POETRY.
THE TWO MOTHERS.
GREAT mother of the proudest race, Save one, that ever drew the sword, Who gatherest now with smiling face Thy sons around the festal board, From lands that see the Northern lights Shine splendid over wastes of snow, From lands where through the summer nights The stars like fiery cressets glow, From East and West, o'er sand and flood, Descendants of a mighty line, And proud to claim their right of blood As thou to call them sons of thine.
They come to crown the new-made King, To share the plaudits of the throng, And in their loyal hearts to bring The strength that makes the Empire strong.
0 happy mother, open wide The gates of rock that front the foam, And welcome with rejoicing pride Thy children to their ancient home. But all the pomp, the pride, the joy, Ring strange and hollow unto me: They cannot give me back my boy Who sleeps beside the Southern sea.
B. PAUL NEUMAN.
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