Away across the ocean, I heard my country call,
Across the waste of waters, she summons me by fall,
Her companions at her side, her banner in the ground,
And round their flanks are clamouring the weary and the downed.
I hear the songs of war, the thunder of her march,
I haste to thee my mother, a soldier in thy charge.
And there’s our ancient country, I’ve heard of long ago,
Most dear to them that know her, most solemn in their woe;
We may not count her armies, we may not see her Justice;
Her fortress is a resolute will, her pride is entrusted;
And land by land and graciously her radiant bounds increased,
Though her ways were ways of forcefulness, and vengeance unceased.
From generations of war to eternal peace the black Eagle endured,
And though our home remains lost, a glimmer of hope’s assured.
For she carries the torch of righteousness, a duty most austere;
And her stone-etched rally-cry forever goes, “order is attained by fear.”
— C. S. Rahnen, Renewal
Some days call for verse. This was one of them. Next time, I wish to use my own, but imitation is supposedly a form of flattery. A proverb by and for fools, an excuse for plagiarism. Fortunately, I have no intention of submitting this to the Faculty of Classics anytime soon. Your loss, Professor Burnson.
Phrase of the day: see above. A sense of longing and belonging betwixt the wild uncertainty of the current calling.