What! Why bemoan one island in the sea,When I can range like mountains, or, the sun,Above all clouds, and, rosy from my runTo God, like morn, chant praise, since flesh of thee?Oh, yea, my pride and transport, verily,Is, thou and I eternally are one;And this god-passion which no power can stun,I owe to her, who gave her soul to me.Oh, when I see her golden hair, adriftOn sorrow's sea, like weeds rent from their reef,And know she breathes with her sublime belief,It crazes me that thou, when thou mightst liftHer saintly features, and dry them of grief,Wads't not, but waitest for the tide to shift.
What! Why bemoan one island in the sea,When I can range like mountains, or, the sun,Above all clouds, and, rosy from my runTo God, like morn, chant praise, since flesh of thee?Oh, yea, my pride and transport, verily,Is, thou and I eternally are one;And this god-passion which no power can stun,I owe to her, who gave her soul to me.
What! Why bemoan one island in the sea,
When I can range like mountains, or, the sun,
Above all clouds, and, rosy from my run
To God, like morn, chant praise, since flesh of thee?
Oh, yea, my pride and transport, verily,
Is, thou and I eternally are one;
And this god-passion which no power can stun,
I owe to her, who gave her soul to me.
Oh, when I see her golden hair, adriftOn sorrow's sea, like weeds rent from their reef,And know she breathes with her sublime belief,It crazes me that thou, when thou mightst liftHer saintly features, and dry them of grief,Wads't not, but waitest for the tide to shift.
Oh, when I see her golden hair, adrift
On sorrow's sea, like weeds rent from their reef,
And know she breathes with her sublime belief,
It crazes me that thou, when thou mightst lift
Her saintly features, and dry them of grief,
Wads't not, but waitest for the tide to shift.
America! 'Tis not thy mines of gold,Nor streams from mounts to meadows, like God's handFrom out the heavens, a-flash across the landIn long, deep sweeps to quicken winter's mouldTo reaps of ripeness,—that mine eyes behold,Invoking thee; for these are mere shore-sandTo the broad ocean of thy spirit grand,Forming for man a new world for the old.'Tis Liberty, to whose most blessed birthThe stars all lead, rejoicing, which souls theeWith God's compassion for humanity,—That I invoke; and, now, when all the earthBears palms and chants hosannas—what! shall she,The most devout, be shut from Freedom's mirth?
America! 'Tis not thy mines of gold,Nor streams from mounts to meadows, like God's handFrom out the heavens, a-flash across the landIn long, deep sweeps to quicken winter's mouldTo reaps of ripeness,—that mine eyes behold,Invoking thee; for these are mere shore-sandTo the broad ocean of thy spirit grand,Forming for man a new world for the old.
America! 'Tis not thy mines of gold,
Nor streams from mounts to meadows, like God's hand
From out the heavens, a-flash across the land
In long, deep sweeps to quicken winter's mould
To reaps of ripeness,—that mine eyes behold,
Invoking thee; for these are mere shore-sand
To the broad ocean of thy spirit grand,
Forming for man a new world for the old.
'Tis Liberty, to whose most blessed birthThe stars all lead, rejoicing, which souls theeWith God's compassion for humanity,—That I invoke; and, now, when all the earthBears palms and chants hosannas—what! shall she,The most devout, be shut from Freedom's mirth?
'Tis Liberty, to whose most blessed birth
The stars all lead, rejoicing, which souls thee
With God's compassion for humanity,—
That I invoke; and, now, when all the earth
Bears palms and chants hosannas—what! shall she,
The most devout, be shut from Freedom's mirth?
All English glory is in "Kipling's Boots."O English People! read that poem true,And answer,—are those maddening men not you?Oh, not yea few, who gather all the loots,But yea vast legions, lured to be recruitsTo march, march, march and march with naught in viewBut boots, boots, boots with blood and mud soaked through,—And, after ages, with out rest, or fruits!"Boots, boots, boots, and no discharge from war,"—That is the Empire's anthem. Brass it out,Ye Orchestras! But oh, leave not in doubtIts import, Kipling,—that 'tis maelstrom roar—'Tis England's streams of home-life, world aboutAnd down a gulf, for Greed and Pride on shore!
All English glory is in "Kipling's Boots."O English People! read that poem true,And answer,—are those maddening men not you?Oh, not yea few, who gather all the loots,But yea vast legions, lured to be recruitsTo march, march, march and march with naught in viewBut boots, boots, boots with blood and mud soaked through,—And, after ages, with out rest, or fruits!
All English glory is in "Kipling's Boots."
O English People! read that poem true,
And answer,—are those maddening men not you?
Oh, not yea few, who gather all the loots,
But yea vast legions, lured to be recruits
To march, march, march and march with naught in view
But boots, boots, boots with blood and mud soaked through,—
And, after ages, with out rest, or fruits!
"Boots, boots, boots, and no discharge from war,"—That is the Empire's anthem. Brass it out,Ye Orchestras! But oh, leave not in doubtIts import, Kipling,—that 'tis maelstrom roar—'Tis England's streams of home-life, world aboutAnd down a gulf, for Greed and Pride on shore!
"Boots, boots, boots, and no discharge from war,"—
That is the Empire's anthem. Brass it out,
Ye Orchestras! But oh, leave not in doubt
Its import, Kipling,—that 'tis maelstrom roar—
'Tis England's streams of home-life, world about
And down a gulf, for Greed and Pride on shore!
If deaf to Shelley's loudest sky-lark strain,His rage at tyrants, and to Byron's thong,Nerve-proof, how wake the English to the wrongDone their true selves, no less than to the slain,When willing weapons for Ambition's gain?Aye, weapons only; for, to whom belongThe minds of England, and treed fields of song—Nay, all but grave-ground, grudged by hill and plain?O English People, whom the crafty classHas huddled into graves from sight and soundOf what God hands you, and, with pence, or pound,Lids down your wild dead stare,—wake! why so crass?See in the Celts spring-burst from underground,The Human Resurrection come to pass.
If deaf to Shelley's loudest sky-lark strain,His rage at tyrants, and to Byron's thong,Nerve-proof, how wake the English to the wrongDone their true selves, no less than to the slain,When willing weapons for Ambition's gain?Aye, weapons only; for, to whom belongThe minds of England, and treed fields of song—Nay, all but grave-ground, grudged by hill and plain?
If deaf to Shelley's loudest sky-lark strain,
His rage at tyrants, and to Byron's thong,
Nerve-proof, how wake the English to the wrong
Done their true selves, no less than to the slain,
When willing weapons for Ambition's gain?
Aye, weapons only; for, to whom belong
The minds of England, and treed fields of song—
Nay, all but grave-ground, grudged by hill and plain?
O English People, whom the crafty classHas huddled into graves from sight and soundOf what God hands you, and, with pence, or pound,Lids down your wild dead stare,—wake! why so crass?See in the Celts spring-burst from underground,The Human Resurrection come to pass.
O English People, whom the crafty class
Has huddled into graves from sight and sound
Of what God hands you, and, with pence, or pound,
Lids down your wild dead stare,—wake! why so crass?
See in the Celts spring-burst from underground,
The Human Resurrection come to pass.
Oh, what are England's lines of lords and kings,Shakespeare, to thine, a-throb with thought and feeling?In thine, imagination shines, revealingThe soul's convictions, swift on dawn-ward wingsFrom beastly life and such Hell-smelling things,As wealth and pomp from church and abbey stealing,—And hearts in hopes high Belfries, Heavenward pealing,As Time, his Sun and Starry censor, swings.Would thou wert England's Nature, Bard Supreme,To fashion kings and lordlings fit to rule;They would be flesh and blood, not fiend and ghoul;And would thou wert her Sun, that every beamMight not, for tally, show a youth's blood-pool,Choking blithe Spring, as, now, to earth's extreme.
Oh, what are England's lines of lords and kings,Shakespeare, to thine, a-throb with thought and feeling?In thine, imagination shines, revealingThe soul's convictions, swift on dawn-ward wingsFrom beastly life and such Hell-smelling things,As wealth and pomp from church and abbey stealing,—And hearts in hopes high Belfries, Heavenward pealing,As Time, his Sun and Starry censor, swings.
Oh, what are England's lines of lords and kings,
Shakespeare, to thine, a-throb with thought and feeling?
In thine, imagination shines, revealing
The soul's convictions, swift on dawn-ward wings
From beastly life and such Hell-smelling things,
As wealth and pomp from church and abbey stealing,—
And hearts in hopes high Belfries, Heavenward pealing,
As Time, his Sun and Starry censor, swings.
