THE WAR HORSE DRAWS THE PLOUGH.

At last our Fathers saw the Treaty sealed,

Victory unhelmed her broad, majestic brow,

The Sword became a Sickle in the field,

The war horse drew the plough.

There is a time when men shape for their Land

Its institutions‘ mid some tempests’ roar,

Just as the waves that thunder on the strand

Shape out and round the shore.

Then comes a day when institutions turn

And carve the men, or cast them into moulds;

One Era trembles while volcanoes burn,

Another Age beholds

The hardened lava changed to hills and leas,

With blooming glades and orchards intermixed,

Vineyards which look abroad o'er purple seas,

And deep foundations fixed.

So, when fell Chaos like a baleful Fate

What we had won seemed bent to snatch away

Sound thinkers rose who fashioned out the State

As potters fashion clay.