Swings into place another fretted stone,
Or shapes to loveliness some breathing curve
Upon the branching temple of our name.
God-summoned to the ripening cause I stand,
Upon the van of Empire, hand to task,
To work the purpose of the centuries.