Would thou wert England's Nature, Bard Supreme,To fashion kings and lordlings fit to rule;They would be flesh and blood, not fiend and ghoul;And would thou wert her Sun, that every beamMight not, for tally, show a youth's blood-pool,Choking blithe Spring, as, now, to earth's extreme.
Would thou wert England's Nature, Bard Supreme,
To fashion kings and lordlings fit to rule;
They would be flesh and blood, not fiend and ghoul;
And would thou wert her Sun, that every beam
Might not, for tally, show a youth's blood-pool,
Choking blithe Spring, as, now, to earth's extreme.
The righteousness of England! "Tis to kneelFull weight on weaker nations, and entoneHosannas louder than the victims groan;Then, stooping, drink their blood with gulps of zeal."What right have wounds, though wide, to throb, or feel?'Tis blasphemy to England's crimson throne.Knee-deep in Erin's blood, she mocks Christ's moan:Forgive them, Lord! they know not their true weal."Whose is the fault? Tis not my arrogance,But candor, Lord, that puts the blame on Thee.What right hadst Thou to make these people freeAnd let all nature prompt them to advance?—Oh, no such blunder, Lord, hadst Thou called me,Instead of Wisdom, to approve Thy plans!"
The righteousness of England! "Tis to kneelFull weight on weaker nations, and entoneHosannas louder than the victims groan;Then, stooping, drink their blood with gulps of zeal."What right have wounds, though wide, to throb, or feel?'Tis blasphemy to England's crimson throne.Knee-deep in Erin's blood, she mocks Christ's moan:Forgive them, Lord! they know not their true weal.
The righteousness of England! "Tis to kneel
Full weight on weaker nations, and entone
Hosannas louder than the victims groan;
Then, stooping, drink their blood with gulps of zeal."
What right have wounds, though wide, to throb, or feel?
'Tis blasphemy to England's crimson throne.
Knee-deep in Erin's blood, she mocks Christ's moan:
Forgive them, Lord! they know not their true weal.
"Whose is the fault? Tis not my arrogance,But candor, Lord, that puts the blame on Thee.What right hadst Thou to make these people freeAnd let all nature prompt them to advance?—Oh, no such blunder, Lord, hadst Thou called me,Instead of Wisdom, to approve Thy plans!"
"Whose is the fault? Tis not my arrogance,
But candor, Lord, that puts the blame on Thee.
What right hadst Thou to make these people free
And let all nature prompt them to advance?—
Oh, no such blunder, Lord, hadst Thou called me,
Instead of Wisdom, to approve Thy plans!"
The Bard's curse: "Ruin seize thee Ruthless King,"Took bat-like form for hollow echo-flight.Though stoned and lanced at, when, at fall of night,It darted forth with ghastly—spreading wing,It found in fresh, wide, royal ravishing,New hollows, dark with horror and sad plight,To dash in and live on. Oh, to my sight,How grows its grimness, while eternaling!Deep are the minds of Wales, but far more deepThe horror, gulfed out by McCreedy, firingOn men defenseless and, through want, expiring.Oh, from that gulf the Bard's curse makes a sweepUp to the Sun and, from its long desiring,Grown eagle, shrieks to heaven from steep to step!
The Bard's curse: "Ruin seize thee Ruthless King,"Took bat-like form for hollow echo-flight.Though stoned and lanced at, when, at fall of night,It darted forth with ghastly—spreading wing,It found in fresh, wide, royal ravishing,New hollows, dark with horror and sad plight,To dash in and live on. Oh, to my sight,How grows its grimness, while eternaling!
The Bard's curse: "Ruin seize thee Ruthless King,"
Took bat-like form for hollow echo-flight.
Though stoned and lanced at, when, at fall of night,
It darted forth with ghastly—spreading wing,
It found in fresh, wide, royal ravishing,
New hollows, dark with horror and sad plight,
To dash in and live on. Oh, to my sight,
How grows its grimness, while eternaling!
Deep are the minds of Wales, but far more deepThe horror, gulfed out by McCreedy, firingOn men defenseless and, through want, expiring.Oh, from that gulf the Bard's curse makes a sweepUp to the Sun and, from its long desiring,Grown eagle, shrieks to heaven from steep to step!
Deep are the minds of Wales, but far more deep
The horror, gulfed out by McCreedy, firing
On men defenseless and, through want, expiring.
Oh, from that gulf the Bard's curse makes a sweep
Up to the Sun and, from its long desiring,
Grown eagle, shrieks to heaven from steep to step!
"A dirty work," said Dyer, rebuked for spillingHundreds of lives to irrigate new lands.A dirty work, but not for British hands,Dabbling in blood to earn each day their shilling.Hark! Mohawk Valley and Wyoming, chillingWith thought of Tarleton's King-serving bands,And Canada red-clayed, though high snow stands,Cry: Work for which the British are too willing!Invaded lands need terror irrigationTo make them fruitful. Better flood the field,Then let the native bloom become the yield;And, so, this Dyer submerged a small whole nationWith crimson death, that England might, deep-keeled,Have for display, new seas of desolation.
"A dirty work," said Dyer, rebuked for spillingHundreds of lives to irrigate new lands.A dirty work, but not for British hands,Dabbling in blood to earn each day their shilling.Hark! Mohawk Valley and Wyoming, chillingWith thought of Tarleton's King-serving bands,And Canada red-clayed, though high snow stands,Cry: Work for which the British are too willing!
"A dirty work," said Dyer, rebuked for spilling
Hundreds of lives to irrigate new lands.
A dirty work, but not for British hands,
Dabbling in blood to earn each day their shilling.
Hark! Mohawk Valley and Wyoming, chilling
With thought of Tarleton's King-serving bands,
And Canada red-clayed, though high snow stands,
Cry: Work for which the British are too willing!
Invaded lands need terror irrigationTo make them fruitful. Better flood the field,Then let the native bloom become the yield;And, so, this Dyer submerged a small whole nationWith crimson death, that England might, deep-keeled,Have for display, new seas of desolation.
Invaded lands need terror irrigation
To make them fruitful. Better flood the field,
Then let the native bloom become the yield;
And, so, this Dyer submerged a small whole nation
With crimson death, that England might, deep-keeled,
Have for display, new seas of desolation.
The ocean, holding pure the azure's blue,Laughs at the tempests, with one empire's dustAfter an other, to round out Earth's crust.Ah, so does Human Nature hold the hueIt takes from heaven, its conscience, and laughs, too,At madness, wrecking life and with its gustForming new islands, where Pride, Greed, or Lust,Welcomes the crater's glare, in sun-light's lieu.Look in the sea and deep, what scattered rock,The islands which at dusk, the tempest piled!Ere rose a star, they sank with crews, beguiled.O Tempests that with world formations, mockThe good Creator, how, as ye grow wild,Earth quakes and no live thing survives the shock.
The ocean, holding pure the azure's blue,Laughs at the tempests, with one empire's dustAfter an other, to round out Earth's crust.Ah, so does Human Nature hold the hueIt takes from heaven, its conscience, and laughs, too,At madness, wrecking life and with its gustForming new islands, where Pride, Greed, or Lust,Welcomes the crater's glare, in sun-light's lieu.
The ocean, holding pure the azure's blue,
Laughs at the tempests, with one empire's dust
After an other, to round out Earth's crust.
Ah, so does Human Nature hold the hue
It takes from heaven, its conscience, and laughs, too,
At madness, wrecking life and with its gust
Forming new islands, where Pride, Greed, or Lust,
Welcomes the crater's glare, in sun-light's lieu.
Look in the sea and deep, what scattered rock,The islands which at dusk, the tempest piled!Ere rose a star, they sank with crews, beguiled.O Tempests that with world formations, mockThe good Creator, how, as ye grow wild,Earth quakes and no live thing survives the shock.
Look in the sea and deep, what scattered rock,
The islands which at dusk, the tempest piled!
Ere rose a star, they sank with crews, beguiled.
O Tempests that with world formations, mock
The good Creator, how, as ye grow wild,
Earth quakes and no live thing survives the shock.
Our country is not rock and wood and stream,But soul transfusing them. What is the soul?The substance, born of God, above controlAnd, when one, with God's love, called "Will," supreme;And Freedom is the soul in thought, and dreamThat Nature's beauty and harmonious whole—God's foot-steps—followed, life attains its Goal;And soul is purpose to achieve God's scheme.The soul, then,—our true country,—is the braveWho fought and bled for Freedom, or will fightTo their last pulse, last breath, for Human Right.——Great soul! oh, how like bubbles in the wave,Are the Sierras in cerulean flight,To thy true grandeur, letting nought enslave!
