I-1Sun of the stately Day,Let Asia into the shadow drift,Let Europe bask in thy ripened ray,And over the severing ocean liftA brow of broader splendor!Give light to the eager eyesOf the Land that waits to behold thee rise;The gladness of morning lend her,With the triumph of noon attend her,And the peace of the vesper skies!For, lo! she cometh nowWith hope on the lip and pride on the brow,Stronger, and dearer, and fairer,To smile on the love we bear her,—To live, as we dreamed her and sought her,Liberty's latest daughter!In the clefts of the rocks, in the secret places,We found her traces;On the hills, in the crash of woods that fall,We heard her call;When the lines of battle broke,We saw her face in the fiery smoke;Through toil, and anguish, and desolation,We followed, and found herWith the grace of a virgin NationAs a sacred zone around her!Who shall rejoiceWith a righteous voice,Far-heard through the ages, if not she?For the menace is dumb that defied her,The doubt is dead that denied her,And she stands acknowledged, and strong, and free!II-1Ah, hark! the solemn undertone,On every wind of human story blown.A large, divinely-moulded FateQuestions the right and purpose of a State,And in its plan sublimeOur eras are the dust of Time.The far-off Yesterday of powerCreeps back with stealthy feet,Invades the lordship of the hour,And at our banquet takes the unbidden seat.From all unchronicled and silent agesBefore the Future first begot the Past,Till History dared, at last,To write eternal words on granite pages;From Egypt's tawny drift, and Assur's mound,And where, uplifted white and far,Earth highest yearns to meet a star,And Man his manhood by the Ganges found,—Imperial heads, of old millennial sway,And still by some pale splendor crowned,Chill as a corpse-light in our full-orbed day,In ghostly grandeur riseAnd say, through stony lips and vacant eyes:"Thou that assertest freedom, power, and fame,Declare to us thy claim!"I-2On the shores of a Continent cast,She won the inviolate soilBy loss of heirdom of all the Past,And faith in the royal right of Toil!She planted homes on the savage sod:Into the wilderness loneShe walked with fearless feet,In her hand the divining-rod,Till the veins of the mountains beatWith fire of metal and force of stone!She set the speed of the river-headTo turn the mills of her bread;She drove her ploughshare deepThrough the prairie's thousand-centuried sleep,To the South, and West, and North,She called Pathfinder forth,Her faithful and sole companionWhere the flushed Sierra, snow-starred,Her way to the sunset barred,And the nameless rivers in thunder and foamChannelled the terrible canyon!Nor paused, till her uttermost homeWas built, in the smile of a softer skyAnd the glory of beauty still to be,Where the haunted waves of Asia dieOn the strand of the world-wide sea!II-2The race, in conquering,Some fierce, Titanic joy of conquest knows;Whether in veins of serf or king,Our ancient blood beats restless in repose.Challenge of Nature unsubduedAwaits not Man's defiant answer long;For hardship, even as wrong,Provokes the level-eyed heroic mood.This for herself she did; but that which lies,As over earth the skies,Blending all forms in one benignant glow,—Crowned conscience, tender care,Justice that answers every bondman's prayer,Freedom where Faith may lead and Thought may dare,The power of minds that know,Passion of hearts that feel,Purchased by blood and woe,Guarded by fire and steel,—Hath she secured? What blazon on her shield,In the clear Century's lightShines to the world revealed,Declaring nobler triumph, born of Right?I-3Foreseen in the vision of sages,Foretold when martyrs bled,She was born of the longing of ages,By the truth of the noble deadAnd the faith of the living fed!No blood in her lightest veinsFrets at remembered chains,Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head.In her form and features stillThe unblenching Puritan will,Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace,The Quaker truth and sweetness,And the strength of the danger-girdled raceOf Holland, blend in a proud completeness.From the homes of all, where her being began,She took what she gave to Man;Justice, that knew no station,Belief, as soul decreed,Free air for aspiration,Free force for independent deed!She takes, but to give again,As the sea returns the rivers in rain;And gathers the chosen of her seedFrom the hunted of every crown and creed.Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine;Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine;Her France pursues some dream divine;Her Norway keeps his mountain pine;Her Italy waits by the western brine;And, broad-based under all,Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood,As rich in fortitudeAs e'er went worldward from the island-wall!Fused in her candid light,To one strong race all races here unite:Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemenForget their sword and slogan, kith and clan:'Twas glory, once, to be a Roman:She makes it glory, now, to be a man!II-3Bow down!Doff thine æonian crown!One hour forgetThe glory, and recall the debt:Make expiation,Of humbler mood,For the pride of thine exultationO'er peril conquered and strife subdued.But half the right is wrestedWhen victory yields her prize,And half the marrow testedWhen old endurance dies.In the sight of them that love thee,Bow to the Greater above thee!He faileth not to smiteThe idle ownership of Right,Nor spares to sinews fresh from trial,And virtue schooled in long denial,The tests that wait for theeIn larger perils of prosperity.Here, at the Century's awful shrine,Bow to thy Father's God, and thine!I-4Behold! she bendeth now,Humbling the chaplet of her hundred years.There is a solemn sweetness on her brow,And in her eyes are sacred tears.Can she forget,In present joy, the burden of her debt,When for a captive raceShe grandly staked, and won,The total promise of her power begun,And bared her bosom's graceTo the sharp wound that inly tortures yet?Can she forgetThe million graves her young devotion set,The hands that clasp above,From either side, in sad, returning love?Can she forget,Here, where the Ruler of to-day,The Citizen of to-morrow,And equal thousands to rejoice and prayBeside these holy walls are met,Her birth-cry, mixed of keenest bliss and sorrow?Where, on July's immortal mornHeld forth, the People saw her headAnd shouted to the world: "The King is dead,But, lo! the Heir is born!"When fire of Youth, and sober trust of Age,In Farmer, Soldier, Priest, and Sage,Arose and cast upon herBaptismal garments,—never robes so fairClad prince in Old-World air,—Their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor!II-4Arise! Recrown thy head,Radiant with blessings of the Dead!Bear from this hallowed placeThe prayer that purifies thy lips,The light of courage that defies eclipse,The rose of Man's new morning on thy face!Let no iconoclastInvade thy rising Pantheon of the Past,To make a blank where Adams stood,To touch the Father's sheathed and sacred blade,Spoil crowns on Jefferson and Franklin laid,Or wash from Freedom's feet the stain of Lincoln's blood!Hearken, as from that haunted HallTheir voices call:"We lived and died for thee;We greatly dared that thou might'st be:So, from thy children stillWe claim denials which at last fulfil,And freedom yielded to preserve thee free!"Beside clear-hearted RightThat smiles at Power's uplifted rod,Plant Duties that requite,And Order that sustains, upon thy sod,And stand in stainless mightAbove all self, and only less than God!III-1Here may thy solemn challenge end,All-proving Past, and each discordance dieOf doubtful augury,Or in one choral with the Present blend,And that half-heard, sweet harmonyOf something nobler that our sons may see!Though poignant memories burnOf days that were, and may again return,When thy fleet foot, O Huntress of the Woods,The slippery brinks of danger knew,And dim the eyesight grewThat was so sure in thine old solitudes,—Yet stays some richer senseWon from the mixture of thine elements,To guide the vagrant scheme,And winnow truth from each conflicting dream!Yet in thy blood shall liveSome force unspent, some essence primitive,To seize the highest use of things;For Fate, to mould thee to her plan,Denied thee food of kings,Withheld the udder and the orchard-fruits,Fed thee with savage roots,And forced thy harsher milk from barren breasts of man!III-2O sacred Woman-Form,Of the first People's need and passion wrought,—No thin, pale ghost of Thought,But fair as Morning and as heart's-blood warm,—Wearing thy priestly tiar on Judah's hills;Clear-eyed beneath Athene's helm of gold;Or from Rome's central seatHearing the pulses of the Continents beatIn thunder where her legions rolled;Compact of high heroic hearts and wills,Whose being circles allThe selfless aims of men, and all fulfils;Thyself not free, so long as one is thrall;Goddess, that as a Nation lives,And as a Nation dies,That for her children as a man defies,And to her children as a mother gives,—Take our fresh fealty now!No more a Chieftainess, with wampum-zoneAnd feather-cinctured brow,—No more a new Britannia, grownTo spread an equal banner to the breeze,And lift thy trident o'er the double seas;But with unborrowed crest,In thine own native beauty dressed,—The front of pure command, the unflinching eye, thine own!III-3Look up, look forth, and on!There's light in the dawning sky:The clouds are parting, the night is gone:Prepare for the work of the day!Fallow thy pastures lie,And far thy shepherds stray,And the fields of thy vast domainAre waiting for purer seedOf knowledge, desire, and deed,For keener sunshine and mellower rain!But keep thy garments pure:Pluck them back, with the old disdain,From touch of the hands that stain!So shall thy strength endure.Transmute into good the gold of Gain,Compel to beauty thy ruder powers,Till the bounty of coming hoursShall plant, on thy fields apart,With the oak of Toil, the rose of Art!Be watchful, and keep us so:Be strong, and fear no foe:Be just, and the world shall know!With the same love love us, as we give;And the day shall never come,That finds us weak or dumbTo join and smite and cryIn the great task, for thee to die,And the greater task, for thee to live!Bayard Taylor.
