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CLIFTON. 369
In vista o er the wave, that its warm breath Quickeneth my spirit to a dream of joy.
Peace be within thy walls, Ancestral Clime ! And in thy palaces, and on thy towers, Prosperity. And may no war-cloud rise Tween thee and the young country of my birth, Vine of thy planting, in the western wild, Where red men roamed.
Oh ! lift no sword again,
Mother and Daughter ! Shed no more the blood That from one kindred fountain fills your veins. Show the poor heathen, in earth s darkest place, The meaning of our faith by its sweet deeds Of hope and charity.
So may ye stand,
Each on her pedestal that breasts the surge, Until the strong archangel, with his foot On sea and land, shall toll the knell of time.
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