Our country is not rock and wood and stream,But soul transfusing them. What is the soul?The substance, born of God, above controlAnd, when one, with God's love, called "Will," supreme;And Freedom is the soul in thought, and dreamThat Nature's beauty and harmonious whole—God's foot-steps—followed, life attains its Goal;And soul is purpose to achieve God's scheme.
Our country is not rock and wood and stream,
But soul transfusing them. What is the soul?
The substance, born of God, above control
And, when one, with God's love, called "Will," supreme;
And Freedom is the soul in thought, and dream
That Nature's beauty and harmonious whole—
God's foot-steps—followed, life attains its Goal;
And soul is purpose to achieve God's scheme.
The soul, then,—our true country,—is the braveWho fought and bled for Freedom, or will fightTo their last pulse, last breath, for Human Right.——Great soul! oh, how like bubbles in the wave,Are the Sierras in cerulean flight,To thy true grandeur, letting nought enslave!
The soul, then,—our true country,—is the brave
Who fought and bled for Freedom, or will fight
To their last pulse, last breath, for Human Right.——
Great soul! oh, how like bubbles in the wave,
Are the Sierras in cerulean flight,
To thy true grandeur, letting nought enslave!
O thou art Character—art only thoseWho formed the good and great by thought, or deed.All others are not worth a moment's heed,—Mere prairie dogs, who raise gold hills in rows—When gazing at thy glory; for that growsWith Freedom from all foul untruths; with leadIn art for weal; with science for all woes;With hate of thrall and help for all unfreed.No mere foot-shadow, on time's wall, art thou,Without eye-sparkle, swing of arm, warm flowFrom heart to vain, and cheeks with health of glow.Oh, 'tis eternal heights reflect thy browAnd shoulders, that avert man's overthrow,Threatened all times, and never more than now.
O thou art Character—art only thoseWho formed the good and great by thought, or deed.All others are not worth a moment's heed,—Mere prairie dogs, who raise gold hills in rows—When gazing at thy glory; for that growsWith Freedom from all foul untruths; with leadIn art for weal; with science for all woes;With hate of thrall and help for all unfreed.
O thou art Character—art only those
Who formed the good and great by thought, or deed.
All others are not worth a moment's heed,—
Mere prairie dogs, who raise gold hills in rows—
When gazing at thy glory; for that grows
With Freedom from all foul untruths; with lead
In art for weal; with science for all woes;
With hate of thrall and help for all unfreed.
No mere foot-shadow, on time's wall, art thou,Without eye-sparkle, swing of arm, warm flowFrom heart to vain, and cheeks with health of glow.Oh, 'tis eternal heights reflect thy browAnd shoulders, that avert man's overthrow,Threatened all times, and never more than now.
No mere foot-shadow, on time's wall, art thou,
Without eye-sparkle, swing of arm, warm flow
From heart to vain, and cheeks with health of glow.
Oh, 'tis eternal heights reflect thy brow
And shoulders, that avert man's overthrow,
Threatened all times, and never more than now.
Oh, what if lone and long thy lofty flight,My country? Is thy vision not as clearAs that of Vesper, dauntless pioneerOn Twilight's altitude? As from that height,He sees plain through the thick black walls of night,The stars all massing; so dost thou, his peer,Behold all peoples gathering, year by year,To scale the clouds to thy White Range of Right.How thy lone loftness, aloof from wrong,Refracting man-ward, God's enrapturing smileOf fruitful fields, leads legions! On they fileAnd phalanx, and the vision makes thee strong:What, though God's searchlight flares the sky the while?It nears not thee, ear-close to heaven's high song.
Oh, what if lone and long thy lofty flight,My country? Is thy vision not as clearAs that of Vesper, dauntless pioneerOn Twilight's altitude? As from that height,He sees plain through the thick black walls of night,The stars all massing; so dost thou, his peer,Behold all peoples gathering, year by year,To scale the clouds to thy White Range of Right.
Oh, what if lone and long thy lofty flight,
My country? Is thy vision not as clear
As that of Vesper, dauntless pioneer
On Twilight's altitude? As from that height,
He sees plain through the thick black walls of night,
The stars all massing; so dost thou, his peer,
Behold all peoples gathering, year by year,
To scale the clouds to thy White Range of Right.
How thy lone loftness, aloof from wrong,Refracting man-ward, God's enrapturing smileOf fruitful fields, leads legions! On they fileAnd phalanx, and the vision makes thee strong:What, though God's searchlight flares the sky the while?It nears not thee, ear-close to heaven's high song.
How thy lone loftness, aloof from wrong,
Refracting man-ward, God's enrapturing smile
Of fruitful fields, leads legions! On they file
And phalanx, and the vision makes thee strong:
What, though God's searchlight flares the sky the while?
It nears not thee, ear-close to heaven's high song.
From out a desert where the trails run red,Judah and Erin speed their camel pace,Sighting green palms. The flush on either faceIs from the fissure where each wedged her headFrom sandstorms, that hurled heavens down, as they sped;It is no blush for thought, or conduct, baseTo the high trust to bring the Human Race,Truths, without which Time's offspring are born dead.In spirit, they are sisters; for, beyondThe desert, where the vision, like a dove,Soars round the palace of Almighty Love,God hails them as "My Daughters, true and fond,Who show man, through Noon blaze, my star above,And to my will, fail never to respond."
From out a desert where the trails run red,Judah and Erin speed their camel pace,Sighting green palms. The flush on either faceIs from the fissure where each wedged her headFrom sandstorms, that hurled heavens down, as they sped;It is no blush for thought, or conduct, baseTo the high trust to bring the Human Race,Truths, without which Time's offspring are born dead.
From out a desert where the trails run red,
Judah and Erin speed their camel pace,
Sighting green palms. The flush on either face
Is from the fissure where each wedged her head
From sandstorms, that hurled heavens down, as they sped;
It is no blush for thought, or conduct, base
To the high trust to bring the Human Race,
Truths, without which Time's offspring are born dead.
In spirit, they are sisters; for, beyondThe desert, where the vision, like a dove,Soars round the palace of Almighty Love,God hails them as "My Daughters, true and fond,Who show man, through Noon blaze, my star above,And to my will, fail never to respond."
In spirit, they are sisters; for, beyond
The desert, where the vision, like a dove,
Soars round the palace of Almighty Love,
God hails them as "My Daughters, true and fond,
Who show man, through Noon blaze, my star above,
And to my will, fail never to respond."
Who, in descent from Heaven's ecstatic throng,Was twin to light, and ranged from source to sea,And shore to peak, and God, drew up to theeThe generations happy, pure and strong?Freedom, as Erin's was, ere ruthless wrongCaught, scourged and hanged it on the out-law's tree;And is; for lo! it proves Divinity,Transfiguring from anguish, ages long.True, they have strangled Freedom on the crossOf every Right's suppression—nay, have barredHis body's tomb, and placed a host on guard!Still, He is risen; His faithful mourn no loss.He shines forth in their midst. No bolts retardHis entrance, where grand aims for life engross.
Who, in descent from Heaven's ecstatic throng,Was twin to light, and ranged from source to sea,And shore to peak, and God, drew up to theeThe generations happy, pure and strong?Freedom, as Erin's was, ere ruthless wrongCaught, scourged and hanged it on the out-law's tree;And is; for lo! it proves Divinity,Transfiguring from anguish, ages long.
Who, in descent from Heaven's ecstatic throng,
Was twin to light, and ranged from source to sea,
And shore to peak, and God, drew up to thee
The generations happy, pure and strong?
Freedom, as Erin's was, ere ruthless wrong
Caught, scourged and hanged it on the out-law's tree;
And is; for lo! it proves Divinity,
Transfiguring from anguish, ages long.
True, they have strangled Freedom on the crossOf every Right's suppression—nay, have barredHis body's tomb, and placed a host on guard!Still, He is risen; His faithful mourn no loss.He shines forth in their midst. No bolts retardHis entrance, where grand aims for life engross.
True, they have strangled Freedom on the cross
Of every Right's suppression—nay, have barred
His body's tomb, and placed a host on guard!
Still, He is risen; His faithful mourn no loss.
He shines forth in their midst. No bolts retard
His entrance, where grand aims for life engross.