I-1Sun of the stately Day,Let Asia into the shadow drift,Let Europe bask in thy ripened ray,And over the severing ocean liftA brow of broader splendor!Give light to the eager eyesOf the Land that waits to behold thee rise;The gladness of morning lend her,With the triumph of noon attend her,And the peace of the vesper skies!For, lo! she cometh nowWith hope on the lip and pride on the brow,Stronger, and dearer, and fairer,To smile on the love we bear her,—To live, as we dreamed her and sought her,Liberty's latest daughter!In the clefts of the rocks, in the secret places,We found her traces;On the hills, in the crash of woods that fall,We heard her call;When the lines of battle broke,We saw her face in the fiery smoke;Through toil, and anguish, and desolation,We followed, and found herWith the grace of a virgin NationAs a sacred zone around her!Who shall rejoiceWith a righteous voice,Far-heard through the ages, if not she?For the menace is dumb that defied her,The doubt is dead that denied her,And she stands acknowledged, and strong, and free!II-1Ah, hark! the solemn undertone,On every wind of human story blown.A large, divinely-moulded FateQuestions the right and purpose of a State,And in its plan sublimeOur eras are the dust of Time.The far-off Yesterday of powerCreeps back with stealthy feet,Invades the lordship of the hour,And at our banquet takes the unbidden seat.From all unchronicled and silent agesBefore the Future first begot the Past,Till History dared, at last,To write eternal words on granite pages;From Egypt's tawny drift, and Assur's mound,And where, uplifted white and far,Earth highest yearns to meet a star,And Man his manhood by the Ganges found,—Imperial heads, of old millennial sway,And still by some pale splendor crowned,Chill as a corpse-light in our full-orbed day,In ghostly grandeur riseAnd say, through stony lips and vacant eyes:"Thou that assertest freedom, power, and fame,Declare to us thy claim!"I-2On the shores of a Continent cast,She won the inviolate soilBy loss of heirdom of all the Past,And faith in the royal right of Toil!She planted homes on the savage sod:Into the wilderness loneShe walked with fearless feet,In her hand the divining-rod,Till the veins of the mountains beatWith fire of metal and force of stone!She set the speed of the river-headTo turn the mills of her bread;She drove her ploughshare deepThrough the prairie's thousand-centuried sleep,To the South, and West, and North,She called Pathfinder forth,Her faithful and sole companionWhere the flushed Sierra, snow-starred,Her way to the sunset barred,And the nameless rivers in thunder and foamChannelled the terrible canyon!Nor paused, till her uttermost homeWas built, in the smile of a softer skyAnd the glory of beauty still to be,Where the haunted waves of Asia dieOn the strand of the world-wide sea!II-2The race, in conquering,Some fierce, Titanic joy of conquest knows;Whether in veins of serf or king,Our ancient blood beats restless in repose.Challenge of Nature unsubduedAwaits not Man's defiant answer long;For hardship, even as wrong,Provokes the level-eyed heroic mood.This for herself she did; but that which lies,As over earth the skies,Blending all forms in one benignant glow,—Crowned conscience, tender care,Justice that answers every bondman's prayer,Freedom where Faith may lead and Thought may dare,The power of minds that know,Passion of hearts that feel,Purchased by blood and woe,Guarded by fire and steel,—Hath she secured? What blazon on her shield,In the clear Century's lightShines to the world revealed,Declaring nobler triumph, born of Right?I-3Foreseen in the vision of sages,Foretold when martyrs bled,She was born of the longing of ages,By the truth of the noble deadAnd the faith of the living fed!No blood in her lightest veinsFrets at remembered chains,Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head.In her form and features stillThe unblenching Puritan will,Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace,The Quaker truth and sweetness,And the strength of the danger-girdled raceOf Holland, blend in a proud completeness.From the homes of all, where her being began,She took what she gave to Man;Justice, that knew no station,Belief, as soul decreed,Free air for aspiration,Free force for independent deed!She takes, but to give again,As the sea returns the rivers in rain;And gathers the chosen of her seedFrom the hunted of every crown and creed.Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine;Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine;Her France pursues some dream divine;Her Norway keeps his mountain pine;Her Italy waits by the western brine;And, broad-based under all,Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood,As rich in fortitudeAs e'er went worldward from the island-wall!Fused in her candid light,To one strong race all races here unite:Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemenForget their sword and slogan, kith and clan:'Twas glory, once, to be a Roman:She makes it glory, now, to be a man!II-3Bow down!Doff thine æonian crown!One hour forgetThe glory, and recall the debt:Make expiation,Of humbler mood,For the pride of thine exultationO'er peril conquered and strife subdued.But half the right is wrestedWhen victory yields her prize,And half the marrow testedWhen old endurance dies.In the sight of them that love thee,Bow to the Greater above thee!He faileth not to smiteThe idle ownership of Right,Nor spares to sinews fresh from trial,And virtue schooled in long denial,The tests that wait for theeIn larger perils of prosperity.Here, at the Century's awful shrine,Bow to thy Father's God, and thine!I-4Behold! she bendeth now,Humbling the chaplet of her hundred years.There is a solemn sweetness on her brow,And in her eyes are sacred tears.Can she forget,In present joy, the burden of her debt,When for a captive raceShe grandly staked, and won,The total promise of her power begun,And bared her bosom's graceTo the sharp wound that inly tortures yet?Can she forgetThe million graves her young devotion set,The hands that clasp above,From either side, in sad, returning love?Can she forget,Here, where the Ruler of to-day,The Citizen of to-morrow,And equal thousands to rejoice and prayBeside these holy walls are met,Her birth-cry, mixed of keenest bliss and sorrow?Where, on July's immortal mornHeld forth, the People saw her headAnd shouted to the world: "The King is dead,But, lo! the Heir is born!"When fire of Youth, and sober trust of Age,In Farmer, Soldier, Priest, and Sage,Arose and cast upon herBaptismal garments,—never robes so fairClad prince in Old-World air,—Their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor!II-4Arise! Recrown thy head,Radiant with blessings of the Dead!Bear from this hallowed placeThe prayer that purifies thy lips,The light of courage that defies eclipse,The rose of Man's new morning on thy face!Let no iconoclastInvade thy rising Pantheon of the Past,To make a blank where Adams stood,To touch the Father's sheathed and sacred blade,Spoil crowns on Jefferson and Franklin laid,Or wash from Freedom's feet the stain of Lincoln's blood!Hearken, as from that haunted HallTheir voices call:"We lived and died for thee;We greatly dared that thou might'st be:So, from thy children stillWe claim denials which at last fulfil,And freedom yielded to preserve thee free!"Beside clear-hearted RightThat smiles at Power's uplifted rod,Plant Duties that requite,And Order that sustains, upon thy sod,And stand in stainless mightAbove all self, and only less than God!III-1Here may thy solemn challenge end,All-proving Past, and each discordance dieOf doubtful augury,Or in one choral with the Present blend,And that half-heard, sweet harmonyOf something nobler that our sons may see!Though poignant memories burnOf days that were, and may again return,When thy fleet foot, O Huntress of the Woods,The slippery brinks of danger knew,And dim the eyesight grewThat was so sure in