Byron

The Sword of Gideon, Sword of God Be with ye, Boers. Brave men of peace Ye hewed the path, ye brake the sod, Ye fed white flocks of fat increase Where Saxon foot had never trod; Where Saxon foot unto this day Had measured not, had never known Had ye not bravely led the way And made such happy homes your own.

I think God’s house must be such home. The priestess Mother, choristers Who spin and weave nor care to roam Beyond this white God’s house of hers, But spinning sing and spin again. I think such silent shepherd men Most like that few the prophet sings— Most like that few stout Abram drew Triumphant o’er the slaughtered Kings.

Defend God’s house! Let fall the crook. Draw forth the plowshare from the sod And trust, as in the Holy Book, The Sword of Gideon and of God; God and the right! Enough to fight A million regiments of wrong. Defend! Nor count what comes of it. God’s battle bides not with the strong; And pride must fall. Lo, it is writ!

Great England’s Gold! how stanch she fares Fame’s wine cup pressing her proud lips— Her checkerboard of battle squares Rimmed round by steel-built battleships! And yet meanwhiles ten thousand miles She seeks ye out. Well, welcome her! Give her such welcome with such will As Boston gave in battle’s whir That red, dread day at Bunker Hill.