In Paco town and in Paco tower,At the height of the tropic noonday hour,Some Tagal riflemen, half a score,Watched the length of the highway o'er,And when to the front the troopers spurred,Whiz-z! whiz-z! how the Mausers whirred!From the opposite walls, through crevice and crack,Volley on volley went ringing backWhere a band of regulars tried to driveThe stinging rebels out of their hive;"Wait, till our cannon come, and then,"Cried a captain, striding among his men,"We'll settle that bothersome buzz and droneWith a merry little tune of our own!"The sweltering breezes seemed to swoon,And down thecallethe thickening flamesLicked the roofs in the tropic noon.Then through the crackle and glare and heat,And the smoke and the answering acclaimsOf the rifles, far up the village streetWas heard the clatter of horses' feet,And a band of signalmen swung in sight,Hasting back from the ebbing fightThat had swept away to the left and right."Ride!" yelled the regulars, all aghast,And over the heads of the signalmen,As they whirled in desperate gallop past,The bullets a vicious music made,Like the whistle and whine of the midnight blastOn the weltering wastes of the ocean whenThe breast of the deep is scourged and flayed.It chanced in the line of the fiercest fireA rebel bullet had clipped the wireThat led, from the front and the fighting, downTo those that stayed in Manila town;This gap arrested the watchful eyeOf one of the signalmen galloping by,And straightway, out of the plunge and press,He reined his horse with a swift caressAnd a word in the ear of the rushing steed;Then back with never a halt nor heedOf the swarming bullets he rode, his goalThe parted wire and the slender poleThat stood where the deadly tower looked downOn the rack and ruin of Paco town.Out of his saddle he sprang as gayAs a schoolboy taking a holiday;Wire in hand up the pole he wentWith never a glance at the tower, intentOnly on that which he saw appearAs the line of his duty plain and clear.To the very crest he climbed, and there,While the bullets buzzed in the scorching airClipped his clothing, and scored and stungThe slender pole-top to which he clung,Made the wire that was severed sound,Slipped in his careless way to the ground,Sprang to the back of his horse, and thenWas off, this bravest of signalmen.Cheers for the hero! While such as he,Heedless alike of wounds and scars,Fight for the dear old Stripes and Stars,Down through the years to us shall beEver and ever the victory!Clinton Scollard.
In Paco town and in Paco tower,At the height of the tropic noonday hour,Some Tagal riflemen, half a score,Watched the length of the highway o'er,And when to the front the troopers spurred,Whiz-z! whiz-z! how the Mausers whirred!From the opposite walls, through crevice and crack,Volley on volley went ringing backWhere a band of regulars tried to driveThe stinging rebels out of their hive;"Wait, till our cannon come, and then,"Cried a captain, striding among his men,"We'll settle that bothersome buzz and droneWith a merry little tune of our own!"The sweltering breezes seemed to swoon,And down thecallethe thickening flamesLicked the roofs in the tropic noon.Then through the crackle and glare and heat,And the smoke and the answering acclaimsOf the rifles, far up the village streetWas heard the clatter of horses' feet,And a band of signalmen swung in sight,Hasting back from the ebbing fightThat had swept away to the left and right."Ride!" yelled the regulars, all aghast,And over the heads of the signalmen,As they whirled in desperate gallop past,The bullets a vicious music made,Like the whistle and whine of the midnight blastOn the weltering wastes of the ocean whenThe breast of the deep is scourged and flayed.It chanced in the line of the fiercest fireA rebel bullet had clipped the wireThat led, from the front and the fighting, downTo those that stayed in Manila town;This gap arrested the watchful eyeOf one of the signalmen galloping by,And straightway, out of the plunge and press,He reined his horse with a swift caressAnd a word in the ear of the rushing steed;Then back with never a halt nor heedOf the swarming bullets he rode, his goalThe parted wire and the slender poleThat stood where the deadly tower looked downOn the rack and ruin of Paco town.Out of his saddle he sprang as gayAs a schoolboy taking a holiday;Wire in hand up the pole he wentWith never a glance at the tower, intentOnly on that which he saw appearAs the line of his duty plain and clear.To the very crest he climbed, and there,While the bullets buzzed in the scorching airClipped his clothing, and scored and stungThe slender pole-top to which he clung,Made the wire that was severed sound,Slipped in his careless way to the ground,Sprang to the back of his horse, and thenWas off, this bravest of signalmen.Cheers for the hero! While such as he,Heedless alike of wounds and scars,Fight for the dear old Stripes and Stars,Down through the years to us shall beEver and ever the victory!Clinton Scollard.
In Paco town and in Paco tower,At the height of the tropic noonday hour,Some Tagal riflemen, half a score,Watched the length of the highway o'er,And when to the front the troopers spurred,Whiz-z! whiz-z! how the Mausers whirred!
From the opposite walls, through crevice and crack,Volley on volley went ringing backWhere a band of regulars tried to driveThe stinging rebels out of their hive;"Wait, till our cannon come, and then,"Cried a captain, striding among his men,"We'll settle that bothersome buzz and droneWith a merry little tune of our own!"
The sweltering breezes seemed to swoon,And down thecallethe thickening flamesLicked the roofs in the tropic noon.Then through the crackle and glare and heat,And the smoke and the answering acclaimsOf the rifles, far up the village streetWas heard the clatter of horses' feet,And a band of signalmen swung in sight,Hasting back from the ebbing fightThat had swept away to the left and right.
"Ride!" yelled the regulars, all aghast,And over the heads of the signalmen,As they whirled in desperate gallop past,The bullets a vicious music made,Like the whistle and whine of the midnight blastOn the weltering wastes of the ocean whenThe breast of the deep is scourged and flayed.
