Not now, O God, beneath the trees
That shade this plain, at night's cold noon
Do Indian war-songs load the breeze,
Or wolves sit howling to the moon.
The foes, the fears, our fathers felt
Have, with our fathers, passed away;
And where, in their dark hours, they knelt,
We come to praise thee and to pray.
We praise thee that thou plantedst them,
And mad'st thy heavens drop down their dew.
We pray that, shooting from their stem,
We long may flourish where they grew.
And, Father, leave us not alone;-
Thou hast been, and art still our trust;-
Be thou our fortress, till our own
Shall mingle with our fathers' dust.