THE GOLDEN THRESHOLD(41)

    O young through all thy immemorial years！ Rise, Mother, rise, regenerate¹ from thy gloom, And, like a bride high-mated with the spheres, Beget² new glories from thine ageless womb！

    The nations that in fettered³ darkness weep Crave⁴ thee to lead them where great mornings break . . . . Mother, O Mother, wherefore dost thou sleep？ Arise and answer for thy children's sake！

    Thy Future calls thee with a manifold sound To crescent honours, splendours, victories vast； Waken, O slumbering⁵ Mother and be crowned, Who once wert empress of the sovereign Past.