It chanced in the line of the fiercest fireA rebel bullet had clipped the wireThat led, from the front and the fighting, downTo those that stayed in Manila town;This gap arrested the watchful eyeOf one of the signalmen galloping by,And straightway, out of the plunge and press,He reined his horse with a swift caress
And a word in the ear of the rushing steed;Then back with never a halt nor heedOf the swarming bullets he rode, his goalThe parted wire and the slender poleThat stood where the deadly tower looked downOn the rack and ruin of Paco town.
Out of his saddle he sprang as gayAs a schoolboy taking a holiday;Wire in hand up the pole he wentWith never a glance at the tower, intentOnly on that which he saw appearAs the line of his duty plain and clear.To the very crest he climbed, and there,While the bullets buzzed in the scorching airClipped his clothing, and scored and stungThe slender pole-top to which he clung,Made the wire that was severed sound,Slipped in his careless way to the ground,Sprang to the back of his horse, and thenWas off, this bravest of signalmen.
Cheers for the hero! While such as he,Heedless alike of wounds and scars,Fight for the dear old Stripes and Stars,Down through the years to us shall beEver and ever the victory!
Clinton Scollard.
THE DEED OF LIEUTENANT MILES
[February 5, 1899]
When you speak of dauntless deeds,When you tell of stirring scenes,Tell this story of the islesWhere the endless summer smiles,—Tell of young Lieutenant MilesIn the far-off Philippines!'Twas the Santa Ana fight!—All along the Tagal lineFrom the thickets dense and direGushed the fountains of their fire;You could mark their rifles' ire,You could hear their bullets whine.Little wonder there was pause!Some were wounded, some were dead"Call Lieutenant Miles!" He came,In his eyes a fearless flame."Yonder blockhouse is our aim!"The battalion leader said."You must take it—how you will;You must break this damnèd spell!""Volunteers!" cried Miles. 'Twas vain,For that narrow tropic lane'Twixt the bamboo and the caneWas a very lane of hell.There were five stood forth at last;God above, but they were men!"Come!" exultantly he saith!—Did they falter? Not a breath!Down the path of hurtling deathThe Lieutenant led them then.Two have fallen—now a third!Forward dash the other three;In the onrush of that raceNe'er a swerve or stay of pace.And the Tagals—dare they faceSuch a desperate company?Panic gripped them by the throat,—Every Tagal rifleman;And as though they seemed to seeIn those charging foemen threeAn avenging destiny,Fierce and fast and far they ran.So a salvo for the six!So a round of ringing cheers!Heroes of the distant islesWhere the endless summer smiles,—Gallant young Lieutenant MilesAnd his valiant volunteers!Clinton Scollard.
When you speak of dauntless deeds,When you tell of stirring scenes,Tell this story of the islesWhere the endless summer smiles,—Tell of young Lieutenant MilesIn the far-off Philippines!'Twas the Santa Ana fight!—All along the Tagal lineFrom the thickets dense and direGushed the fountains of their fire;You could mark their rifles' ire,You could hear their bullets whine.Little wonder there was pause!Some were wounded, some were dead"Call Lieutenant Miles!" He came,In his eyes a fearless flame."Yonder blockhouse is our aim!"The battalion leader said."You must take it—how you will;You must break this damnèd spell!""Volunteers!" cried Miles. 'Twas vain,For that narrow tropic lane'Twixt the bamboo and the caneWas a very lane of hell.There were five stood forth at last;God above, but they were men!"Come!" exultantly he saith!—Did they falter? Not a breath!Down the path of hurtling deathThe Lieutenant led them then.Two have fallen—now a third!Forward dash the other three;In the onrush of that raceNe'er a swerve or stay of pace.And the Tagals—dare they faceSuch a desperate company?Panic gripped them by the throat,—Every Tagal rifleman;And as though they seemed to seeIn those charging foemen threeAn avenging destiny,Fierce and fast and far they ran.So a salvo for the six!So a round of ringing cheers!Heroes of the distant islesWhere the endless summer smiles,—Gallant young Lieutenant MilesAnd his valiant volunteers!Clinton Scollard.
When you speak of dauntless deeds,When you tell of stirring scenes,Tell this story of the islesWhere the endless summer smiles,—Tell of young Lieutenant MilesIn the far-off Philippines!
'Twas the Santa Ana fight!—All along the Tagal lineFrom the thickets dense and direGushed the fountains of their fire;You could mark their rifles' ire,You could hear their bullets whine.
Little wonder there was pause!Some were wounded, some were dead"Call Lieutenant Miles!" He came,In his eyes a fearless flame."Yonder blockhouse is our aim!"The battalion leader said.
"You must take it—how you will;You must break this damnèd spell!""Volunteers!" cried Miles. 'Twas vain,For that narrow tropic lane'Twixt the bamboo and the caneWas a very lane of hell.
There were five stood forth at last;God above, but they were men!"Come!" exultantly he saith!—Did they falter? Not a breath!Down the path of hurtling deathThe Lieutenant led them then.
Two have fallen—now a third!Forward dash the other three;In the onrush of that raceNe'er a swerve or stay of pace.And the Tagals—dare they faceSuch a desperate company?
Panic gripped them by the throat,—Every Tagal rifleman;And as though they seemed to seeIn those charging foemen threeAn avenging destiny,Fierce and fast and far they ran.
So a salvo for the six!So a round of ringing cheers!Heroes of the distant islesWhere the endless summer smiles,—Gallant young Lieutenant MilesAnd his valiant volunteers!
Clinton Scollard.
So the war went on, with massacre, ambush, and lonely murder. The conquest of the islands was proving a costly one, but the administration held that it must be carried through, at whatever sacrifice. It was a war in which victory and defeat alike brought only sorrow and disgust.
So the war went on, with massacre, ambush, and lonely murder. The conquest of the islands was proving a costly one, but the administration held that it must be carried through, at whatever sacrifice. It was a war in which victory and defeat alike brought only sorrow and disgust.