thine old solitudes,—Yet stays some richer senseWon from the mixture of thine elements,To guide the vagrant scheme,And winnow truth from each conflicting dream!Yet in thy blood shall liveSome force unspent, some essence primitive,To seize the highest use of things;For Fate, to mould thee to her plan,Denied thee food of kings,Withheld the udder and the orchard-fruits,Fed thee with savage roots,And forced thy harsher milk from barren breasts of man!III-2O sacred Woman-Form,Of the first People's need and passion wrought,—No thin, pale ghost of Thought,But fair as Morning and as heart's-blood warm,—Wearing thy priestly tiar on Judah's hills;Clear-eyed beneath Athene's helm of gold;Or from Rome's central seatHearing the pulses of the Continents beatIn thunder where her legions rolled;Compact of high heroic hearts and wills,Whose being circles allThe selfless aims of men, and all fulfils;Thyself not free, so long as one is thrall;Goddess, that as a Nation lives,And as a Nation dies,That for her children as a man defies,And to her children as a mother gives,—Take our fresh fealty now!No more a Chieftainess, with wampum-zoneAnd feather-cinctured brow,—No more a new Britannia, grownTo spread an equal banner to the breeze,And lift thy trident o'er the double seas;But with unborrowed crest,In thine own native beauty dressed,—The front of pure command, the unflinching eye, thine own!III-3Look up, look forth, and on!There's light in the dawning sky:The clouds are parting, the night is gone:Prepare for the work of the day!Fallow thy pastures lie,And far thy shepherds stray,And the fields of thy vast domainAre waiting for purer seedOf knowledge, desire, and deed,For keener sunshine and mellower rain!But keep thy garments pure:Pluck them back, with the old disdain,From touch of the hands that stain!So shall thy strength endure.Transmute into good the gold of Gain,Compel to beauty thy ruder powers,Till the bounty of coming hoursShall plant, on thy fields apart,With the oak of Toil, the rose of Art!Be watchful, and keep us so:Be strong, and fear no foe:Be just, and the world shall know!With the same love love us, as we give;And the day shall never come,That finds us weak or dumbTo join and smite and cryIn the great task, for thee to die,And the greater task, for thee to live!Bayard Taylor.
I-1Sun of the stately Day,Let Asia into the shadow drift,Let Europe bask in thy ripened ray,And over the severing ocean liftA brow of broader splendor!Give light to the eager eyesOf the Land that waits to behold thee rise;The gladness of morning lend her,With the triumph of noon attend her,And the peace of the vesper skies!For, lo! she cometh nowWith hope on the lip and pride on the brow,Stronger, and dearer, and fairer,To smile on the love we bear her,—To live, as we dreamed her and sought her,Liberty's latest daughter!In the clefts of the rocks, in the secret places,We found her traces;On the hills, in the crash of woods that fall,We heard her call;When the lines of battle broke,We saw her face in the fiery smoke;Through toil, and anguish, and desolation,We followed, and found herWith the grace of a virgin NationAs a sacred zone around her!Who shall rejoiceWith a righteous voice,Far-heard through the ages, if not she?For the menace is dumb that defied her,The doubt is dead that denied her,And she stands acknowledged, and strong, and free!
II-1Ah, hark! the solemn undertone,On every wind of human story blown.A large, divinely-moulded FateQuestions the right and purpose of a State,And in its plan sublimeOur eras are the dust of Time.The far-off Yesterday of powerCreeps back with stealthy feet,Invades the lordship of the hour,And at our banquet takes the unbidden seat.From all unchronicled and silent agesBefore the Future first begot the Past,Till History dared, at last,To write eternal words on granite pages;From Egypt's tawny drift, and Assur's mound,And where, uplifted white and far,Earth highest yearns to meet a star,And Man his manhood by the Ganges found,—Imperial heads, of old millennial sway,And still by some pale splendor crowned,Chill as a corpse-light in our full-orbed day,In ghostly grandeur riseAnd say, through stony lips and vacant eyes:"Thou that assertest freedom, power, and fame,Declare to us thy claim!"
I-2On the shores of a Continent cast,She won the inviolate soilBy loss of heirdom of all the Past,And faith in the royal right of Toil!She planted homes on the savage sod:Into the wilderness loneShe walked with fearless feet,In her hand the divining-rod,Till the veins of the mountains beatWith fire of metal and force of stone!She set the speed of the river-headTo turn the mills of her bread;She drove her ploughshare deepThrough the prairie's thousand-centuried sleep,To the South, and West, and North,She called Pathfinder forth,Her faithful and sole companionWhere the flushed Sierra, snow-starred,Her way to the sunset barred,And the nameless rivers in thunder and foamChannelled the terrible canyon!Nor paused, till her uttermost homeWas built, in the smile of a softer skyAnd the glory of beauty still to be,Where the haunted waves of Asia dieOn the strand of the world-wide sea!
II-2The race, in conquering,Some fierce, Titanic joy of conquest knows;Whether in veins of serf or king,Our ancient blood beats restless in repose.Challenge of Nature unsubduedAwaits not Man's defiant answer long;For hardship, even as wrong,Provokes the level-eyed heroic mood.This for herself she did; but that which lies,As over earth the skies,Blending all forms in one benignant glow,—Crowned conscience, tender care,Justice that answers every bondman's prayer,Freedom where Faith may lead and Thought may dare,The power of minds that know,Passion of hearts that feel,Purchased by blood and woe,Guarded by fire and steel,—Hath she secured? What blazon on her shield,In the clear Century's lightShines to the world revealed,Declaring nobler triumph, born of Right?
I-3Foreseen in the vision of sages,Foretold when martyrs bled,She was born of the longing of ages,By the truth of the noble deadAnd the faith of the living fed!No blood in her lightest veinsFrets at remembered chains,Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head.In her form and features stillThe unblenching Puritan will,Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace,The Quaker truth and sweetness,And the strength of the danger-girdled raceOf Holland, blend in a proud completeness.From the homes of all, where her being began,She took what she gave to Man;Justice, that knew no station,Belief, as soul decreed,Free air for aspiration,Free force for independent deed!She takes, but to give again,As the sea returns the rivers in rain;And gathers the chosen of her seedFrom the hunted of every crown and creed.Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine;Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine;Her France pursues some dream divine;Her Norway keeps his mountain pine;Her Italy waits by the western brine;And, broad-based under all,Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood,As rich in fortitudeAs e'er went worldward from the island-wall!Fused in her candid light,To one strong race all races here unite:Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemenForget their sword and slogan, kith and clan:'Twas glory, once, to be a Roman:She makes it glory, now, to be a man!
II-3Bow down!Doff thine æonian crown!One hour forgetThe glory, and recall the debt:Make expiation,Of humbler mood,For the pride of thine exultationO'er peril conquered and strife subdued.But half the right is wrestedWhen victory yields her prize,And half the marrow testedWhen old endurance dies.In the sight of them that love thee,Bow to the Greater above thee!He faileth not to smiteThe idle ownership of Right,Nor spares to sinews fresh from trial,And virtue schooled in long denial,The tests that wait for theeIn larger perils of prosperity.Here, at the Century's awful shrine,Bow to thy Father's God, and thine!