The fight in Ireland is 'twixt Man and Brute.A lion with the sea-surge for his mane,Is there hurled back by Man with proud disdain,Although heart-drained with gash from head to foot.Oh, in that Eden of Forbidden Fruit,How Satan, searching for a snake in vain,Fumed forth a monster from his heart and brain—The Lion—as the serpent's substitute!Oh, all ye peoples of the World draw nigh!Stand on the bodies of eight centuries,Struck dead with horror; for, raised thus, one seesIn Erin, torn, a soul that cannot die,And that its struggle is Humanity'sAgainst the fiend, who would give God the lie.
The fight in Ireland is 'twixt Man and Brute.A lion with the sea-surge for his mane,Is there hurled back by Man with proud disdain,Although heart-drained with gash from head to foot.Oh, in that Eden of Forbidden Fruit,How Satan, searching for a snake in vain,Fumed forth a monster from his heart and brain—The Lion—as the serpent's substitute!
The fight in Ireland is 'twixt Man and Brute.
A lion with the sea-surge for his mane,
Is there hurled back by Man with proud disdain,
Although heart-drained with gash from head to foot.
Oh, in that Eden of Forbidden Fruit,
How Satan, searching for a snake in vain,
Fumed forth a monster from his heart and brain—
The Lion—as the serpent's substitute!
Oh, all ye peoples of the World draw nigh!Stand on the bodies of eight centuries,Struck dead with horror; for, raised thus, one seesIn Erin, torn, a soul that cannot die,And that its struggle is Humanity'sAgainst the fiend, who would give God the lie.
Oh, all ye peoples of the World draw nigh!
Stand on the bodies of eight centuries,
Struck dead with horror; for, raised thus, one sees
In Erin, torn, a soul that cannot die,
And that its struggle is Humanity's
Against the fiend, who would give God the lie.
How help take pride in thee, whose golden hairOf culture trailed the earth for centuries;Whose throne was freedom and whose realm was peace;And, in strange lands, whose joy and only careWere to spread light, and who, not anywhereThy charm made headway, planting liberties,Didst, then, by stealthy step, or creep on knees,Sow with the lilies, faster-growing tare!How help love thee, whose hand, raised to the sun,Glows rosy, and not red with murder's stain?The angels kiss it. Force can forge no chainTo drag thee false-ward. Like a holy Nun,Stigmated, how thy faith grows with thy pain—Aye, till thy Cross, like Constantine's has won.
How help take pride in thee, whose golden hairOf culture trailed the earth for centuries;Whose throne was freedom and whose realm was peace;And, in strange lands, whose joy and only careWere to spread light, and who, not anywhereThy charm made headway, planting liberties,Didst, then, by stealthy step, or creep on knees,Sow with the lilies, faster-growing tare!
How help take pride in thee, whose golden hair
Of culture trailed the earth for centuries;
Whose throne was freedom and whose realm was peace;
And, in strange lands, whose joy and only care
Were to spread light, and who, not anywhere
Thy charm made headway, planting liberties,
Didst, then, by stealthy step, or creep on knees,
Sow with the lilies, faster-growing tare!
How help love thee, whose hand, raised to the sun,Glows rosy, and not red with murder's stain?The angels kiss it. Force can forge no chainTo drag thee false-ward. Like a holy Nun,Stigmated, how thy faith grows with thy pain—Aye, till thy Cross, like Constantine's has won.
How help love thee, whose hand, raised to the sun,
Glows rosy, and not red with murder's stain?
The angels kiss it. Force can forge no chain
To drag thee false-ward. Like a holy Nun,
Stigmated, how thy faith grows with thy pain—
Aye, till thy Cross, like Constantine's has won.
In rapt, roused Erin, who does not beholdA Venus, rising from the sea of tears,Up to her native, Earth-illuming spheres?Her hair, long matted, is a flow of goldWhich even the Sun might wear and feel not cold;And, oh, her heavenly smile at doubts and fears,As when she, at all depths, raised to her ears,Shells of her Glory, murmuring, "Be bold!"Lo! where the green and orange morn unfurls,See Erin rise. How shine her golden tresses!They form her crown, for trailing rocks down whirls,And reaching all the under-sea recesses,They draw about her brow, the rarest pearls—Love for what frees and hate for what oppresses!
In rapt, roused Erin, who does not beholdA Venus, rising from the sea of tears,Up to her native, Earth-illuming spheres?Her hair, long matted, is a flow of goldWhich even the Sun might wear and feel not cold;And, oh, her heavenly smile at doubts and fears,As when she, at all depths, raised to her ears,Shells of her Glory, murmuring, "Be bold!"
In rapt, roused Erin, who does not behold
A Venus, rising from the sea of tears,
Up to her native, Earth-illuming spheres?
Her hair, long matted, is a flow of gold
Which even the Sun might wear and feel not cold;
And, oh, her heavenly smile at doubts and fears,
As when she, at all depths, raised to her ears,
Shells of her Glory, murmuring, "Be bold!"
Lo! where the green and orange morn unfurls,See Erin rise. How shine her golden tresses!They form her crown, for trailing rocks down whirls,And reaching all the under-sea recesses,They draw about her brow, the rarest pearls—Love for what frees and hate for what oppresses!
Lo! where the green and orange morn unfurls,
See Erin rise. How shine her golden tresses!
They form her crown, for trailing rocks down whirls,
And reaching all the under-sea recesses,
They draw about her brow, the rarest pearls—
Love for what frees and hate for what oppresses!
All hail to those who, through the stormy night,Make Liberty the light on Erin's coast;Who, ceaseless, send up sparks; who hold their postOn each and every ledge of Human Right,Forming a beacon blaze from base to heightWhere Erin's hope may steer and land its host.Look, Human Nature! Where else canst thou boastTo the eternal stars, so grand a sight?Look! How men there ennoble human kindBy making Liberty the light to Peace!All other lights are false. Oh! who but seesIn the unconquerable Celtic mindThat, even in Time, there are Eternities—Love, true to Right, and Will no wrong can bind!
All hail to those who, through the stormy night,Make Liberty the light on Erin's coast;Who, ceaseless, send up sparks; who hold their postOn each and every ledge of Human Right,Forming a beacon blaze from base to heightWhere Erin's hope may steer and land its host.Look, Human Nature! Where else canst thou boastTo the eternal stars, so grand a sight?
All hail to those who, through the stormy night,
Make Liberty the light on Erin's coast;
Who, ceaseless, send up sparks; who hold their post
On each and every ledge of Human Right,
Forming a beacon blaze from base to height
Where Erin's hope may steer and land its host.
Look, Human Nature! Where else canst thou boast
To the eternal stars, so grand a sight?
Look! How men there ennoble human kindBy making Liberty the light to Peace!All other lights are false. Oh! who but seesIn the unconquerable Celtic mindThat, even in Time, there are Eternities—Love, true to Right, and Will no wrong can bind!
Look! How men there ennoble human kind
By making Liberty the light to Peace!
All other lights are false. Oh! who but sees
In the unconquerable Celtic mind
That, even in Time, there are Eternities—
Love, true to Right, and Will no wrong can bind!
Why play with words? There never can be peaceTill Ireland is set free. One might as wellExpect the great Arch-angel rest in HellAnd genuflect to Satan's blasphemies,As Erin's spirit that, for centuries,Has been aloft with God in virtue, sell,Like Esaw, her birthright, and not rebel,But to her home's invaders, bend her knees.Her spirit is no norbury Banshee—To wail and, then, to vanish. She will standWith lifted flambeau, lighted by the handThat lights the stars, till she again is free,Inspiring normal man in every landWith love of Freedom, by her scorn of thee.
Why play with words? There never can be peaceTill Ireland is set free. One might as wellExpect the great Arch-angel rest in HellAnd genuflect to Satan's blasphemies,As Erin's spirit that, for centuries,Has been aloft with God in virtue, sell,Like Esaw, her birthright, and not rebel,But to her home's invaders, bend her knees.
Why play with words? There never can be peace
Till Ireland is set free. One might as well
Expect the great Arch-angel rest in Hell
And genuflect to Satan's blasphemies,
As Erin's spirit that, for centuries,
Has been aloft with God in virtue, sell,
Like Esaw, her birthright, and not rebel,
But to her home's invaders, bend her knees.
Her spirit is no norbury Banshee—To wail and, then, to vanish. She will standWith lifted flambeau, lighted by the handThat lights the stars, till she again is free,Inspiring normal man in every landWith love of Freedom, by her scorn of thee.
Her spirit is no norbury Banshee—
To wail and, then, to vanish. She will stand
With lifted flambeau, lighted by the hand
That lights the stars, till she again is free,
Inspiring normal man in every land
With love of Freedom, by her scorn of thee.
