IT stood upon the hill like some old chief,
And held communion with the cryptic wind,
Keeping like some dim unforgotten grief
The memory of the tribesmen autumn-skinned,
Silent and slow as clouds, whose footing passed
Down the remote trails of oblivion
Long since into the caverns of the past.
Alone, aloof, strong fellow of the sun,
We chose it for our standard in its prime,
Nor--though no longer grimly from its hill
It fronts the world, like Webster--wind nor time
Has felled its austere ghost, we see it still,
In alien lands, resurgent and undying
Flag of our hearts, from sudden ramparts flying.