I-4Behold! she bendeth now,Humbling the chaplet of her hundred years.There is a solemn sweetness on her brow,And in her eyes are sacred tears.Can she forget,In present joy, the burden of her debt,When for a captive raceShe grandly staked, and won,The total promise of her power begun,And bared her bosom's graceTo the sharp wound that inly tortures yet?Can she forgetThe million graves her young devotion set,The hands that clasp above,From either side, in sad, returning love?Can she forget,Here, where the Ruler of to-day,The Citizen of to-morrow,And equal thousands to rejoice and prayBeside these holy walls are met,Her birth-cry, mixed of keenest bliss and sorrow?Where, on July's immortal mornHeld forth, the People saw her headAnd shouted to the world: "The King is dead,But, lo! the Heir is born!"When fire of Youth, and sober trust of Age,In Farmer, Soldier, Priest, and Sage,Arose and cast upon herBaptismal garments,—never robes so fairClad prince in Old-World air,—Their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor!
II-4Arise! Recrown thy head,Radiant with blessings of the Dead!Bear from this hallowed placeThe prayer that purifies thy lips,The light of courage that defies eclipse,The rose of Man's new morning on thy face!Let no iconoclastInvade thy rising Pantheon of the Past,To make a blank where Adams stood,To touch the Father's sheathed and sacred blade,Spoil crowns on Jefferson and Franklin laid,Or wash from Freedom's feet the stain of Lincoln's blood!Hearken, as from that haunted HallTheir voices call:"We lived and died for thee;We greatly dared that thou might'st be:So, from thy children stillWe claim denials which at last fulfil,And freedom yielded to preserve thee free!"Beside clear-hearted RightThat smiles at Power's uplifted rod,Plant Duties that requite,And Order that sustains, upon thy sod,And stand in stainless mightAbove all self, and only less than God!
III-1Here may thy solemn challenge end,All-proving Past, and each discordance dieOf doubtful augury,Or in one choral with the Present blend,And that half-heard, sweet harmonyOf something nobler that our sons may see!Though poignant memories burnOf days that were, and may again return,When thy fleet foot, O Huntress of the Woods,The slippery brinks of danger knew,And dim the eyesight grewThat was so sure in thine old solitudes,—Yet stays some richer senseWon from the mixture of thine elements,To guide the vagrant scheme,And winnow truth from each conflicting dream!Yet in thy blood shall liveSome force unspent, some essence primitive,To seize the highest use of things;For Fate, to mould thee to her plan,Denied thee food of kings,Withheld the udder and the orchard-fruits,Fed thee with savage roots,And forced thy harsher milk from barren breasts of man!
III-2O sacred Woman-Form,Of the first People's need and passion wrought,—No thin, pale ghost of Thought,But fair as Morning and as heart's-blood warm,—Wearing thy priestly tiar on Judah's hills;Clear-eyed beneath Athene's helm of gold;Or from Rome's central seatHearing the pulses of the Continents beatIn thunder where her legions rolled;Compact of high heroic hearts and wills,Whose being circles allThe selfless aims of men, and all fulfils;Thyself not free, so long as one is thrall;Goddess, that as a Nation lives,And as a Nation dies,That for her children as a man defies,And to her children as a mother gives,—Take our fresh fealty now!No more a Chieftainess, with wampum-zoneAnd feather-cinctured brow,—No more a new Britannia, grownTo spread an equal banner to the breeze,And lift thy trident o'er the double seas;But with unborrowed crest,In thine own native beauty dressed,—The front of pure command, the unflinching eye, thine own!
III-3Look up, look forth, and on!There's light in the dawning sky:The clouds are parting, the night is gone:Prepare for the work of the day!Fallow thy pastures lie,And far thy shepherds stray,And the fields of thy vast domainAre waiting for purer seedOf knowledge, desire, and deed,For keener sunshine and mellower rain!But keep thy garments pure:Pluck them back, with the old disdain,From touch of the hands that stain!So shall thy strength endure.Transmute into good the gold of Gain,Compel to beauty thy ruder powers,Till the bounty of coming hoursShall plant, on thy fields apart,With the oak of Toil, the rose of Art!Be watchful, and keep us so:Be strong, and fear no foe:Be just, and the world shall know!With the same love love us, as we give;And the day shall never come,That finds us weak or dumbTo join and smite and cryIn the great task, for thee to die,And the greater task, for thee to live!
Bayard Taylor.
Richard Henry Lee, grandson of the mover of the Declaration, came to the front with the original document in his hands, and read its sonorous sentences. William M. Evarts delivered an oration and "Our National Banner," words by Dexter Smith, music by Sir Julius Benedict, was sung.
Richard Henry Lee, grandson of the mover of the Declaration, came to the front with the original document in his hands, and read its sonorous sentences. William M. Evarts delivered an oration and "Our National Banner," words by Dexter Smith, music by Sir Julius Benedict, was sung.
OUR NATIONAL BANNER
[July 4, 1876]
O'er the high and o'er the lowlyFloats that banner bright and holyIn the rays of Freedom's sun,In the nation's heart embedded,O'er our Union newly wedded,One in all, and all in one.Let that banner wave forever,May its lustrous stars fade never,Till the stars shall pale on high;While there's right the wrong defeating,While there's hope in true hearts beating,Truth and freedom shall not die.As it floated long before us,Be it ever floating o'er us,O'er our land from shore to shore:There are freemen yet to wave it,Millions who would die to save it,Wave it, save it, evermore.Dexter Smith.
O'er the high and o'er the lowlyFloats that banner bright and holyIn the rays of Freedom's sun,In the nation's heart embedded,O'er our Union newly wedded,One in all, and all in one.Let that banner wave forever,May its lustrous stars fade never,Till the stars shall pale on high;While there's right the wrong defeating,While there's hope in true hearts beating,Truth and freedom shall not die.As it floated long before us,Be it ever floating o'er us,O'er our land from shore to shore:There are freemen yet to wave it,Millions who would die to save it,Wave it, save it, evermore.Dexter Smith.
O'er the high and o'er the lowlyFloats that banner bright and holyIn the rays of Freedom's sun,In the nation's heart embedded,O'er our Union newly wedded,One in all, and all in one.
Let that banner wave forever,May its lustrous stars fade never,Till the stars shall pale on high;While there's right the wrong defeating,While there's hope in true hearts beating,Truth and freedom shall not die.
As it floated long before us,Be it ever floating o'er us,O'er our land from shore to shore:There are freemen yet to wave it,Millions who would die to save it,Wave it, save it, evermore.
Dexter Smith.
The exposition closed November 10, 1876. It had served to draw all sections of the country more closely together, and to establish the industrial position of the United States among the nations of the world.
The exposition closed November 10, 1876. It had served to draw all sections of the country more closely together, and to establish the industrial position of the United States among the nations of the world.
AFTER THE CENTENNIAL
(A HOPE)
Before our eyes a pageant rolledWhose banners every land unfurled;And as it passed, its splendors toldThe art and glory of the world.The nations of the earth have stoodWith face to face and hand in hand,And sworn to common brotherhoodThe sundered souls of every land.And while America is pledgedTo light her Pharos towers for all,While her broad mantle, starred and edgedWith truth, o'er high and low shall fall;And while the electric nerves still beltThe State and Continent in one,—The discords of the past shall meltLike ice beneath the summer sun.O land of hope! thy future yearsAre shrouded from our mortal sight;But thou canst turn the century's fearsTo heralds of a cloudless light!The sacred torch our fathers litNo wild misrule can ever quench;Still in our midst wise judges sit,Whom party passion cannot blench.From soul to soul, from hand to handThy sons have passed that torch along,Whose flame by Wisdom's breath is fannedWhose staff is held by runners strong.O Spirit of immortal truth,Thy power alone that circles allCan feed the fire as in its youth—Can hold the runners lest they fall!Christopher Pearse Cranch.
