THE CONGRESS OF WOMEN.

617

She seized, with movement swift as light,

The hour’s most precious spoil;

Now, glowing with her promise bright,

Her strength makes joy of toil.

With dextrous hand, with dauntless will,

Her pearl white towers she rears—

The memory of whose grace shall thrill The illimitable years.

O’er leagues of waste, in sun and storm,

Their proud pure domes shall gleam,

The substance, wrought in noblest form,

Oft Art’s imperial dream.

Here shall she stand, the Old World’s bride, Crowned with the Age’s dower;

Toward her shall set the abounding tide Of life’s full pomp and power.

She hears the nations’ coming tread,

The rushing of the ships;

And waits with queenly hands outspread, And welcome on her lips.

The races, ’neath her generous sway,

Shall spread their splendid mart;

And here, for one brief perfect day,

Shall beat the World’s great heart.

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