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158
NATIONALISM
Till in the midst of its unholy feast descends the
sudden shaft of heaven piercing its heart of
grossness.
The crimson glow of light on the horizon is not the
light of thy dawn of peace, my Motherland.
It is the glimmer of the funeral pyre burning to
ashes the vast flesh,—the self-love of the
Nation,—dead under its own excess.
Thy morning waits behind the patient dark of the
East,
Meek and silent.
Keep watch, India.
Bring your offerings of worship for that sacred
sunrise.
Let the first hymn of its welcome sound in your
voice, and sing,
"Come, Peace, thou daughter of God's own great
suffering.
Come with thy treasure of contentment, the sword
of fortitude,
And meekness crowning thy forehead."
