In Trinity College, Hartford
THE rod that from Jerusalem
Went forth so strong of yore;
That rod of David's royal stem,
Whose hand the farthest bore?
St. Paul to seek the setting sun,
They say, to Britain prest:
St. Andrew to old Caledon;
But who still further West?
Go ask!--a thousand tongues shall tell
His name and dear renown,
Where altar, font, and holy bell,
Are gifts he handed down:
A thousand hearts keep warm the name,
Which share those gifts so blest;
Yet even this may tell the same,
First mitre of the West!
This mitre with its crown of thorn,
Its cross upon the front;
Not for a proud adorning worn,
But for the battle's brunt:
This helmet--with Salvation's sign,
Of one whose shield was faith;
This crown--of him, for right divine
Who battled unto death!
Oh! keep it--till the moth shall wear
Its comeliness to dust,
Type of a crown that's laid up where
There is nor moth nor rust;
Type of the LORD'S commission given
To this, our Western shore;
The rod of CHRIST--the keys of heaven,
Through one, to thousands more.
They tell how Scotia keeps with awe
Her old Regalia bright,
Sign of her independent law,
And proud imperial right;
But keep this too for Scotland's boast;
'Twill tell of better things,
When long old Scotia shall have lost
Those gewgaws of her kings.
And keep it for this mighty West
Till truth shall glorious be,
And good old Samuel's is confest
Columbia's primal see.
'Tis better than a diadem,
The crown that bishop wore,
Whose hand the rod of David's stem
The furthest Westward bore.