AGUINALDO
(PATRIOT AND EMPIRE)
When arms and numbers both have failedTo make the hunted patriot yield,Nor proffered riches have prevailedTo tempt him to forsake the field,By spite and baffled rage beguiled,Strike at his mother and his child.O land where freedom loved to dwell,Which shook'st the despot on his throne,And o'er the beating floods of hellHope's beacon to the world hast shown,How art thou fallen from thy place!O thing of shame!—O foul disgrace!Thy home was built upon the heightAbove the murky clouds beneath,In the blue heaven's freest light,Thy sword flashed ever from its sheath,The weak and the oppressed to save—To smite the tyrant—free the slave.Thy place was glorious—sublime.What devil tempts thee to descendTo conquest, robbery and crime?O shameful fate! Is this the end?Thy hands have now the damning stainOf human blood—for love of gain.With weak hypocrisy's thin veil,Seek not in vain to blind thine eyes;Nor shall deceitful prayers prevail.Pray not—for fear the dead should riseFrom 'neath their conquered country's sodAnd cry against thee unto God.Bertrand Shadwell.
When arms and numbers both have failedTo make the hunted patriot yield,Nor proffered riches have prevailedTo tempt him to forsake the field,By spite and baffled rage beguiled,Strike at his mother and his child.O land where freedom loved to dwell,Which shook'st the despot on his throne,And o'er the beating floods of hellHope's beacon to the world hast shown,How art thou fallen from thy place!O thing of shame!—O foul disgrace!Thy home was built upon the heightAbove the murky clouds beneath,In the blue heaven's freest light,Thy sword flashed ever from its sheath,The weak and the oppressed to save—To smite the tyrant—free the slave.Thy place was glorious—sublime.What devil tempts thee to descendTo conquest, robbery and crime?O shameful fate! Is this the end?Thy hands have now the damning stainOf human blood—for love of gain.With weak hypocrisy's thin veil,Seek not in vain to blind thine eyes;Nor shall deceitful prayers prevail.Pray not—for fear the dead should riseFrom 'neath their conquered country's sodAnd cry against thee unto God.Bertrand Shadwell.
When arms and numbers both have failedTo make the hunted patriot yield,Nor proffered riches have prevailedTo tempt him to forsake the field,By spite and baffled rage beguiled,Strike at his mother and his child.
O land where freedom loved to dwell,Which shook'st the despot on his throne,And o'er the beating floods of hellHope's beacon to the world hast shown,How art thou fallen from thy place!O thing of shame!—O foul disgrace!
Thy home was built upon the heightAbove the murky clouds beneath,In the blue heaven's freest light,Thy sword flashed ever from its sheath,The weak and the oppressed to save—To smite the tyrant—free the slave.
Thy place was glorious—sublime.What devil tempts thee to descendTo conquest, robbery and crime?O shameful fate! Is this the end?Thy hands have now the damning stainOf human blood—for love of gain.
With weak hypocrisy's thin veil,Seek not in vain to blind thine eyes;Nor shall deceitful prayers prevail.Pray not—for fear the dead should riseFrom 'neath their conquered country's sodAnd cry against thee unto God.
Bertrand Shadwell.
The capture of Aguinaldo, March 23, 1901, put a virtual end to organized resistance; though sporadic outbreaks continued for several years. As late as March, 1906, such an affair occurred, a band of Moros, men, women, and children, being surrounded and killed on the summit of a crater at Dajo, no prisoners being taken.
The capture of Aguinaldo, March 23, 1901, put a virtual end to organized resistance; though sporadic outbreaks continued for several years. As late as March, 1906, such an affair occurred, a band of Moros, men, women, and children, being surrounded and killed on the summit of a crater at Dajo, no prisoners being taken.
THE FIGHT AT DAJO
[March 7, 1906]
There are twenty dead who're sleeping near the slopes of Bud Dajo,'Neath the shadow of the crater where the bolos laid them low,And their comrades feel it bitter, and their cheeks grow hot with shame,When they read the sneering commentswhich have held them up to blame.They were told to scale the mountain and they stormed its beetling crest,Spite of all the frantic Moros, though they did their level best,Though the bullets whistled thickly, and the cliff was lined with foes,Though the campilans were flashing and the kriss gave deadly blows.There was little time for judging ere they met in deadly strifeWhat the sex might be that rushing waved aloft the blood-stained knife;For the foe was drunk with frenzy and the women in the hordeThought that paradise was certain could they kill first with the sword.They'd been freely offered mercy, but they'd scorned the proffered gift,For their priests had told them Allah promised victory sure and swift.They were foolish and their folly cost the lives of wife and son,But they fought their fight like heroes; there were none that turned to run.Though they'd robbed and slain and ravaged, though their crimes had mounted high,Though 'tis true that naught became them like the death they chose to die,One would think to read the papers that the troops who scaled their fortWere a lot of brutal ruffians shooting girls and babes for sport.More than one who's sleeping soundly 'neath the shade of Bud DajoLost his life while giving succor to the one who dealt the blow,Yet his comrades feel more bitter and they give a far worse nameTo the men who dubbed them "butchers" and have smirched the army's fame.Alfred E. Wood.
There are twenty dead who're sleeping near the slopes of Bud Dajo,'Neath the shadow of the crater where the bolos laid them low,And their comrades feel it bitter, and their cheeks grow hot with shame,When they read the sneering commentswhich have held them up to blame.They were told to scale the mountain and they stormed its beetling crest,Spite of all the frantic Moros, though they did their level best,Though the bullets whistled thickly, and the cliff was lined with foes,Though the campilans were flashing and the kriss gave deadly blows.There was little time for judging ere they met in deadly strifeWhat the sex might be that rushing waved aloft the blood-stained knife;For the foe was drunk with frenzy and the women in the hordeThought that paradise was certain could they kill first with the sword.They'd been freely offered mercy, but they'd scorned the proffered gift,For their priests had told them Allah promised victory sure and swift.They were foolish and their folly cost the lives of wife and son,But they fought their fight like heroes; there were none that turned to run.Though they'd robbed and slain and ravaged, though their crimes had mounted high,Though 'tis true that naught became them like the death they chose to die,One would think to read the papers that the troops who scaled their fortWere a lot of brutal ruffians shooting girls and babes for sport.More than one who's sleeping soundly 'neath the shade of Bud DajoLost his life while giving succor to the one who dealt the blow,Yet his comrades feel more bitter and they give a far worse nameTo the men who dubbed them "butchers" and have smirched the army's fame.Alfred E. Wood.
