Like some grey warder who, with mien sedate And smile of welcome, greets the throngs who pour Between the portals of a wide-thrown door, stands guardian at our water gate,
And watches from her battlemented state The great ships passing with their living store Of human myriads coming to our shore,
Expectant, joyous, resolute, elate.

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Ah God, what thunders shook these crags of yore, What smoke of battle rolled about this place, What strife of worlds in pregnant agony!
Now all is hushed, yet here, in dreams, once more We catch the echoes, ringing back from space, Of God’s strokes forging human history.