SHERMAN
Lest it be saidOne sits at easeWestward, beyond the outer seas,Who thanks me not that my decreesFall light as love, nor bends her kneesTo make one prayerThat peace my latter days may find,—Lest all these bitter things be saidAnd we be counted as one dead,Alone and unaccreditedI give this message to the wind:Secure in thy security,Though children, not unwise are we;And filled with unplumbed love for thee,—Call thou but once, if thou wouldst see!Where the grey bergsCome down from Labrador, and whereThe long Pacific rollers breakAgainst the pines, for thy word’s sakeEach listeneth,—alive, awake,And with thy strength made strong to dare.And though our love is strong as spring,Sweet is it, too,—as sweet a thingAs when the first swamp-robins singUnto the dawn their welcoming.Yea, and more sweetThan the clean savour of the reedsWhere yesterday the June floods were,—Than perfumed piles of new cut firThat greet the forest-worshipperWho follows where the wood-road leads.But unto thee are all unknownThese things by which the worth is shownOf our deep love; and, near thy throne,The glory thou hast made thine ownHath made men blindTo all that lies not to their hand,—But what thy strength and theirs hath done:As though they had beheld the sunWhen the noon-hour and March are oneWide glare across our white, white land.For what reck they ofEmpire,—they,Whose will two hemispheres obey?Why shouldst thou not count us but clayFor them to fashion as they mayIn London-town?The dwellers in the wildernessRich tribute yield to thee their friend;From the flood unto the world’s endThy London ships ascend, descend,Gleaning—and to thy feet regress.Yea, surely they think not at allOf us, nor note the outer wallAround thy realm imperialOur slow hands rear as the years fall;Which shall withstandThe stress of time and night of doom;For we, who build, build of our love,—Not as they built, whose empires throveAnd died,—for what knew they thereofIn old Assyria, Egypt, Rome?Therefore, in my dumb country’s stead,I come to thee, unheralded,Praying that Time’s peace may be shedUpon thine high, anointed head,—One with the wheat,The mountain pine, the prairie trail,The lakes, the thronging ships thereon,The valley of the blue Saint John,New France—her lilies,—not aloneEmpress, I bid thee, Hail!Francis Sherman.
Lest it be saidOne sits at easeWestward, beyond the outer seas,Who thanks me not that my decreesFall light as love, nor bends her kneesTo make one prayerThat peace my latter days may find,—Lest all these bitter things be saidAnd we be counted as one dead,Alone and unaccreditedI give this message to the wind:Secure in thy security,Though children, not unwise are we;And filled with unplumbed love for thee,—Call thou but once, if thou wouldst see!Where the grey bergsCome down from Labrador, and whereThe long Pacific rollers breakAgainst the pines, for thy word’s sakeEach listeneth,—alive, awake,And with thy strength made strong to dare.And though our love is strong as spring,Sweet is it, too,—as sweet a thingAs when the first swamp-robins singUnto the dawn their welcoming.Yea, and more sweetThan the clean savour of the reedsWhere yesterday the June floods were,—Than perfumed piles of new cut firThat greet the forest-worshipperWho follows where the wood-road leads.But unto thee are all unknownThese things by which the worth is shownOf our deep love; and, near thy throne,The glory thou hast made thine ownHath made men blindTo all that lies not to their hand,—But what thy strength and theirs hath done:As though they had beheld the sunWhen the noon-hour and March are oneWide glare across our white, white land.For what reck they ofEmpire,—they,Whose will two hemispheres obey?Why shouldst thou not count us but clayFor them to fashion as they mayIn London-town?The dwellers in the wildernessRich tribute yield to thee their friend;From the flood unto the world’s endThy London ships ascend, descend,Gleaning—and to thy feet regress.Yea, surely they think not at allOf us, nor note the outer wallAround thy realm imperialOur slow hands rear as the years fall;Which shall withstandThe stress of time and night of doom;For we, who build, build of our love,—Not as they built, whose empires throveAnd died,—for what knew they thereofIn old Assyria, Egypt, Rome?Therefore, in my dumb country’s stead,I come to thee, unheralded,Praying that Time’s peace may be shedUpon thine high, anointed head,—One with the wheat,The mountain pine, the prairie trail,The lakes, the thronging ships thereon,The valley of the blue Saint John,New France—her lilies,—not aloneEmpress, I bid thee, Hail!Francis Sherman.
Lest it be saidOne sits at easeWestward, beyond the outer seas,Who thanks me not that my decreesFall light as love, nor bends her kneesTo make one prayerThat peace my latter days may find,—Lest all these bitter things be saidAnd we be counted as one dead,Alone and unaccreditedI give this message to the wind:
Secure in thy security,Though children, not unwise are we;And filled with unplumbed love for thee,—Call thou but once, if thou wouldst see!Where the grey bergsCome down from Labrador, and whereThe long Pacific rollers breakAgainst the pines, for thy word’s sakeEach listeneth,—alive, awake,And with thy strength made strong to dare.
And though our love is strong as spring,Sweet is it, too,—as sweet a thingAs when the first swamp-robins singUnto the dawn their welcoming.Yea, and more sweetThan the clean savour of the reedsWhere yesterday the June floods were,—Than perfumed piles of new cut firThat greet the forest-worshipperWho follows where the wood-road leads.
But unto thee are all unknownThese things by which the worth is shownOf our deep love; and, near thy throne,The glory thou hast made thine ownHath made men blindTo all that lies not to their hand,—But what thy strength and theirs hath done:As though they had beheld the sunWhen the noon-hour and March are oneWide glare across our white, white land.
For what reck they ofEmpire,—they,Whose will two hemispheres obey?Why shouldst thou not count us but clayFor them to fashion as they mayIn London-town?The dwellers in the wildernessRich tribute yield to thee their friend;From the flood unto the world’s endThy London ships ascend, descend,Gleaning—and to thy feet regress.
Yea, surely they think not at allOf us, nor note the outer wallAround thy realm imperialOur slow hands rear as the years fall;Which shall withstandThe stress of time and night of doom;For we, who build, build of our love,—Not as they built, whose empires throveAnd died,—for what knew they thereofIn old Assyria, Egypt, Rome?
Therefore, in my dumb country’s stead,I come to thee, unheralded,Praying that Time’s peace may be shedUpon thine high, anointed head,—One with the wheat,The mountain pine, the prairie trail,The lakes, the thronging ships thereon,The valley of the blue Saint John,New France—her lilies,—not aloneEmpress, I bid thee, Hail!
Francis Sherman.