There are twenty dead who're sleeping near the slopes of Bud Dajo,'Neath the shadow of the crater where the bolos laid them low,And their comrades feel it bitter, and their cheeks grow hot with shame,When they read the sneering commentswhich have held them up to blame.
They were told to scale the mountain and they stormed its beetling crest,Spite of all the frantic Moros, though they did their level best,Though the bullets whistled thickly, and the cliff was lined with foes,Though the campilans were flashing and the kriss gave deadly blows.
There was little time for judging ere they met in deadly strifeWhat the sex might be that rushing waved aloft the blood-stained knife;For the foe was drunk with frenzy and the women in the hordeThought that paradise was certain could they kill first with the sword.
They'd been freely offered mercy, but they'd scorned the proffered gift,For their priests had told them Allah promised victory sure and swift.They were foolish and their folly cost the lives of wife and son,But they fought their fight like heroes; there were none that turned to run.
Though they'd robbed and slain and ravaged, though their crimes had mounted high,Though 'tis true that naught became them like the death they chose to die,One would think to read the papers that the troops who scaled their fortWere a lot of brutal ruffians shooting girls and babes for sport.
More than one who's sleeping soundly 'neath the shade of Bud DajoLost his life while giving succor to the one who dealt the blow,Yet his comrades feel more bitter and they give a far worse nameTo the men who dubbed them "butchers" and have smirched the army's fame.
Alfred E. Wood.
The Philippines, meanwhile, had been placed under a civil government; but no promise was given them of ultimate independence. Their commerce was crippled by the high tariff party in control of Congress; and while their condition was vastly better than it had been under Spanish rule, it was not such as a Republic, working for their good, might have made it. The acquisition and conquest of the islands is believed by many intelligent and patriotic persons to be one of the darkest blots upon American history.
The Philippines, meanwhile, had been placed under a civil government; but no promise was given them of ultimate independence. Their commerce was crippled by the high tariff party in control of Congress; and while their condition was vastly better than it had been under Spanish rule, it was not such as a Republic, working for their good, might have made it. The acquisition and conquest of the islands is believed by many intelligent and patriotic persons to be one of the darkest blots upon American history.
AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION
(WRITTEN AFTER SEEING AT BOSTON THE STATUE OF ROBERT GOULD SHAW,KILLED WHILE STORMING FORT WAGNER, JULY 18, 1863,AT THE HEAD OF THE FIRST ENLISTED NEGRO REGIMENT, THE FIFTY-FOURTH MASSACHUSETTS)
IBefore the living bronze Saint-Gaudens madeMost fit to thrill the passer's heart with awe,And set here in the city's talk and tradeTo the good memory of Robert Shaw,This bright March morn I standAnd hear the distant spring come up the land;Knowing that what I hear is not unheardOf this boy soldier and his negro band,For all their gaze is fixed so stern ahead,For all the fatal rhythm of their tread.The land they died to save from death and shameTrembles and waits, hearing the spring's great name,And by her pangs these resolute ghosts are stirred.IIThrough street and mall the tides of people goHeedless; the trees upon the Common showNo hint of green; but to my listening heartThe still earth doth impartAssurance of her jubilant emprise,And it is clear to my long-searching eyesThat love at last has might upon the skies.The ice is runnelled on the little pond;A telltale patter drips from off the trees;The air is touched with southland spiceries,As if but yesterday it tossed the frondOf pendent mosses where the live oaks growBeyond Virginia and the Carolines,Or had its will among the fruits and vinesOf aromatic isles asleep beyondFlorida and the Gulf of Mexico.IIISoon shall the Cape Ann children laugh in glee,Spying the arbutus, spring's dear recluse;Hill lads at dawn shall hearken the wild gooseGo honking northward over Tennessee;West from Oswego to Sault Saint-Marie,And on to where the Pictured Rocks are hung,And yonder where, gigantic, wilful, young,Chicago sitteth at the northwest gates,With restless violent hands and casual tongueMoulding her mighty fates,The Lakes shall robe them in ethereal sheen;And like a larger sea, the vital greenOf springing wheat shall vastly be outflungOver Dakota and the prairie states.By desert people immemorialOn Arizonan mesas shall be doneDim rites unto the thunder and the sun;Nor shall the primal gods lack sacrificeMore splendid, when the white Sierras callUnto the Rockies straightway to ariseAnd dance before the unveiled ark of the year,Clashing their windy cedars as for shawms,Unrolling rivers clearFor flutter of broad phylacteries;While Shasta signals to Alaskan seasThat watch old sluggish glaciers downward creepTo fling their icebergs thundering from the steep,And Mariposa through the purple calmsGazes at far Hawaii crowned with palmsWhere East and West are met,—A rich seal on the ocean's bosom setTo say that East and West are twain,With different loss and gain:The Lord hath sundered them; let them be sundered yet.IVAlas! what sounds are these that comeSullenly over the Pacific seas,—Sounds of ignoble battle, striking dumbThe season's half-awakened ecstasies?Must I be humble, then,Now when my heart hath need of pride?Wild love falls on me from these sculptured men;By loving much the land for which they diedI would be justified.My spirit was away on pinions wideTo soothe in praise of her its passionate moodAnd ease it of its ache of gratitude.Too sorely heavy is the debt they layOn me and the companions of my day.I would remember nowMy country's