America

Patient she is—long-suffering, our Land;
   Wise with the strength of one whose soul is calm
Weights and considers, and would understand
   Ere it gives way to anger: fearing wrong
Of her own doing more than any planned
   Against her peace by others deemed more strong.

Mother of many children alien born,
   Whom she has gathered into her kind arms—
Safe-guarding most the weakest, most forlorn,—
   The mother’s patience she has learned to know,
Which passes trifles by with smiling scorn—
   The mother’s hopefulness, to anger slow.

Yet, oh, beware! nor, over-bold, presume
   Upon a gentleness enlinked with Power!
Her torch still burns, to kindle or consume,
   And ’gainst the time when she must prove her might,
Vast energy is stored in her soul’s room—
   Undreamed of strength to battle for the Right!