Look! British fury that, barraging, lightsUp Irish skies, like pathways down to hell,Doubles its fire to reach our land as well,Where Freedom's Wardens cry from justice' heights:"'Tis Deicide to murder Human Rights.Stop foul God-slaughter where to not rebel,In order to develop and excel,Were God in man, succumbed to age-longed blights."Where Heavenward rose the God in man of old,Staunch stand these Wardens. Sleepless, they beholdEach turn of England's Evil Eye. They call,When she would form the fulminate of gold,A thumb and finger-pinch of which, let fall,Might blast Columbia's peaks to slit of thrall.
Look! British fury that, barraging, lightsUp Irish skies, like pathways down to hell,Doubles its fire to reach our land as well,Where Freedom's Wardens cry from justice' heights:"'Tis Deicide to murder Human Rights.Stop foul God-slaughter where to not rebel,In order to develop and excel,Were God in man, succumbed to age-longed blights."
Look! British fury that, barraging, lights
Up Irish skies, like pathways down to hell,
Doubles its fire to reach our land as well,
Where Freedom's Wardens cry from justice' heights:
"'Tis Deicide to murder Human Rights.
Stop foul God-slaughter where to not rebel,
In order to develop and excel,
Were God in man, succumbed to age-longed blights."
Where Heavenward rose the God in man of old,Staunch stand these Wardens. Sleepless, they beholdEach turn of England's Evil Eye. They call,When she would form the fulminate of gold,A thumb and finger-pinch of which, let fall,Might blast Columbia's peaks to slit of thrall.
Where Heavenward rose the God in man of old,
Staunch stand these Wardens. Sleepless, they behold
Each turn of England's Evil Eye. They call,
When she would form the fulminate of gold,
A thumb and finger-pinch of which, let fall,
Might blast Columbia's peaks to slit of thrall.
Of all the fulminates, gold is the worst,Which England, aeroplaning, now, lets dropBy day and night, in bank, press, church and shop,Timed to the minute that it is to burst.List to Demosthenes, if not to Hearst,Sublime Republic! Lest thy great heart stop,Shocked by the blast of Freedom's every prop,And bats and owls in dwellings, Human's erst."Watch Macedon. She drops her gold, in creepingBeneath free Athens' sky-ascending stair.Watch her with glance of sword. Oh, watch, for whereShe sows her gold, she comes with scythes for reaping!Is Athens in ascent with sun-light flare,To come down ashes, not worth history's keeping?"
Of all the fulminates, gold is the worst,Which England, aeroplaning, now, lets dropBy day and night, in bank, press, church and shop,Timed to the minute that it is to burst.List to Demosthenes, if not to Hearst,Sublime Republic! Lest thy great heart stop,Shocked by the blast of Freedom's every prop,And bats and owls in dwellings, Human's erst.
Of all the fulminates, gold is the worst,
Which England, aeroplaning, now, lets drop
By day and night, in bank, press, church and shop,
Timed to the minute that it is to burst.
List to Demosthenes, if not to Hearst,
Sublime Republic! Lest thy great heart stop,
Shocked by the blast of Freedom's every prop,
And bats and owls in dwellings, Human's erst.
"Watch Macedon. She drops her gold, in creepingBeneath free Athens' sky-ascending stair.Watch her with glance of sword. Oh, watch, for whereShe sows her gold, she comes with scythes for reaping!Is Athens in ascent with sun-light flare,To come down ashes, not worth history's keeping?"
"Watch Macedon. She drops her gold, in creeping
Beneath free Athens' sky-ascending stair.
Watch her with glance of sword. Oh, watch, for where
She sows her gold, she comes with scythes for reaping!
Is Athens in ascent with sun-light flare,
To come down ashes, not worth history's keeping?"
In only Wallace and Paul Jones and Burns,Does Caledonia, child of Erin, showHis mother's features, lit by soul to knowThe Right Divine of freedom, when it yearnsFor what exalts the human, or, it spurnsWhat bars its flight to truth—all stars aglow,That form God's trail to joy for man below?—Sole trail, as time, who peers through grief, discerns.O Caledonia, by thy Burn's brave song,And deeds of Wallace and Paul Jones for Right,Thy mother knows thee in the dark of night,And claps thee heart-close. She cries out: "Be strong,Soul of my soul! though not a Boswell quite,Still, be whole man! remember Glencoe's wrong."
In only Wallace and Paul Jones and Burns,Does Caledonia, child of Erin, showHis mother's features, lit by soul to knowThe Right Divine of freedom, when it yearnsFor what exalts the human, or, it spurnsWhat bars its flight to truth—all stars aglow,That form God's trail to joy for man below?—Sole trail, as time, who peers through grief, discerns.
In only Wallace and Paul Jones and Burns,
Does Caledonia, child of Erin, show
His mother's features, lit by soul to know
The Right Divine of freedom, when it yearns
For what exalts the human, or, it spurns
What bars its flight to truth—all stars aglow,
That form God's trail to joy for man below?—
Sole trail, as time, who peers through grief, discerns.
O Caledonia, by thy Burn's brave song,And deeds of Wallace and Paul Jones for Right,Thy mother knows thee in the dark of night,And claps thee heart-close. She cries out: "Be strong,Soul of my soul! though not a Boswell quite,Still, be whole man! remember Glencoe's wrong."
O Caledonia, by thy Burn's brave song,
And deeds of Wallace and Paul Jones for Right,
Thy mother knows thee in the dark of night,
And claps thee heart-close. She cries out: "Be strong,
Soul of my soul! though not a Boswell quite,
Still, be whole man! remember Glencoe's wrong."
Wake, Caledonia! though Macauley, Whigging,Would ward the flames from scarring William's face,So that, then, Cain might shriek,—here, take my place,A fugitive and outcast, with no diggingTo hide in, nor a rest for my fatiguing;The mark on me, is but God's finger trace;On you, 'tis God's whole hand!—Still, there's the blaze!There's England's soul of merciless intriguing!List! 'tis the bagpipes welcoming the guest.See the assembly, dance and feast. Oh, watchThe open heart and flow of good old Scotch;The English come, as friends, must have the best.There, hospitality is at top notch,—And so is treachery in Britain's breast.
Wake, Caledonia! though Macauley, Whigging,Would ward the flames from scarring William's face,So that, then, Cain might shriek,—here, take my place,A fugitive and outcast, with no diggingTo hide in, nor a rest for my fatiguing;The mark on me, is but God's finger trace;On you, 'tis God's whole hand!—Still, there's the blaze!There's England's soul of merciless intriguing!
Wake, Caledonia! though Macauley, Whigging,
Would ward the flames from scarring William's face,
So that, then, Cain might shriek,—here, take my place,
A fugitive and outcast, with no digging
To hide in, nor a rest for my fatiguing;
The mark on me, is but God's finger trace;
On you, 'tis God's whole hand!—Still, there's the blaze!
There's England's soul of merciless intriguing!
List! 'tis the bagpipes welcoming the guest.See the assembly, dance and feast. Oh, watchThe open heart and flow of good old Scotch;The English come, as friends, must have the best.There, hospitality is at top notch,—And so is treachery in Britain's breast.
List! 'tis the bagpipes welcoming the guest.
See the assembly, dance and feast. Oh, watch
The open heart and flow of good old Scotch;
The English come, as friends, must have the best.
There, hospitality is at top notch,—
And so is treachery in Britain's breast.
The cock crows.—Is he dreaming? 'Tis dark still.He crows again and now, from farm to farm,His fellows echo far his dazed alarmAnd flap of wings on fences. He is shrillBecause it is not dawn above the hill,That wakes him, but the English, as they arm,And murder sleep, that has no dream of harm,In couch and crib,—to further England's will.O Caledonia! with such lamp in handAs Glencoe's horror, thou hast England true.Why let Froude fiction haze thy vivid view?Put not thy light out for sound sleep, but standAnd answer, when the mother, whom thou drewThy soul from, cries "Glencoe"! when Black and Taned.
The cock crows.—Is he dreaming? 'Tis dark still.He crows again and now, from farm to farm,His fellows echo far his dazed alarmAnd flap of wings on fences. He is shrillBecause it is not dawn above the hill,That wakes him, but the English, as they arm,And murder sleep, that has no dream of harm,In couch and crib,—to further England's will.
The cock crows.—Is he dreaming? 'Tis dark still.
He crows again and now, from farm to farm,
His fellows echo far his dazed alarm
And flap of wings on fences. He is shrill
Because it is not dawn above the hill,
That wakes him, but the English, as they arm,
And murder sleep, that has no dream of harm,
In couch and crib,—to further England's will.