goodliness, make sweet her name.Alas! what shade art thouOf sorrow or of blameLiftest the lyric leafage from her brow,And pointest a slow finger at her shame?VLies! lies! It cannot be! The wars we wageAre noble, and our battles still are wonBy justice for us, ere we lift the gage.We have not sold our loftiest heritage.The proud republic hath not stooped to cheatAnd scramble in the market-place of war;Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star.Here is her witness: this, her perfect son,This delicate and proud New England soulWho leads despisèd men, with just-unshackled feet,Up the large ways where death and glory meet,To show all peoples that our shame is done,That once more we are clean and spirit-whole.VICrouched in the sea fog on the moaning sandAll night he lay, speaking some simple wordFrom hour to hour to the slow minds that heard,Holding each poor life gently in his handAnd breathing on the base rejected clayTill each dark face shone mystical and grandAgainst the breaking day;And lo, the shard the potter cast awayWas grown a fiery chalice, crystal-fine,Fulfilled of the divineGreat wine of battle wrath by God's ring-finger stirred.Then upward, where the shadowy bastion loomedHuge on the mountain in the wet sea light,Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage bloomed,Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its deadly seed,—They swept, and died like freemen on the height,Like freemen, and like men of noble breed;And when the battle fell away at nightBy hasty and contemptuous hands were thrustObscurely in a common grave with himThe fair-haired keeper of their love and trust.Now limb doth mingle with dissolvèd limbIn nature's busy old democracyTo flush the mountain laurel when she blowsSweet by the southern sea,And heart with crumbled heart climbs in the rose:—The untaught hearts with the high heart that knewThis mountain fortress for no earthly holdOf temporal quarrel, but the bastion oldOf spiritual wrong,Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong,Expugnable but by a nation's rueAnd bowing down before that equal shrineBy all men held divine,Whereof his band and he were the most holy sign.VIIO bitter, bitter shade!Wilt thou not put the scornAnd instant tragic question from thine eyes?Do thy dark brows yet craveThat swift and angry stave—Unmeet for this desirous morn—That I have striven, striven to evade?Gazing on him, must I not deem they errWhose careless lips in street and shop averAs common tidings, deeds to make his cheekFlush from the bronze, and his dead throat to speak?Surely some elder singer would arise,Whose harp hath leave to threaten and to mournAbove this people when they go astray.Is Whitman, the strong spirit, overworn?Has Whittier put his yearning wrath away?I will not and I dare not yet believe!Though furtively the sunlight seems to grieve,And the spring-laden breezeOut of the gladdening west is sinisterWith sounds of nameless battle overseas;Though when we turn and question in suspenseIf these things be indeed after these ways,And what things are to follow after these,Our fluent men of place and consequenceFumble and fill their mouths with hollow phrase,Or for the end-all of deep argumentsIntone their dull commercial liturgies—I dare not yet believe! My ears are shut!I will not hear the thin satiric praiseAnd muffled laughter of our enemies,Bidding us never sheathe our valiant swordTill we have changed our birthright for a gourdOf wild pulse stolen from a barbarian's hut;Showing how wise it is to cast awayThe symbols of our spiritual sway,That so our hands with better easeMay wield the driver's whip and grasp the jailer's keys.VIIIWas it for this our fathers kept the law?This crown shall crown their struggle and their ruth?Are we the eagle nation Milton sawMewing its mighty youth,Soon to possess the mountain winds of truth,And be a swift familiar of the sunWhere aye before God's face His trumpets run?Or have we but the talons and the maw,And for the abject likeness of our heartShall some less lordly bird be set apart?—Some gross-billed wader where the swamps are fat?Some gorger in the sun? Some prowler with the bat?IXAh no!We have not fallen so.We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know!'Twas only yesterday sick Cuba's cryCame up the tropic wind, "Now help us, for we die!"Then Alabama heard,And rising, pale, to Maine and IdahoShouted a burning word;Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred,And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth,East, west, and south, and north,Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and youngShed on the awful hill slope at San Juan,By the unforgotten names of eager boysWho might have tasted girls' love and been stungWith the old mystic joysAnd starry griefs, now the spring nights come on,But that the heart of youth is generous,—We charge you, ye who lead us,Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain!Turn not their new-world victories to gain!One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the baysOf their dear praise,One jot of their pure conquest put to hire,The implacable republic will require;With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon,Or subtly, coming as a thief at night,But surely, very surely, slow or soonThat insult deep we deeply will requite.Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity!For save we let the island men go free,Those baffled and dislaurelled ghostsWill curse us from the lamentable coastsWhere walk the frustrate dead.The cup of trembling shall be drainèd quite,Eaten the sour bread of astonishment,With ashes of the hearth shall be made whiteOur hair, and wailing shall be in the tent:Then on your guiltier headShall our intolerable self-disdainWreak suddenly its anger and its pain;For manifest in that disastrous lightWe shall discern the rightAnd do it, tardily.—O ye who lead,Take heed!Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite.William Vaughn Moody.