Before our eyes a pageant rolledWhose banners every land unfurled;And as it passed, its splendors toldThe art and glory of the world.The nations of the earth have stoodWith face to face and hand in hand,And sworn to common brotherhoodThe sundered souls of every land.And while America is pledgedTo light her Pharos towers for all,While her broad mantle, starred and edgedWith truth, o'er high and low shall fall;And while the electric nerves still beltThe State and Continent in one,—The discords of the past shall meltLike ice beneath the summer sun.O land of hope! thy future yearsAre shrouded from our mortal sight;But thou canst turn the century's fearsTo heralds of a cloudless light!The sacred torch our fathers litNo wild misrule can ever quench;Still in our midst wise judges sit,Whom party passion cannot blench.From soul to soul, from hand to handThy sons have passed that torch along,Whose flame by Wisdom's breath is fannedWhose staff is held by runners strong.O Spirit of immortal truth,Thy power alone that circles allCan feed the fire as in its youth—Can hold the runners lest they fall!Christopher Pearse Cranch.
Before our eyes a pageant rolledWhose banners every land unfurled;And as it passed, its splendors toldThe art and glory of the world.
The nations of the earth have stoodWith face to face and hand in hand,And sworn to common brotherhoodThe sundered souls of every land.
And while America is pledgedTo light her Pharos towers for all,While her broad mantle, starred and edgedWith truth, o'er high and low shall fall;
And while the electric nerves still beltThe State and Continent in one,—The discords of the past shall meltLike ice beneath the summer sun.
O land of hope! thy future yearsAre shrouded from our mortal sight;But thou canst turn the century's fearsTo heralds of a cloudless light!
The sacred torch our fathers litNo wild misrule can ever quench;Still in our midst wise judges sit,Whom party passion cannot blench.
From soul to soul, from hand to handThy sons have passed that torch along,Whose flame by Wisdom's breath is fannedWhose staff is held by runners strong.
O Spirit of immortal truth,Thy power alone that circles allCan feed the fire as in its youth—Can hold the runners lest they fall!
Christopher Pearse Cranch.
THE CONQUEST OF THE PLAINS
The Indians had long since ceased to be a serious menace to the United States, and the policy of the government for many years had been to settle them upon various selected tracts of land west of the Mississippi. But the population of the West was increasing very rapidly, the completion of the railway to the Pacific having given it a great impetus.
The Indians had long since ceased to be a serious menace to the United States, and the policy of the government for many years had been to settle them upon various selected tracts of land west of the Mississippi. But the population of the West was increasing very rapidly, the completion of the railway to the Pacific having given it a great impetus.
THE PACIFIC RAILWAY
FINISHED, MAY 10, 1869
"And a Highway shall there be."
'Tis "Done"—the wondrous thoroughfareType of that Highway all divine!No ancient wonder can compareWith this, in grandeur of design.For, 'twas no visionary schemeTo immortalize the builder's name;No impulse rash, no transient dreamOf some mere worshipper of Fame.Rare common sense conceived the plan,For working out a lasting good—The full development of Man;The growth of human brotherhood!And lo! by patient toil and care,The work with rare success is crowned;And nations, yet to be, will shareIn blessings that shall e'er abound.Across a continent's expanse,The lengthening track now runs secure,O'er which the Iron Horse shall prance,So long as earth and time endure!His course extends from East to West—From where Atlantic billows roar,To where the quiet waters rest,Beside the far Pacific shore.Proud commerce, by Atlantic galesTossed to and fro,—her canvas rent—Will gladly furl her wearied sails,And glide across a continent.Through smiling valleys, broad and free,O'er rivers wide, or mountain-crest,Her course shall swift and peaceful be,Till she has reached the farthest West.And e'en the treasures of the East,Diverted from their wonted track,—With safety gained, with speed increased,—Will follow in her footsteps back.And thus the Nations, greatly blest,Will share another triumph, won,That links yet closer East and West—The rising and the setting sun!This glorious day with joy we greet!May Faith abound, may Love increase,And may this highway, now complete,Be the glad harbinger of Peace!God bless the Work, that it may proveThe source of greater good in store,When Man shall heed the law of Love,And Nations shall learn war no more.C. R. Ballard.
'Tis "Done"—the wondrous thoroughfareType of that Highway all divine!No ancient wonder can compareWith this, in grandeur of design.For, 'twas no visionary schemeTo immortalize the builder's name;No impulse rash, no transient dreamOf some mere worshipper of Fame.Rare common sense conceived the plan,For working out a lasting good—The full development of Man;The growth of human brotherhood!And lo! by patient toil and care,The work with rare success is crowned;And nations, yet to be, will shareIn blessings that shall e'er abound.Across a continent's expanse,The lengthening track now runs secure,O'er which the Iron Horse shall prance,So long as earth and time endure!His course extends from East to West—From where Atlantic billows roar,To where the quiet waters rest,Beside the far Pacific shore.Proud commerce, by Atlantic galesTossed to and fro,—her canvas rent—Will gladly furl her wearied sails,And glide across a continent.Through smiling valleys, broad and free,O'er rivers wide, or mountain-crest,Her course shall swift and peaceful be,Till she has reached the farthest West.And e'en the treasures of the East,Diverted from their wonted track,—With safety gained, with speed increased,—Will follow in her footsteps back.And thus the Nations, greatly blest,Will share another triumph, won,That links yet closer East and West—The rising and the setting sun!This glorious day with joy we greet!May Faith abound, may Love increase,And may this highway, now complete,Be the glad harbinger of Peace!God bless the Work, that it may proveThe source of greater good in store,When Man shall heed the law of Love,And Nations shall learn war no more.C. R. Ballard.
'Tis "Done"—the wondrous thoroughfareType of that Highway all divine!No ancient wonder can compareWith this, in grandeur of design.For, 'twas no visionary schemeTo immortalize the builder's name;No impulse rash, no transient dreamOf some mere worshipper of Fame.
Rare common sense conceived the plan,For working out a lasting good—The full development of Man;The growth of human brotherhood!And lo! by patient toil and care,The work with rare success is crowned;And nations, yet to be, will shareIn blessings that shall e'er abound.
Across a continent's expanse,The lengthening track now runs secure,O'er which the Iron Horse shall prance,So long as earth and time endure!His course extends from East to West—From where Atlantic billows roar,To where the quiet waters rest,Beside the far Pacific shore.
Proud commerce, by Atlantic galesTossed to and fro,—her canvas rent—Will gladly furl her wearied sails,And glide across a continent.Through smiling valleys, broad and free,O'er rivers wide, or mountain-crest,Her course shall swift and peaceful be,Till she has reached the farthest West.
And e'en the treasures of the East,Diverted from their wonted track,—With safety gained, with speed increased,—Will follow in her footsteps back.And thus the Nations, greatly blest,Will share another triumph, won,That links yet closer East and West—The rising and the setting sun!
This glorious day with joy we greet!May Faith abound, may Love increase,And may this highway, now complete,Be the glad harbinger of Peace!God bless the Work, that it may proveThe source of greater good in store,When Man shall heed the law of Love,And Nations shall learn war no more.
C. R. Ballard.
During the autumn of 1874, gold was discovered in the Black Hills Sioux reservation and explorers rushed in; a still worse grievance was the wanton destruction of bison by hunters and excursionists. Driven to frenzy, at last, tribe after tribe of savages took up arms, and started on a career of murder and rapine.
During the autumn of 1874, gold was discovered in the Black Hills Sioux reservation and explorers rushed in; a still worse grievance was the wanton destruction of bison by hunters and excursionists. Driven to frenzy, at last, tribe after tribe of savages took up arms, and started on a career of murder and rapine.