O Caledonia! with such lamp in handAs Glencoe's horror, thou hast England true.Why let Froude fiction haze thy vivid view?Put not thy light out for sound sleep, but standAnd answer, when the mother, whom thou drewThy soul from, cries "Glencoe"! when Black and Taned.
O Caledonia! with such lamp in hand
As Glencoe's horror, thou hast England true.
Why let Froude fiction haze thy vivid view?
Put not thy light out for sound sleep, but stand
And answer, when the mother, whom thou drew
Thy soul from, cries "Glencoe"! when Black and Taned.
O Canada, Long red with cottage flameFrom Britain's torch! thy blasts milk not the cloudTo nourish hope; instead, they spread the shroudOn Human Spirit answering Freedom's claim.Whence comes the cold which icicles with shame,Thy heart's Niagara, that should thunder loudUnto thy far off soul in sorrow, bowedO'er Papineau, whom Thraldom could not tame?Now following the Friends, who grandly ledThe slave through tunnels to the Northern Star,To find, in freedom, richer bloomage far,Than the Magnolia o'er the cattle shed,—I reach thy soul,—where now the Crawfords are,And learn the cold is not from manhood dead.
O Canada, Long red with cottage flameFrom Britain's torch! thy blasts milk not the cloudTo nourish hope; instead, they spread the shroudOn Human Spirit answering Freedom's claim.Whence comes the cold which icicles with shame,Thy heart's Niagara, that should thunder loudUnto thy far off soul in sorrow, bowedO'er Papineau, whom Thraldom could not tame?
O Canada, Long red with cottage flame
From Britain's torch! thy blasts milk not the cloud
To nourish hope; instead, they spread the shroud
On Human Spirit answering Freedom's claim.
Whence comes the cold which icicles with shame,
Thy heart's Niagara, that should thunder loud
Unto thy far off soul in sorrow, bowed
O'er Papineau, whom Thraldom could not tame?
Now following the Friends, who grandly ledThe slave through tunnels to the Northern Star,To find, in freedom, richer bloomage far,Than the Magnolia o'er the cattle shed,—I reach thy soul,—where now the Crawfords are,And learn the cold is not from manhood dead.
Now following the Friends, who grandly led
The slave through tunnels to the Northern Star,
To find, in freedom, richer bloomage far,
Than the Magnolia o'er the cattle shed,—
I reach thy soul,—where now the Crawfords are,
And learn the cold is not from manhood dead.
Whence comes this cold to Freedom's claim? we knowOnly too well,—from creatures of the King,Who had dragged Hell of every poisonous thingAnd, through our country, had spread waste and woe.Beaten at last, they flocked like carion crow,On the dead body of their will to sting,Which drifting Northward, and enlargening,Loomed Dante's Nimrod, 'mid the Arctic snow.There, with the reptile's hate of Man Upright,As God created him, and reptiles veins,Aflow with deaths cold blood—for that sustainsThe life of tyrant and of parasite—This monster, though half sunk in Hell, remainsHigh, still, above the Arctic's shuddering night.
Whence comes this cold to Freedom's claim? we knowOnly too well,—from creatures of the King,Who had dragged Hell of every poisonous thingAnd, through our country, had spread waste and woe.Beaten at last, they flocked like carion crow,On the dead body of their will to sting,Which drifting Northward, and enlargening,Loomed Dante's Nimrod, 'mid the Arctic snow.
Whence comes this cold to Freedom's claim? we know
Only too well,—from creatures of the King,
Who had dragged Hell of every poisonous thing
And, through our country, had spread waste and woe.
Beaten at last, they flocked like carion crow,
On the dead body of their will to sting,
Which drifting Northward, and enlargening,
Loomed Dante's Nimrod, 'mid the Arctic snow.
There, with the reptile's hate of Man Upright,As God created him, and reptiles veins,Aflow with deaths cold blood—for that sustainsThe life of tyrant and of parasite—This monster, though half sunk in Hell, remainsHigh, still, above the Arctic's shuddering night.
There, with the reptile's hate of Man Upright,
As God created him, and reptiles veins,
Aflow with deaths cold blood—for that sustains
The life of tyrant and of parasite—
This monster, though half sunk in Hell, remains
High, still, above the Arctic's shuddering night.
The monster's inhalations empty HellOf all deterents to Life's flow and flower;Then, its outbreathings icily devourThe cataract in flight and, down the dell,The streamlets to delight, and buds, as well,Of virtue, forming bloom for Freedom's bower;—Nay, its out breathings,—through Creed hatred's power—Grow Boreus and face where freeman dwell.Lo! with Sun-warmth for Truth and Human Right,Is Boreus met. Who hurles him down the deep?Look close;—'tis Gladden who, on Freedom's steep,Is as inspiring, as, on Andes' height,The great Christ Statue, bidding Rancor sleepAnd Life's diverging rays in love, beam Light.
The monster's inhalations empty HellOf all deterents to Life's flow and flower;Then, its outbreathings icily devourThe cataract in flight and, down the dell,The streamlets to delight, and buds, as well,Of virtue, forming bloom for Freedom's bower;—Nay, its out breathings,—through Creed hatred's power—Grow Boreus and face where freeman dwell.
The monster's inhalations empty Hell
Of all deterents to Life's flow and flower;
Then, its outbreathings icily devour
The cataract in flight and, down the dell,
The streamlets to delight, and buds, as well,
Of virtue, forming bloom for Freedom's bower;—
Nay, its out breathings,—through Creed hatred's power—
Grow Boreus and face where freeman dwell.
Lo! with Sun-warmth for Truth and Human Right,Is Boreus met. Who hurles him down the deep?Look close;—'tis Gladden who, on Freedom's steep,Is as inspiring, as, on Andes' height,The great Christ Statue, bidding Rancor sleepAnd Life's diverging rays in love, beam Light.
Lo! with Sun-warmth for Truth and Human Right,
Is Boreus met. Who hurles him down the deep?
Look close;—'tis Gladden who, on Freedom's steep,
Is as inspiring, as, on Andes' height,
The great Christ Statue, bidding Rancor sleep
And Life's diverging rays in love, beam Light.
The cataracts wild leap, turned glittering iceIn shame's suspension, and crow souls afeedingUpon a huge dead body and fast breeding,—Is, as a scene, not worth the railroad's price;But, oh, if, with "Excelsior" for device,Thou climb thy Alpine way, each day exceedingThe other's height, what throngs would watch thy speedingAnd, for the thrill thou woulds't give them, come twice!O Canada! why all this sleigh-bell rhyming?'Tis on the reindeer, hope, in speed with meTo the grand morning, when thou shalt breathe freeUpon the apex of thine Alpine climbing,From foulsome, choaking smells of tyranny,Thick from the Great Sea Serpent's inland sliming.
The cataracts wild leap, turned glittering iceIn shame's suspension, and crow souls afeedingUpon a huge dead body and fast breeding,—Is, as a scene, not worth the railroad's price;But, oh, if, with "Excelsior" for device,Thou climb thy Alpine way, each day exceedingThe other's height, what throngs would watch thy speedingAnd, for the thrill thou woulds't give them, come twice!
The cataracts wild leap, turned glittering ice
In shame's suspension, and crow souls afeeding
Upon a huge dead body and fast breeding,—
Is, as a scene, not worth the railroad's price;
But, oh, if, with "Excelsior" for device,
Thou climb thy Alpine way, each day exceeding
The other's height, what throngs would watch thy speeding
And, for the thrill thou woulds't give them, come twice!
O Canada! why all this sleigh-bell rhyming?'Tis on the reindeer, hope, in speed with meTo the grand morning, when thou shalt breathe freeUpon the apex of thine Alpine climbing,From foulsome, choaking smells of tyranny,Thick from the Great Sea Serpent's inland sliming.
O Canada! why all this sleigh-bell rhyming?
'Tis on the reindeer, hope, in speed with me
To the grand morning, when thou shalt breathe free
Upon the apex of thine Alpine climbing,
From foulsome, choaking smells of tyranny,
Thick from the Great Sea Serpent's inland sliming.
God said to Wrong: "No further shalt thou go."This, Monroe heard and held, then, in his heart.It was this he repeated, when on chartHe made his markings, checking Freedom's foe.God never grants to Wrong the right to grow;Because He sets its bounds, does not impartHis blessing on its growth, more than its start;His blessing goes to Right, to overthrow.Oh, let thine eyes for migratory flightSpeed southward! Passing Prejudice's Lake,Green-crusted with stagnation which some takeFor verdure, they will see from Andes' height,How Freedom's battle forms the red day-break,And tides are swells from thrall, hurled deep from sight.