IBefore the living bronze Saint-Gaudens madeMost fit to thrill the passer's heart with awe,And set here in the city's talk and tradeTo the good memory of Robert Shaw,This bright March morn I standAnd hear the distant spring come up the land;Knowing that what I hear is not unheardOf this boy soldier and his negro band,For all their gaze is fixed so stern ahead,For all the fatal rhythm of their tread.The land they died to save from death and shameTrembles and waits, hearing the spring's great name,And by her pangs these resolute ghosts are stirred.IIThrough street and mall the tides of people goHeedless; the trees upon the Common showNo hint of green; but to my listening heartThe still earth doth impartAssurance of her jubilant emprise,And it is clear to my long-searching eyesThat love at last has might upon the skies.The ice is runnelled on the little pond;A telltale patter drips from off the trees;The air is touched with southland spiceries,As if but yesterday it tossed the frondOf pendent mosses where the live oaks growBeyond Virginia and the Carolines,Or had its will among the fruits and vinesOf aromatic isles asleep beyondFlorida and the Gulf of Mexico.IIISoon shall the Cape Ann children laugh in glee,Spying the arbutus, spring's dear recluse;Hill lads at dawn shall hearken the wild gooseGo honking northward over Tennessee;West from Oswego to Sault Saint-Marie,And on to where the Pictured Rocks are hung,And yonder where, gigantic, wilful, young,Chicago sitteth at the northwest gates,With restless violent hands and casual tongueMoulding her mighty fates,The Lakes shall robe them in ethereal sheen;And like a larger sea, the vital greenOf springing wheat shall vastly be outflungOver Dakota and the prairie states.By desert people immemorialOn Arizonan mesas shall be doneDim rites unto the thunder and the sun;Nor shall the primal gods lack sacrificeMore splendid, when the white Sierras callUnto the Rockies straightway to ariseAnd dance before the unveiled ark of the year,Clashing their windy cedars as for shawms,Unrolling rivers clearFor flutter of broad phylacteries;While Shasta signals to Alaskan seasThat watch old sluggish glaciers downward creepTo fling their icebergs thundering from the steep,And Mariposa through the purple calmsGazes at far Hawaii crowned with palmsWhere East and West are met,—A rich seal on the ocean's bosom setTo say that East and West are twain,With different loss and gain:The Lord hath sundered them; let them be sundered yet.IVAlas! what sounds are these that comeSullenly over the Pacific seas,—Sounds of ignoble battle, striking dumbThe season's half-awakened ecstasies?Must I be humble, then,Now when my heart hath need of pride?Wild love falls on me from these sculptured men;By loving much the land for which they diedI would be justified.My spirit was away on pinions wideTo soothe in praise of her its passionate moodAnd ease it of its ache of gratitude.Too sorely heavy is the debt they layOn me and the companions of my day.I would remember nowMy country's goodliness, make sweet her name.Alas! what shade art thouOf sorrow or of blameLiftest the lyric leafage from her brow,And pointest a slow finger at her shame?VLies! lies! It cannot be! The wars we wageAre noble, and our battles still are wonBy justice for us, ere we lift the gage.We have not sold our loftiest heritage.The proud republic hath not stooped to cheatAnd scramble in the market-place of war;Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star.Here is her witness: this, her perfect son,This delicate and proud New England soulWho leads despisèd men, with just-unshackled feet,Up the large ways where death and glory meet,To show all peoples that our shame is done,That once more we are clean and spirit-whole.VICrouched in the sea fog on the moaning sandAll night he lay, speaking some simple wordFrom hour to hour to the slow minds that heard,Holding each poor life gently in his handAnd breathing on the base rejected clayTill each dark face shone mystical and grandAgainst the breaking day;And lo, the shard the potter cast awayWas grown a fiery chalice, crystal-fine,Fulfilled of the divineGreat wine of battle wrath by God's ring-finger stirred.Then upward, where the shadowy bastion loomedHuge on the mountain in the wet sea light,Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage bloomed,Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its deadly seed,—They swept, and died like freemen on the height,Like freemen, and like men of noble breed;And when the battle fell away at nightBy hasty and contemptuous hands were thrustObscurely in a common grave with himThe fair-haired keeper of their love and trust.Now limb doth mingle with dissolvèd limbIn nature's busy old democracyTo flush the mountain laurel when she blowsSweet by the southern sea,And heart with crumbled heart climbs in the rose:—The untaught hearts with the high heart that knewThis mountain fortress for no earthly holdOf temporal quarrel, but the bastion oldOf spiritual wrong,Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong,Expugnable but by a nation's rueAnd bowing down before that equal shrineBy all men held divine,Whereof his band and he were the most holy sign.VIIO bitter, bitter shade!Wilt thou not put the scornAnd instant tragic question from thine eyes?Do thy dark brows yet craveThat swift and angry stave—Unmeet for this desirous morn—That I have striven, striven to evade?Gazing on him, must I not deem they errWhose careless lips in street and shop averAs common tidings, deeds to make his cheekFlush from the bronze, and his dead throat to speak?Surely some elder singer would arise,Whose harp hath leave to threaten and to mournAbove this people when they go astray.Is Whitman, the strong spirit, overworn?Has Whittier put his yearning wrath away?I will not and I dare not yet believe!Though furtively the sunlight seems to grieve,And the spring-laden breezeOut of the gladdening west is sinisterWith sounds of nameless battle overseas;Though when we turn and question in suspenseIf these things be indeed after these ways,And what things are to follow after these,Our fluent men of place and consequenceFumble and fill their mouths with hollow phrase,Or for the end-all of deep argumentsIntone their dull commercial liturgies—I dare not yet believe! My ears are shut!I will not hear the thin satiric praiseAnd muffled laughter of our enemies,Bidding us never sheathe our valiant swordTill we have changed our birthright for a gourdOf wild pulse stolen from a barbarian's hut;Showing how wise it is to cast awayThe symbols of our spiritual sway,That so our hands with better easeMay wield the driver's whip and grasp the jailer's keys.VIIIWas it for this our fathers kept the law?This crown shall crown their struggle and their ruth?Are we the eagle nation Milton sawMewing its mighty youth,Soon to possess the mountain winds of truth,And be a swift familiar of the sunWhere aye before God's face His trumpets run?Or have we but the talons and the maw,And for the abject likeness of our heartShall some less lordly bird be set apart?—Some gross-billed wader where the swamps are fat?Some gorger in the sun? Some prowler with the bat?IXAh no!We have not fallen so.We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know!'Twas only yesterday sick Cuba's cryCame up the tropic wind, "Now help us, for we die!"Then Alabama heard,And rising, pale, to Maine and IdahoShouted a burning word;Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred,And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth,East, west, and south, and north,Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and youngShed on the awful hill slope at San Juan,By the unforgotten names of eager boysWho might have tasted girls' love and been stungWith the old mystic joysAnd starry griefs, now the spring nights come on,But that the heart of youth is generous,—We charge you, ye who lead us,Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain!Turn not their new-world victories to gain!One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the baysOf their dear praise,One jot of their pure conquest put to hire,The implacable republic will require;With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon,Or subtly, coming as a thief at night,But surely, very surely, slow or soonThat insult deep we deeply will requite.Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity!For save we let the island men go free,Those baffled and dislaurelled ghostsWill curse us from the lamentable coastsWhere walk the frustrate dead.The cup of trembling shall be drainèd quite,Eaten the sour bread of astonishment,With ashes of the hearth shall be made whiteOur hair, and wailing shall be in the tent:Then on your guiltier headShall our intolerable self-disdainWreak suddenly its anger and its pain;For manifest in that disastrous lightWe shall discern the rightAnd do it, tardily.—O ye who lead,Take heed!Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite.William Vaughn Moody.