AFTER THE COMANCHES
Saddle! saddle! saddle!Mount, mount, and away!Over the dim green prairie,Straight on the track of day;Spare not spur for mercy,Hurry with shout and thong,Fiery and tough is the mustang,The prairie is wide and long.Saddle! saddle! saddle!Leap from the broken door,Where the brute Comanche entered,And the white-foot treads no more!The hut is burnt to ashes,There are dead men stark outside,And only a long torn ringletLeft of the stolen bride.Go like the east wind's howling,Ride with death behind,Stay not for food or slumber,Till the thieving wolves ye find!They came before the wedding,Swifter than prayer or priest;The bride-men danced to bullets,The wild dogs ate the feast.Look to rifle and powder,Buckle the knife-belt sure;Loose the coil of the lasso,And make the loop secure;Fold the flask in the poncho,Fill the pouch with maize,And ride as if to-morrowWere the last of living days.Saddle! saddle! saddle!Redden spur and thong,Ride like the mad tornado,The track is lonely and long,Spare not horse nor rider,Fly for the stolen bride!Bring her home on the crupper,A scalp on either side.
Saddle! saddle! saddle!Mount, mount, and away!Over the dim green prairie,Straight on the track of day;Spare not spur for mercy,Hurry with shout and thong,Fiery and tough is the mustang,The prairie is wide and long.Saddle! saddle! saddle!Leap from the broken door,Where the brute Comanche entered,And the white-foot treads no more!The hut is burnt to ashes,There are dead men stark outside,And only a long torn ringletLeft of the stolen bride.Go like the east wind's howling,Ride with death behind,Stay not for food or slumber,Till the thieving wolves ye find!They came before the wedding,Swifter than prayer or priest;The bride-men danced to bullets,The wild dogs ate the feast.Look to rifle and powder,Buckle the knife-belt sure;Loose the coil of the lasso,And make the loop secure;Fold the flask in the poncho,Fill the pouch with maize,And ride as if to-morrowWere the last of living days.Saddle! saddle! saddle!Redden spur and thong,Ride like the mad tornado,The track is lonely and long,Spare not horse nor rider,Fly for the stolen bride!Bring her home on the crupper,A scalp on either side.
Saddle! saddle! saddle!Mount, mount, and away!Over the dim green prairie,Straight on the track of day;Spare not spur for mercy,Hurry with shout and thong,Fiery and tough is the mustang,The prairie is wide and long.
Saddle! saddle! saddle!Leap from the broken door,Where the brute Comanche entered,And the white-foot treads no more!The hut is burnt to ashes,There are dead men stark outside,And only a long torn ringletLeft of the stolen bride.
Go like the east wind's howling,Ride with death behind,Stay not for food or slumber,Till the thieving wolves ye find!They came before the wedding,Swifter than prayer or priest;The bride-men danced to bullets,The wild dogs ate the feast.
Look to rifle and powder,Buckle the knife-belt sure;Loose the coil of the lasso,And make the loop secure;Fold the flask in the poncho,Fill the pouch with maize,And ride as if to-morrowWere the last of living days.
Saddle! saddle! saddle!Redden spur and thong,Ride like the mad tornado,The track is lonely and long,Spare not horse nor rider,Fly for the stolen bride!Bring her home on the crupper,A scalp on either side.
It was decided to transfer the Sioux to another reservation, but, under the advice of Sitting Bull, they refused to stir. A detachment under Lieutenant-Colonel George A. Custer was sent against them, and came suddenly upon their encampment on June 25, 1876. A terrific fight followed, in which Custer and all of his men were killed.
It was decided to transfer the Sioux to another reservation, but, under the advice of Sitting Bull, they refused to stir. A detachment under Lieutenant-Colonel George A. Custer was sent against them, and came suddenly upon their encampment on June 25, 1876. A terrific fight followed, in which Custer and all of his men were killed.
DOWN THE LITTLE BIG HORN
June 25, 1876
Down the Little Big Horn(O troop forlorn!),Right into the camp of the Sioux(What was the muster?),Two hundred and sixty-twoWent into the fight with Custer,Went out of the fight with Custer,Went out at a breath,Stanch to the death!Just from the canyon emerging,Saw they the braves ofSitting Bullsurging,Two thousand and more,Painted and feathered, thirsting for gore,Did they shrink and turn back(Hear how the rifles crack!),Did they pause for a life,For a sweetheart or wife?And one in that savage throng(His revenge had waited long),Pomped with porcupine quills,His deerskins beaded and fringed,An eagle's plume in his long black hair,His tall lance fluttering in the air,Glanced at the circling hills—His cheeks flushed with a keen surmise,A demon's hate in his eyesRemembering the hour when he cringed,A prisoner thonged,Chief Rain-in-the-Face(There was a sachem wronged!)Saw his enemy's heart laid bare,Feasted in thought like a beast in his lair.Cavalry, cavalry(Tramp of the hoof, champ of the bit),Horses prancing, cavorting,Shying and snorting,Accoutrements rattling(Children at home are prattling),Gallantly, gallantly,"Company dismount!"From the saddle they swing,With their steeds form a ring(Hear how the bullets sing!),Who can their courage recount?Do you blanch at their fate?(Who would hesitate?)Two hundred and sixty-twoImmortals in blue,Standing shoulder to shoulder,Like some granite boulderYou must blast to displace(Were they of a valiant race?)—Two hundred and sixty-two,And never a man to say,"I rode with Custer that day."Give the savage his triumph and bluster,Give the hero to perish with Custer,To his God and his comrades true.Closing and closing,Nearer the redskins creep;With cunning disposing,With yell and with whoop(There are women shall weep!),They gather and swoop,They come like a flood,Maddened with blood,They shriek, plying the knife(Was there one begged for his life?),Where but a moment agoStood serried and sternly the foe,Now fallen, mangled below.Down the Little Big Horn(Tramp of the hoof, champ of the bit),A single steed in the morn,Comanche, seven times hit,Comes to the river to drink;Lists for the sabre's clink,Lists for the voice of his master(O glorious disaster!),Comes, sniffing the air,Gazing, lifts his head,But his master lies dead.(Who but the dead were there?)But stay, what was the muster?Two hundred and sixty-two(Two thousand and more the Sioux!)Went into the fight with Custer,Went out of the fight with Custer;For never a man can say,"I rode with Custer that day—"Went out like a taper,Blown by a sudden vapor,Went out at a breath,True to the death!Francis Brooks.
Down the Little Big Horn(O troop forlorn!),Right into the camp of the Sioux(What was the muster?),Two hundred and sixty-twoWent into the fight with Custer,Went out of the fight with Custer,Went out at a breath,Stanch to the death!Just from the canyon emerging,Saw they the braves ofSitting Bullsurging,Two thousand and more,Painted and feathered, thirsting for gore,Did they shrink and turn back(Hear how the rifles crack!),Did they pause for a life,For a sweetheart or wife?And one in that savage throng(His revenge had waited long),Pomped with porcupine quills,His deerskins beaded and fringed,An eagle's plume in his long black hair,His tall lance fluttering in the air,Glanced at the circling hills—His cheeks flushed with a keen surmise,A demon's hate in his eyesRemembering the hour when he cringed,A prisoner thonged,Chief Rain-in-the-Face(There was a sachem wronged!)Saw his enemy's heart laid bare,Feasted in thought like a beast in his lair.Cavalry, cavalry(Tramp of the hoof, champ of the bit),Horses prancing, cavorting,Shying and snorting,Accoutrements rattling(Children at home are prattling),Gallantly, gallantly,"Company dismount!"From the saddle they swing,With their steeds form a ring(Hear how the bullets sing!),Who can their courage recount?Do you blanch at their fate?(Who would hesitate?)Two hundred and sixty-twoImmortals in blue,Standing shoulder to shoulder,Like some granite boulderYou must blast to displace(Were they of a valiant race?)—Two hundred and sixty-two,And never a man to say,"I rode with Custer that day."Give the savage his triumph and bluster,Give the hero to perish with Custer,To his God and his comrades true.Closing and closing,Nearer the redskins creep;With cunning disposing,With yell and with whoop(There are women shall weep!),They gather and swoop,They come like a flood,Maddened with blood,They shriek, plying the knife(Was there one begged for his life?),Where but a moment agoStood serried and sternly the foe,Now fallen, mangled below.Down the Little Big Horn(Tramp of the hoof, champ of the bit),A single steed in the morn,Comanche, seven times hit,Comes to the river to drink;Lists for the sabre's clink,Lists for the voice of his master(O glorious disaster!),Comes, sniffing the air,Gazing, lifts his head,But his master lies dead.(Who but the dead were there?)But stay, what was the muster?Two hundred and sixty-two(Two thousand and more the Sioux!)Went into the fight with Custer,Went out of the fight with Custer;For never a man can say,"I rode with Custer that day—"Went out like a taper,Blown by a sudden vapor,Went out at a breath,True to the death!Francis Brooks.