God said to Wrong: "No further shalt thou go."This, Monroe heard and held, then, in his heart.It was this he repeated, when on chartHe made his markings, checking Freedom's foe.God never grants to Wrong the right to grow;Because He sets its bounds, does not impartHis blessing on its growth, more than its start;His blessing goes to Right, to overthrow.
God said to Wrong: "No further shalt thou go."
This, Monroe heard and held, then, in his heart.
It was this he repeated, when on chart
He made his markings, checking Freedom's foe.
God never grants to Wrong the right to grow;
Because He sets its bounds, does not impart
His blessing on its growth, more than its start;
His blessing goes to Right, to overthrow.
Oh, let thine eyes for migratory flightSpeed southward! Passing Prejudice's Lake,Green-crusted with stagnation which some takeFor verdure, they will see from Andes' height,How Freedom's battle forms the red day-break,And tides are swells from thrall, hurled deep from sight.
Oh, let thine eyes for migratory flight
Speed southward! Passing Prejudice's Lake,
Green-crusted with stagnation which some take
For verdure, they will see from Andes' height,
How Freedom's battle forms the red day-break,
And tides are swells from thrall, hurled deep from sight.
Thine eyes returning from the Southern Cross,Will, when like Perry, they have reached the Pole,Search under it to find thy banished soul,O Canada, and tell it of thy lossIn letting a foul dead body, which the mossOf the deep sea should hide, loom as thy wholeAnd rule, as dead things rule, with death for toll,As pierced by Papineau through Glamor's gloss.From South to North, no sky is black but thine.Thy fecund brain, the Borealis, showsA swaying disc with shades of dark for glows,With but a faint salt smell of Color's brine,The pent-up billows in the disc's dark close,Which might flood midnight with rare, world-wide shine.
Thine eyes returning from the Southern Cross,Will, when like Perry, they have reached the Pole,Search under it to find thy banished soul,O Canada, and tell it of thy lossIn letting a foul dead body, which the mossOf the deep sea should hide, loom as thy wholeAnd rule, as dead things rule, with death for toll,As pierced by Papineau through Glamor's gloss.
Thine eyes returning from the Southern Cross,
Will, when like Perry, they have reached the Pole,
Search under it to find thy banished soul,
O Canada, and tell it of thy loss
In letting a foul dead body, which the moss
Of the deep sea should hide, loom as thy whole
And rule, as dead things rule, with death for toll,
As pierced by Papineau through Glamor's gloss.
From South to North, no sky is black but thine.Thy fecund brain, the Borealis, showsA swaying disc with shades of dark for glows,With but a faint salt smell of Color's brine,The pent-up billows in the disc's dark close,Which might flood midnight with rare, world-wide shine.
From South to North, no sky is black but thine.
Thy fecund brain, the Borealis, shows
A swaying disc with shades of dark for glows,
With but a faint salt smell of Color's brine,
The pent-up billows in the disc's dark close,
Which might flood midnight with rare, world-wide shine.
We seek no annexation, but of Mind,Heart, Spirit. True, thy clear, sonorous voiceAt Freedom's class-call, would make us rejoice,For, then, close-coasting thrall would fail to findIn the new world, one truant to mankind,Swimming out to the foreigners' decoys,Or fast asleep amid his infant toys,Instead of at the task, which God assigned.Oh, let thy spirit come, but it must beAlong the star-way to the rising sun—The way of love; not down creed hates that run,Like broken stone-steps, to a roaring sea—The way thou oft, hast come. Rise, and be oneOn the new world's Star-top of Liberty.
We seek no annexation, but of Mind,Heart, Spirit. True, thy clear, sonorous voiceAt Freedom's class-call, would make us rejoice,For, then, close-coasting thrall would fail to findIn the new world, one truant to mankind,Swimming out to the foreigners' decoys,Or fast asleep amid his infant toys,Instead of at the task, which God assigned.
We seek no annexation, but of Mind,
Heart, Spirit. True, thy clear, sonorous voice
At Freedom's class-call, would make us rejoice,
For, then, close-coasting thrall would fail to find
In the new world, one truant to mankind,
Swimming out to the foreigners' decoys,
Or fast asleep amid his infant toys,
Instead of at the task, which God assigned.
Oh, let thy spirit come, but it must beAlong the star-way to the rising sun—The way of love; not down creed hates that run,Like broken stone-steps, to a roaring sea—The way thou oft, hast come. Rise, and be oneOn the new world's Star-top of Liberty.
Oh, let thy spirit come, but it must be
Along the star-way to the rising sun—
The way of love; not down creed hates that run,
Like broken stone-steps, to a roaring sea—
The way thou oft, hast come. Rise, and be one
On the new world's Star-top of Liberty.
"The Angels come in dreams," says Holy Writ;And Science says, "No sleep so deep, but dreams."Devine appearances with brightening gleamsToward Paradise up from the demon's pit,Ever rouse virtue; aye, for God redeemsHis fire, wherever hid; the tempest teems,But still his sparks fly, quick as flint is hit.Wake, Canada! and let thy PapineausBe dreams remembered; yea, let them inspireThy life to follow Freedom high and higherThrough Rights' whole range of summits, crowned with snowsSparkling from star-moulds of the Soul's desire,On earth from Heaven where, clouds from flames, they rose.
"The Angels come in dreams," says Holy Writ;And Science says, "No sleep so deep, but dreams."Devine appearances with brightening gleamsToward Paradise up from the demon's pit,Ever rouse virtue; aye, for God redeemsHis fire, wherever hid; the tempest teems,But still his sparks fly, quick as flint is hit.
"The Angels come in dreams," says Holy Writ;
And Science says, "No sleep so deep, but dreams."
Devine appearances with brightening gleams
Toward Paradise up from the demon's pit,
Ever rouse virtue; aye, for God redeems
His fire, wherever hid; the tempest teems,
But still his sparks fly, quick as flint is hit.
Wake, Canada! and let thy PapineausBe dreams remembered; yea, let them inspireThy life to follow Freedom high and higherThrough Rights' whole range of summits, crowned with snowsSparkling from star-moulds of the Soul's desire,On earth from Heaven where, clouds from flames, they rose.
Wake, Canada! and let thy Papineaus
Be dreams remembered; yea, let them inspire
Thy life to follow Freedom high and higher
Through Rights' whole range of summits, crowned with snows
Sparkling from star-moulds of the Soul's desire,
On earth from Heaven where, clouds from flames, they rose.
O Freedom! whose pure soul and heart embraceTranslates me into heaven, I draw for breathThe joy of angels who have not known death.Child-like, I look up in thy loving face,Else gaze around and point, and curious placeMy hand on Mottoes, hung on high. One saith:"Beware, for he not with me scatterith."Its meaning comes to me with growth, like grace.Ah, as a youngster, on its mother's arm,Seeing a hideous thing approaching night,Will not lay down its head and shut its eye,But will with look and lung express alarm—My mind cries out in dread—when sea and skyShow dragons, tendencies that work thee harm.
O Freedom! whose pure soul and heart embraceTranslates me into heaven, I draw for breathThe joy of angels who have not known death.Child-like, I look up in thy loving face,Else gaze around and point, and curious placeMy hand on Mottoes, hung on high. One saith:"Beware, for he not with me scatterith."Its meaning comes to me with growth, like grace.
O Freedom! whose pure soul and heart embrace
Translates me into heaven, I draw for breath
The joy of angels who have not known death.
Child-like, I look up in thy loving face,
Else gaze around and point, and curious place
My hand on Mottoes, hung on high. One saith:
"Beware, for he not with me scatterith."
Its meaning comes to me with growth, like grace.
Ah, as a youngster, on its mother's arm,Seeing a hideous thing approaching night,Will not lay down its head and shut its eye,But will with look and lung express alarm—My mind cries out in dread—when sea and skyShow dragons, tendencies that work thee harm.
Ah, as a youngster, on its mother's arm,
Seeing a hideous thing approaching night,
Will not lay down its head and shut its eye,
But will with look and lung express alarm—
My mind cries out in dread—when sea and sky
Show dragons, tendencies that work thee harm.
O Freedom! Up to whose raised hand the seasLeap, playful lions, or with head and mainAcross their paws lie couchant—it is painTo see thee whose heart beats are God's decrees,And vital breathings are infinities,Now check thy heart and hold thy breath to gainThe smile and plaudit of a depths with baneIn finger tips, while fawning on their knees.What! Think the tyrant, whose great soul is trade,Whose history, a crater, belching blackAnd lurid, keeps glad Easter morning backFrom half the world—loves thee save to invade,As blackward planned? loves thee, along whose trackMarch Human rights up to the stars parade?