IBefore the living bronze Saint-Gaudens madeMost fit to thrill the passer's heart with awe,And set here in the city's talk and tradeTo the good memory of Robert Shaw,This bright March morn I standAnd hear the distant spring come up the land;Knowing that what I hear is not unheardOf this boy soldier and his negro band,For all their gaze is fixed so stern ahead,For all the fatal rhythm of their tread.The land they died to save from death and shameTrembles and waits, hearing the spring's great name,And by her pangs these resolute ghosts are stirred.
IIThrough street and mall the tides of people goHeedless; the trees upon the Common showNo hint of green; but to my listening heartThe still earth doth impartAssurance of her jubilant emprise,And it is clear to my long-searching eyesThat love at last has might upon the skies.The ice is runnelled on the little pond;A telltale patter drips from off the trees;The air is touched with southland spiceries,As if but yesterday it tossed the frondOf pendent mosses where the live oaks growBeyond Virginia and the Carolines,Or had its will among the fruits and vinesOf aromatic isles asleep beyondFlorida and the Gulf of Mexico.
IIISoon shall the Cape Ann children laugh in glee,Spying the arbutus, spring's dear recluse;Hill lads at dawn shall hearken the wild gooseGo honking northward over Tennessee;West from Oswego to Sault Saint-Marie,And on to where the Pictured Rocks are hung,And yonder where, gigantic, wilful, young,Chicago sitteth at the northwest gates,With restless violent hands and casual tongueMoulding her mighty fates,The Lakes shall robe them in ethereal sheen;And like a larger sea, the vital greenOf springing wheat shall vastly be outflungOver Dakota and the prairie states.By desert people immemorialOn Arizonan mesas shall be doneDim rites unto the thunder and the sun;Nor shall the primal gods lack sacrificeMore splendid, when the white Sierras callUnto the Rockies straightway to ariseAnd dance before the unveiled ark of the year,Clashing their windy cedars as for shawms,Unrolling rivers clearFor flutter of broad phylacteries;While Shasta signals to Alaskan seasThat watch old sluggish glaciers downward creepTo fling their icebergs thundering from the steep,And Mariposa through the purple calmsGazes at far Hawaii crowned with palmsWhere East and West are met,—A rich seal on the ocean's bosom setTo say that East and West are twain,With different loss and gain:The Lord hath sundered them; let them be sundered yet.
IVAlas! what sounds are these that comeSullenly over the Pacific seas,—Sounds of ignoble battle, striking dumbThe season's half-awakened ecstasies?Must I be humble, then,Now when my heart hath need of pride?Wild love falls on me from these sculptured men;By loving much the land for which they diedI would be justified.My spirit was away on pinions wideTo soothe in praise of her its passionate moodAnd ease it of its ache of gratitude.Too sorely heavy is the debt they layOn me and the companions of my day.I would remember nowMy country's goodliness, make sweet her name.Alas! what shade art thouOf sorrow or of blameLiftest the lyric leafage from her brow,And pointest a slow finger at her shame?
VLies! lies! It cannot be! The wars we wageAre noble, and our battles still are wonBy justice for us, ere we lift the gage.We have not sold our loftiest heritage.The proud republic hath not stooped to cheatAnd scramble in the market-place of war;Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star.Here is her witness: this, her perfect son,This delicate and proud New England soulWho leads despisèd men, with just-unshackled feet,Up the large ways where death and glory meet,To show all peoples that our shame is done,That once more we are clean and spirit-whole.
VICrouched in the sea fog on the moaning sandAll night he lay, speaking some simple wordFrom hour to hour to the slow minds that heard,Holding each poor life gently in his handAnd breathing on the base rejected clayTill each dark face shone mystical and grandAgainst the breaking day;And lo, the shard the potter cast awayWas grown a fiery chalice, crystal-fine,Fulfilled of the divineGreat wine of battle wrath by God's ring-finger stirred.Then upward, where the shadowy bastion loomedHuge on the mountain in the wet sea light,Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage bloomed,Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its deadly seed,—They swept, and died like freemen on the height,Like freemen, and like men of noble breed;And when the battle fell away at nightBy hasty and contemptuous hands were thrustObscurely in a common grave with himThe fair-haired keeper of their love and trust.Now limb doth mingle with dissolvèd limbIn nature's busy old democracyTo flush the mountain laurel when she blowsSweet by the southern sea,And heart with crumbled heart climbs in the rose:—The untaught hearts with the high heart that knewThis mountain fortress for no earthly holdOf temporal quarrel, but the bastion oldOf spiritual wrong,Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong,Expugnable but by a nation's rueAnd bowing down before that equal shrineBy all men held divine,Whereof his band and he were the most holy sign.
