THE CROSS-CURRENTThrough twelve stout generationsNew England blood I boast;The stubborn pastures bred them,The grim, uncordial coast,Sedate and proud old cities,—Loved well enough by me,Then how should I be yearningTo scour the earth and sea.Each of my Yankee forbearsWed a New England mate:They dwelt and did and died here,Nor glimpsed a rosier fate.My clan endured their kindred;But foreigners they loathed,And wandering folk, and minstrels,And gypsies motley-clothed.Then why do patches please me,Fantastic, wild array?Why have I vagrant fanciesFor lads from far away.My folk were godly Churchmen,—Or paced in Elders’ weeds;But all were grave and piousAnd hated heathen creeds.Then why are Thor and WotanTo dread forces still?Why does my heart go questingFor Pan beyond the hill?My people clutched at freedom.—Though others’ wills they chained,—But made the Law and kept it,—And Beauty, they restrained.Then why am I a rebelTo laws of rule and square?Why would I dream and dally,Or, reckless, do and dare?O righteous, solemn Grandsires,O dames, correct and mild,Who bred me of your virtues!Whence comes this changing child?—The thirteenth generation,—Unlucky number this!—My grandma loved a Pirate,And all my faults are his!A gallant, ruffled rover,With beauty-loving eye,He swept Colonial watersOf coarser, bloodier fry.He waved his hat to danger,At Law he shook his fist.Ah, merrily he plundered,He sang and fought and kissed!Though none have found his treasure,And none his part would take,—I bless that thirteenth ladyWho chose him for my sake!ABBIE FARWELL BROWN
Through twelve stout generationsNew England blood I boast;The stubborn pastures bred them,The grim, uncordial coast,Sedate and proud old cities,—Loved well enough by me,Then how should I be yearningTo scour the earth and sea.Each of my Yankee forbearsWed a New England mate:They dwelt and did and died here,Nor glimpsed a rosier fate.My clan endured their kindred;But foreigners they loathed,And wandering folk, and minstrels,And gypsies motley-clothed.Then why do patches please me,Fantastic, wild array?Why have I vagrant fanciesFor lads from far away.My folk were godly Churchmen,—Or paced in Elders’ weeds;But all were grave and piousAnd hated heathen creeds.Then why are Thor and WotanTo dread forces still?Why does my heart go questingFor Pan beyond the hill?My people clutched at freedom.—Though others’ wills they chained,—But made the Law and kept it,—And Beauty, they restrained.Then why am I a rebelTo laws of rule and square?Why would I dream and dally,Or, reckless, do and dare?O righteous, solemn Grandsires,O dames, correct and mild,Who bred me of your virtues!Whence comes this changing child?—The thirteenth generation,—Unlucky number this!—My grandma loved a Pirate,And all my faults are his!A gallant, ruffled rover,With beauty-loving eye,He swept Colonial watersOf coarser, bloodier fry.He waved his hat to danger,At Law he shook his fist.Ah, merrily he plundered,He sang and fought and kissed!Though none have found his treasure,And none his part would take,—I bless that thirteenth ladyWho chose him for my sake!
ABBIE FARWELL BROWN