O Freedom! Up to whose raised hand the seasLeap, playful lions, or with head and mainAcross their paws lie couchant—it is painTo see thee whose heart beats are God's decrees,And vital breathings are infinities,Now check thy heart and hold thy breath to gainThe smile and plaudit of a depths with baneIn finger tips, while fawning on their knees.
O Freedom! Up to whose raised hand the seas
Leap, playful lions, or with head and main
Across their paws lie couchant—it is pain
To see thee whose heart beats are God's decrees,
And vital breathings are infinities,
Now check thy heart and hold thy breath to gain
The smile and plaudit of a depths with bane
In finger tips, while fawning on their knees.
What! Think the tyrant, whose great soul is trade,Whose history, a crater, belching blackAnd lurid, keeps glad Easter morning backFrom half the world—loves thee save to invade,As blackward planned? loves thee, along whose trackMarch Human rights up to the stars parade?
What! Think the tyrant, whose great soul is trade,
Whose history, a crater, belching black
And lurid, keeps glad Easter morning back
From half the world—loves thee save to invade,
As blackward planned? loves thee, along whose track
March Human rights up to the stars parade?
There where the Tyrant long has loomed, wreck-crowned,Are young and old hurled to the coast and blast.Frail are their ships; still, Sun, why glare aghast,Watching the billows monstering around?The soul of man was not born to be drowned.It mounts and mounts, till, at God's throne, at last,And freedom welcomes it with arms, sky-vast,As down it comes to meet Thrall and confound.O, deathless spirit, born of hosts sea-hurled,Who hast out soared night's stars with agony's cryFor justice! Thou hast come down from the sky,Heralding doom to Thrall, whose flag unfurledBy steel, or craft, shows, as 'tis hoisted high,The blood of man and ruin of the world.
There where the Tyrant long has loomed, wreck-crowned,Are young and old hurled to the coast and blast.Frail are their ships; still, Sun, why glare aghast,Watching the billows monstering around?The soul of man was not born to be drowned.It mounts and mounts, till, at God's throne, at last,And freedom welcomes it with arms, sky-vast,As down it comes to meet Thrall and confound.
There where the Tyrant long has loomed, wreck-crowned,
Are young and old hurled to the coast and blast.
Frail are their ships; still, Sun, why glare aghast,
Watching the billows monstering around?
The soul of man was not born to be drowned.
It mounts and mounts, till, at God's throne, at last,
And freedom welcomes it with arms, sky-vast,
As down it comes to meet Thrall and confound.
O, deathless spirit, born of hosts sea-hurled,Who hast out soared night's stars with agony's cryFor justice! Thou hast come down from the sky,Heralding doom to Thrall, whose flag unfurledBy steel, or craft, shows, as 'tis hoisted high,The blood of man and ruin of the world.
O, deathless spirit, born of hosts sea-hurled,
Who hast out soared night's stars with agony's cry
For justice! Thou hast come down from the sky,
Heralding doom to Thrall, whose flag unfurled
By steel, or craft, shows, as 'tis hoisted high,
The blood of man and ruin of the world.
What is the Truth? The thought, the act, or cry,Recasting the Supreme Intelligence;All else is false. Look! where are stars so dense,That each has not the freedom of the sky?And, still, what peace, what glory, reigns on high!What! with the wisdom of the heavens, dispense?The Peace, for which our longings grow intense,Comes through the stars to earth, and but thereby.What splits dark mid-night and gives earth a thrill?All stars merged into one—our Country's aim.It is a lightening, formed by God, to flameAcross the ages and flash bolts to killThe stranglers, who the heart or spirit, main,Or choke black in the face, a People's Will.
What is the Truth? The thought, the act, or cry,Recasting the Supreme Intelligence;All else is false. Look! where are stars so dense,That each has not the freedom of the sky?And, still, what peace, what glory, reigns on high!What! with the wisdom of the heavens, dispense?The Peace, for which our longings grow intense,Comes through the stars to earth, and but thereby.
What is the Truth? The thought, the act, or cry,
Recasting the Supreme Intelligence;
All else is false. Look! where are stars so dense,
That each has not the freedom of the sky?
And, still, what peace, what glory, reigns on high!
What! with the wisdom of the heavens, dispense?
The Peace, for which our longings grow intense,
Comes through the stars to earth, and but thereby.
What splits dark mid-night and gives earth a thrill?All stars merged into one—our Country's aim.It is a lightening, formed by God, to flameAcross the ages and flash bolts to killThe stranglers, who the heart or spirit, main,Or choke black in the face, a People's Will.
What splits dark mid-night and gives earth a thrill?
All stars merged into one—our Country's aim.
It is a lightening, formed by God, to flame
Across the ages and flash bolts to kill
The stranglers, who the heart or spirit, main,
Or choke black in the face, a People's Will.
Who is to rise and hurl God's flame world-wide,As Lincoln hurled it, setting free a raceFrom Sphinx-shaped wrong—a beast with human face?That shattered, how our land rose glorifiedAnd, from the stars last laggard, soared, their guide!Oh, who can take Promethean Lincoln's place,To bring light where-so-ever he can traceA Human, with his rights to soul denied?He must be one, not only to illumeAll ages, and not leave one region dim,But at no height, allow his senses swim,Or let mirages lure him with false bloom.Lo! Here one comes with all the virtues primTo hurl God's fire and end all human gloom.
Who is to rise and hurl God's flame world-wide,As Lincoln hurled it, setting free a raceFrom Sphinx-shaped wrong—a beast with human face?That shattered, how our land rose glorifiedAnd, from the stars last laggard, soared, their guide!Oh, who can take Promethean Lincoln's place,To bring light where-so-ever he can traceA Human, with his rights to soul denied?
Who is to rise and hurl God's flame world-wide,
As Lincoln hurled it, setting free a race
From Sphinx-shaped wrong—a beast with human face?
That shattered, how our land rose glorified
And, from the stars last laggard, soared, their guide!
Oh, who can take Promethean Lincoln's place,
To bring light where-so-ever he can trace
A Human, with his rights to soul denied?
He must be one, not only to illumeAll ages, and not leave one region dim,But at no height, allow his senses swim,Or let mirages lure him with false bloom.Lo! Here one comes with all the virtues primTo hurl God's fire and end all human gloom.
He must be one, not only to illume
All ages, and not leave one region dim,
But at no height, allow his senses swim,
Or let mirages lure him with false bloom.
Lo! Here one comes with all the virtues prim
To hurl God's fire and end all human gloom.
'Tis Wilson takes God's flame from Lincoln's hand.This Princeton man,—who has outgrown the prince,A hundred years, and, in the ocean since,Seen with delight, Eternity expandAnd loom in glory from the despot's strand,—Shapes fourteen dazzling bolts without a wince.He pauses. Why not hurl them and convinceThe world that, hence-forth, not one thrall shall stand?What! Wilson's arm lacks strength to hurl the flame,God gave to Lincoln for the Human race?Look! Look! it falls. What! Gone? Quenched by dark space?No; it describes an orbit there, the sameAs comets, and regains its heavenly placeFor one to hurl it true, and doom Earth's Shame.
'Tis Wilson takes God's flame from Lincoln's hand.This Princeton man,—who has outgrown the prince,A hundred years, and, in the ocean since,Seen with delight, Eternity expandAnd loom in glory from the despot's strand,—Shapes fourteen dazzling bolts without a wince.He pauses. Why not hurl them and convinceThe world that, hence-forth, not one thrall shall stand?
'Tis Wilson takes God's flame from Lincoln's hand.
This Princeton man,—who has outgrown the prince,
A hundred years, and, in the ocean since,
Seen with delight, Eternity expand
And loom in glory from the despot's strand,—
Shapes fourteen dazzling bolts without a wince.
He pauses. Why not hurl them and convince
The world that, hence-forth, not one thrall shall stand?
What! Wilson's arm lacks strength to hurl the flame,God gave to Lincoln for the Human race?Look! Look! it falls. What! Gone? Quenched by dark space?No; it describes an orbit there, the sameAs comets, and regains its heavenly placeFor one to hurl it true, and doom Earth's Shame.
What! Wilson's arm lacks strength to hurl the flame,
God gave to Lincoln for the Human race?
Look! Look! it falls. What! Gone? Quenched by dark space?
No; it describes an orbit there, the same
As comets, and regains its heavenly place
For one to hurl it true, and doom Earth's Shame.