Down the Little Big Horn(O troop forlorn!),Right into the camp of the Sioux(What was the muster?),Two hundred and sixty-twoWent into the fight with Custer,Went out of the fight with Custer,Went out at a breath,Stanch to the death!Just from the canyon emerging,Saw they the braves ofSitting Bullsurging,Two thousand and more,Painted and feathered, thirsting for gore,Did they shrink and turn back(Hear how the rifles crack!),Did they pause for a life,For a sweetheart or wife?
And one in that savage throng(His revenge had waited long),Pomped with porcupine quills,His deerskins beaded and fringed,An eagle's plume in his long black hair,His tall lance fluttering in the air,Glanced at the circling hills—His cheeks flushed with a keen surmise,A demon's hate in his eyesRemembering the hour when he cringed,A prisoner thonged,Chief Rain-in-the-Face(There was a sachem wronged!)Saw his enemy's heart laid bare,Feasted in thought like a beast in his lair.
Cavalry, cavalry(Tramp of the hoof, champ of the bit),Horses prancing, cavorting,Shying and snorting,Accoutrements rattling(Children at home are prattling),Gallantly, gallantly,"Company dismount!"From the saddle they swing,With their steeds form a ring(Hear how the bullets sing!),Who can their courage recount?
Do you blanch at their fate?(Who would hesitate?)Two hundred and sixty-twoImmortals in blue,Standing shoulder to shoulder,Like some granite boulderYou must blast to displace(Were they of a valiant race?)—Two hundred and sixty-two,And never a man to say,"I rode with Custer that day."Give the savage his triumph and bluster,Give the hero to perish with Custer,To his God and his comrades true.
Closing and closing,Nearer the redskins creep;With cunning disposing,With yell and with whoop(There are women shall weep!),They gather and swoop,They come like a flood,Maddened with blood,They shriek, plying the knife(Was there one begged for his life?),Where but a moment agoStood serried and sternly the foe,Now fallen, mangled below.
Down the Little Big Horn(Tramp of the hoof, champ of the bit),A single steed in the morn,Comanche, seven times hit,Comes to the river to drink;Lists for the sabre's clink,Lists for the voice of his master(O glorious disaster!),Comes, sniffing the air,Gazing, lifts his head,But his master lies dead.(Who but the dead were there?)But stay, what was the muster?Two hundred and sixty-two(Two thousand and more the Sioux!)Went into the fight with Custer,Went out of the fight with Custer;For never a man can say,"I rode with Custer that day—"Went out like a taper,Blown by a sudden vapor,Went out at a breath,True to the death!
Francis Brooks.
LITTLE BIG HORN
[June 25, 1876]
Beside the lone river,That idly lay dreaming,Flashed sudden the gleamingOf sabre and gunIn the light of the sunAs over the hillside the soldiers came streaming.One peal of the bugleIn stillness unbrokenThat sounded a tokenOf soul-stirring strife,Savage war to the knife,Then silence that seemed like defiance unspoken.But out of an ambushCame warriors riding,Swift ponies bestriding,Shook rattles and shells,With a discord of yells.That fired the hearts of their comrades in hiding.Then fierce on the wigwamsThe soldiers descended,And madly were blended,The red man and whiteIn a hand-to-hand fight,With the Indian village assailed and defended.And there through the passageOf battle-torn spaces,From dark lurking-places,With blood-curdling cryAnd their knives held on high,Rushed Amazon women with wild, painted faces.Then swung the keen sabresAnd flashed the sure riflesTheir message that stiflesThe shout in red throats,While the reckless blue-coatsLaughed on 'mid the fray as men laugh over trifles.Grim cavalry troopersUnshorn and unshaven,And never a cravenIn ambuscade caught,How like demons they foughtRound the knoll on the prairie that marked their last haven.But the Sioux circled nearerThe shrill war-whoop crying,And death-hail was flying,Yet still they fought onTill the last shot was gone,And all that remained were the dead and the dying.A song for their death, andNo black plumes of sorrow,This recompense borrow,Like heroes they diedMan to man—side by side;We lost them to-day, we shall meet them to-morrow.And on the lone river,Has faded the seemingOf bright armor gleaming,But there by the shoreWith the ghosts of no-moreThe shades of the dead through the ages lie dreaming.Ernest McGaffey.
Beside the lone river,That idly lay dreaming,Flashed sudden the gleamingOf sabre and gunIn the light of the sunAs over the hillside the soldiers came streaming.One peal of the bugleIn stillness unbrokenThat sounded a tokenOf soul-stirring strife,Savage war to the knife,Then silence that seemed like defiance unspoken.But out of an ambushCame warriors riding,Swift ponies bestriding,Shook rattles and shells,With a discord of yells.That fired the hearts of their comrades in hiding.Then fierce on the wigwamsThe soldiers descended,And madly were blended,The red man and whiteIn a hand-to-hand fight,With the Indian village assailed and defended.And there through the passageOf battle-torn spaces,From dark lurking-places,With blood-curdling cryAnd their knives held on high,Rushed Amazon women with wild, painted faces.Then swung the keen sabresAnd flashed the sure riflesTheir message that stiflesThe shout in red throats,While the reckless blue-coatsLaughed on 'mid the fray as men laugh over trifles.Grim cavalry troopersUnshorn and unshaven,And never a cravenIn ambuscade caught,How like demons they foughtRound the knoll on the prairie that marked their last haven.But the Sioux circled nearerThe shrill war-whoop crying,And death-hail was flying,Yet still they fought onTill the last shot was gone,And all that remained were the dead and the dying.A song for their death, andNo black plumes of sorrow,This recompense borrow,Like heroes they diedMan to man—side by side;We lost them to-day, we shall meet them to-morrow.And on the lone river,Has faded the seemingOf bright armor gleaming,But there by the shoreWith the ghosts of no-moreThe shades of the dead through the ages lie dreaming.Ernest McGaffey.
Beside the lone river,That idly lay dreaming,Flashed sudden the gleamingOf sabre and gunIn the light of the sunAs over the hillside the soldiers came streaming.
One peal of the bugleIn stillness unbrokenThat sounded a tokenOf soul-stirring strife,Savage war to the knife,Then silence that seemed like defiance unspoken.
But out of an ambushCame warriors riding,Swift ponies bestriding,Shook rattles and shells,With a discord of yells.That fired the hearts of their comrades in hiding.
Then fierce on the wigwamsThe soldiers descended,And madly were blended,The red man and whiteIn a hand-to-hand fight,With the Indian village assailed and defended.
And there through the passageOf battle-torn spaces,From dark lurking-places,With blood-curdling cryAnd their knives held on high,Rushed Amazon women with wild, painted faces.
Then swung the keen sabresAnd flashed the sure riflesTheir message that stiflesThe shout in red throats,While the reckless blue-coatsLaughed on 'mid the fray as men laugh over trifles.
Grim cavalry troopersUnshorn and unshaven,And never a cravenIn ambuscade caught,How like demons they foughtRound the knoll on the prairie that marked their last haven.
But the Sioux circled nearerThe shrill war-whoop crying,And death-hail was flying,Yet still they fought onTill the last shot was gone,And all that remained were the dead and the dying.
