Page:Poems Proctor.djvu/237

Such glad thanksgivings filled the air,
 Such wild and tuneful glee,
As we could bring with shout and song
 From prairie-land to sea.

But let us put the sickle by,
 Nor mind the golden sheaves,
The purpling grapes upon the vine,
 The apples 'mid the leaves;
For you and I and all of us
 Have nobler work to-day,
That will not brook a backward look,
 Nor bear a feast's delay.

Before the yellow corn is housed,
 Or sealed the amber wine,
A day will come when every man,
 Upon a holier shrine,
Such gift may lay as ne'er was borne
 From mine or ocean foam
For Delphi's god, or greater Jove
 Throned on the hills of Rome.

Not India's gems, nor Persia's pearls,
 Nor wood of rarest trees,
Nor spices from the Orient isles
 Slow wafted o'er the seas.
Our shrine is Liberty's; how clear
 The wind around it sings!
Our gift, the freeman's priceless vote;
 Our God, the King of kings.