24 JULY 1897, Page 17

POETRY.

Though the Celt rage, and every half-breed scowl,

Though Hun and Finn and Russ and Polack howl Their malediction, coddled by a Press Alert at cursing, indolent to bless, Unheedy which shall prosper, fair or foul, So that the trough run over, and a growl Of fierce approval soothe its restlessness.

For from thy loins, 0 Mother, sped the souls That dreamed the greater England. Not in vain Their sweat of blood. To-day the smoke-cloud rolls

Off high Quebec, while from the Spanish Main The requiem-bell of buried empire tolls,—

Their old world's loss, our new world's affluent gain.

A YANKEE OF THE YANKEES.