A song for their death, andNo black plumes of sorrow,This recompense borrow,Like heroes they diedMan to man—side by side;We lost them to-day, we shall meet them to-morrow.
And on the lone river,Has faded the seemingOf bright armor gleaming,But there by the shoreWith the ghosts of no-moreThe shades of the dead through the ages lie dreaming.
Ernest McGaffey.
CUSTER'S LAST CHARGE
[June 25, 1876]
Dead! Is it possible? He, the bold rider,Custer, our hero, the first in the fight,Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider,Far from our battle-king's ringlets of light!Dead, our young chieftain, and dead, all forsaken!No one to tell us the way of his fall!Slain in the desert, and never to waken,Never, not even to victory's call!Proud for his fame that last day that he met them!All the night long he had been on their track,Scorning their traps and the men that had set them,Wild for a charge that should never give back.There on the hilltop he halted and saw them,—Lodges all loosened and ready to fly;Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them,Told of his coming before he was nigh.All the wide valley was full of their forces,Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat!—Warriors running in haste to their horses,Thousands of enemies close to his feet!Down in the valleys the ages had hollowed,There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for a prey!Numbers! What recked he? What recked those who followed—Men who had fought ten to one ere that day?Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred,Into the battle-line steady and full;Then down the hillside exultingly thundered,Into the hordes of the old Sitting Bull!Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne,Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew,Shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion,—Then closed around, the grim horde of wild Sioux!Right to their centre he charged, and then facing—Hark to those yells! and around them, O see!Over the hilltops the Indians come racing,Coming as fast as the waves of the sea!Red was the circle of fire around them;No hope of victory, no ray of light,Shot through that terrible black cloud without them,Brooding in death over Custer's last fight.Then did he blench? Did he die like a craven,Begging those torturing fiends for his life?Was there a soldier who carried the SevenFlinched like a coward or fled from the strife?No, by the blood of our Custer, no quailing!There in the midst of the Indians they close,Hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing,Fighting like tigers, all 'bayed amid foes!Thicker and thicker the bullets came singing;Down go the horses and riders and all;Swiftly the warriors round them were ringing,Circling like buzzards awaiting their fall.See the wild steeds of the mountain and prairie,Savage eyes gleaming from forests of mane;Quivering lances with pennons so airy,War-painted warriors charging amain.Backward, again and again, they were driven,Shrinking to close with the lost little band;Never a cap that had worn the bright SevenBowed till its wearer was dead on the strand.Closer and closer the death circle growing,Ever the leader's voice, clarion clear,Rang out his words of encouragement glowing,"We can but die once, boys,—we'll sell our lives dear!"Dearly they sold them like Berserkers raging,Facing the death that encircled them round;Death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging,Marking their tracks by their dead on the ground.Comrades, our children shall yet tell their story,—Custer's last charge on the old Sitting Bull;And ages shall swear that the cup of his gloryNeeded but that death to render it full.Frederick Whittaker.
Dead! Is it possible? He, the bold rider,Custer, our hero, the first in the fight,Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider,Far from our battle-king's ringlets of light!Dead, our young chieftain, and dead, all forsaken!No one to tell us the way of his fall!Slain in the desert, and never to waken,Never, not even to victory's call!Proud for his fame that last day that he met them!All the night long he had been on their track,Scorning their traps and the men that had set them,Wild for a charge that should never give back.There on the hilltop he halted and saw them,—Lodges all loosened and ready to fly;Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them,Told of his coming before he was nigh.All the wide valley was full of their forces,Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat!—Warriors running in haste to their horses,Thousands of enemies close to his feet!Down in the valleys the ages had hollowed,There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for a prey!Numbers! What recked he? What recked those who followed—Men who had fought ten to one ere that day?Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred,Into the battle-line steady and full;Then down the hillside exultingly thundered,Into the hordes of the old Sitting Bull!Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne,Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew,Shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion,—Then closed around, the grim horde of wild Sioux!Right to their centre he charged, and then facing—Hark to those yells! and around them, O see!Over the hilltops the Indians come racing,Coming as fast as the waves of the sea!Red was the circle of fire around them;No hope of victory, no ray of light,Shot through that terrible black cloud without them,Brooding in death over Custer's last fight.Then did he blench? Did he die like a craven,Begging those torturing fiends for his life?Was there a soldier who carried the SevenFlinched like a coward or fled from the strife?No, by the blood of our Custer, no quailing!There in the midst of the Indians they close,Hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing,Fighting like tigers, all 'bayed amid foes!Thicker and thicker the bullets came singing;Down go the horses and riders and all;Swiftly the warriors round them were ringing,Circling like buzzards awaiting their fall.See the wild steeds of the mountain and prairie,Savage eyes gleaming from forests of mane;Quivering lances with pennons so airy,War-painted warriors charging amain.Backward, again and again, they were driven,Shrinking to close with the lost little band;Never a cap that had worn the bright SevenBowed till its wearer was dead on the strand.Closer and closer the death circle growing,Ever the leader's voice, clarion clear,Rang out his words of encouragement glowing,"We can but die once, boys,—we'll sell our lives dear!"Dearly they sold them like Berserkers raging,Facing the death that encircled them round;Death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging,Marking their tracks by their dead on the ground.Comrades, our children shall yet tell their story,—Custer's last charge on the old Sitting Bull;And ages shall swear that the cup of his gloryNeeded but that death to render it full.Frederick Whittaker.
Dead! Is it possible? He, the bold rider,Custer, our hero, the first in the fight,Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider,Far from our battle-king's ringlets of light!Dead, our young chieftain, and dead, all forsaken!No one to tell us the way of his fall!Slain in the desert, and never to waken,Never, not even to victory's call!
Proud for his fame that last day that he met them!All the night long he had been on their track,Scorning their traps and the men that had set them,Wild for a charge that should never give back.There on the hilltop he halted and saw them,—Lodges all loosened and ready to fly;Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them,Told of his coming before he was nigh.
All the wide valley was full of their forces,Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat!—Warriors running in haste to their horses,Thousands of enemies close to his feet!Down in the valleys the ages had hollowed,There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for a prey!Numbers! What recked he? What recked those who followed—Men who had fought ten to one ere that day?
Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred,Into the battle-line steady and full;Then down the hillside exultingly thundered,Into the hordes of the old Sitting Bull!Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne,Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew,Shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion,—Then closed around, the grim horde of wild Sioux!
Right to their centre he charged, and then facing—Hark to those yells! and around them, O see!Over the hilltops the Indians come racing,Coming as fast as the waves of the sea!Red was the circle of fire around them;No hope of victory, no ray of light,Shot through that terrible black cloud without them,Brooding in death over Custer's last fight.
Then did he blench? Did he die like a craven,Begging those torturing fiends for his life?Was there a soldier who carried the SevenFlinched like a coward or fled from the strife?No, by the blood of our Custer, no quailing!There in the midst of the Indians they close,Hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing,Fighting like tigers, all 'bayed amid foes!
Thicker and thicker the bullets came singing;Down go the horses and riders and all;Swiftly the warriors round them were ringing,Circling like buzzards awaiting their fall.See the wild steeds of the mountain and prairie,Savage eyes gleaming from forests of mane;Quivering lances with pennons so airy,War-painted warriors charging amain.
Backward, again and again, they were driven,Shrinking to close with the lost little band;Never a cap that had worn the bright SevenBowed till its wearer was dead on the strand.Closer and closer the death circle growing,Ever the leader's voice, clarion clear,Rang out his words of encouragement glowing,"We can but die once, boys,—we'll sell our lives dear!"
Dearly they sold them like Berserkers raging,Facing the death that encircled them round;Death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging,Marking their tracks by their dead on the ground.Comrades, our children shall yet tell their story,—Custer's last charge on the old Sitting Bull;And ages shall swear that the cup of his gloryNeeded but that death to render it full.
Frederick Whittaker.
CUSTER
[June 25, 1876]