VIIO bitter, bitter shade!Wilt thou not put the scornAnd instant tragic question from thine eyes?Do thy dark brows yet craveThat swift and angry stave—Unmeet for this desirous morn—That I have striven, striven to evade?Gazing on him, must I not deem they errWhose careless lips in street and shop averAs common tidings, deeds to make his cheekFlush from the bronze, and his dead throat to speak?Surely some elder singer would arise,Whose harp hath leave to threaten and to mournAbove this people when they go astray.Is Whitman, the strong spirit, overworn?Has Whittier put his yearning wrath away?I will not and I dare not yet believe!Though furtively the sunlight seems to grieve,And the spring-laden breezeOut of the gladdening west is sinisterWith sounds of nameless battle overseas;Though when we turn and question in suspenseIf these things be indeed after these ways,And what things are to follow after these,Our fluent men of place and consequenceFumble and fill their mouths with hollow phrase,Or for the end-all of deep argumentsIntone their dull commercial liturgies—I dare not yet believe! My ears are shut!I will not hear the thin satiric praiseAnd muffled laughter of our enemies,Bidding us never sheathe our valiant swordTill we have changed our birthright for a gourdOf wild pulse stolen from a barbarian's hut;Showing how wise it is to cast awayThe symbols of our spiritual sway,That so our hands with better easeMay wield the driver's whip and grasp the jailer's keys.
VIIIWas it for this our fathers kept the law?This crown shall crown their struggle and their ruth?Are we the eagle nation Milton sawMewing its mighty youth,Soon to possess the mountain winds of truth,And be a swift familiar of the sunWhere aye before God's face His trumpets run?Or have we but the talons and the maw,And for the abject likeness of our heartShall some less lordly bird be set apart?—Some gross-billed wader where the swamps are fat?Some gorger in the sun? Some prowler with the bat?
IXAh no!We have not fallen so.We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know!'Twas only yesterday sick Cuba's cryCame up the tropic wind, "Now help us, for we die!"Then Alabama heard,And rising, pale, to Maine and IdahoShouted a burning word;Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred,And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth,East, west, and south, and north,Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and youngShed on the awful hill slope at San Juan,By the unforgotten names of eager boysWho might have tasted girls' love and been stungWith the old mystic joysAnd starry griefs, now the spring nights come on,But that the heart of youth is generous,—We charge you, ye who lead us,Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain!Turn not their new-world victories to gain!One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the baysOf their dear praise,One jot of their pure conquest put to hire,The implacable republic will require;With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon,Or subtly, coming as a thief at night,But surely, very surely, slow or soonThat insult deep we deeply will requite.Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity!For save we let the island men go free,Those baffled and dislaurelled ghostsWill curse us from the lamentable coastsWhere walk the frustrate dead.The cup of trembling shall be drainèd quite,Eaten the sour bread of astonishment,With ashes of the hearth shall be made whiteOur hair, and wailing shall be in the tent:Then on your guiltier headShall our intolerable self-disdainWreak suddenly its anger and its pain;For manifest in that disastrous lightWe shall discern the rightAnd do it, tardily.—O ye who lead,Take heed!Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite.
William Vaughn Moody.
THE NEW CENTURY
No country in the world entered upon the twentieth century with brighter prospects of peace, happiness, and prosperity than did the United States.
No country in the world entered upon the twentieth century with brighter prospects of peace, happiness, and prosperity than did the United States.
A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND
Huge and alert, irascible yet strong,We make our fitful way 'mid right and wrong.One time we pour out millions to be free,Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!One time we strike the shackles from the slaves,And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.Often we rudely break restraining bars,And confidently reach out toward the stars.Yet under all there flows a hidden streamSprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dreamOf Washington and Franklin, men of oldWho knew that freedom is not bought with gold.This is the Land we love, our heritage,Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sageAnd full of promise,—destined to be great.Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!Robert Bridges.
Huge and alert, irascible yet strong,We make our fitful way 'mid right and wrong.One time we pour out millions to be free,Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!One time we strike the shackles from the slaves,And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.Often we rudely break restraining bars,And confidently reach out toward the stars.Yet under all there flows a hidden streamSprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dreamOf Washington and Franklin, men of oldWho knew that freedom is not bought with gold.This is the Land we love, our heritage,Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sageAnd full of promise,—destined to be great.Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!Robert Bridges.
Huge and alert, irascible yet strong,We make our fitful way 'mid right and wrong.One time we pour out millions to be free,Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!One time we strike the shackles from the slaves,And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.Often we rudely break restraining bars,And confidently reach out toward the stars.
Yet under all there flows a hidden streamSprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dreamOf Washington and Franklin, men of oldWho knew that freedom is not bought with gold.This is the Land we love, our heritage,Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sageAnd full of promise,—destined to be great.Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!
Robert Bridges.
But the very first year, a bolt from the blue fell upon her. In May, 1901, a great industrial exposition, known as the "Pan-American," was opened at Buffalo, New York. It was especially notable for its electrical display and came to be known as "The Dream City," or "The City of Light."
But the very first year, a bolt from the blue fell upon her. In May, 1901, a great industrial exposition, known as the "Pan-American," was opened at Buffalo, New York. It was especially notable for its electrical display and came to be known as "The Dream City," or "The City of Light."
BUFFALO
[1901]
A transient city, marvellously fair,Humane, harmonious, yet nobly free,She built for pure delight and memory.At her command, by lake and garden rare,Pylon and tower majestic rose in air,And sculptured forms of grace and symmetry.Then came a thought of God, and, reverently,—"Let there be Light!" she said; and Light was there.O miracle of splendor! Who could knowThat Crime, insensate, egoist and blind,Destructive, causeless, caring but to smite,Would in its dull Cimmerian gropings findA sudden way to fill those courts with woe,And swallow up that radiance in night?Florence Earle Coates.
A transient city, marvellously fair,Humane, harmonious, yet nobly free,She built for pure delight and memory.At her command, by lake and garden rare,Pylon and tower majestic rose in air,And sculptured forms of grace and symmetry.Then came a thought of God, and, reverently,—"Let there be Light!" she said; and Light was there.O miracle of splendor! Who could knowThat Crime, insensate, egoist and blind,Destructive, causeless, caring but to smite,Would in its dull Cimmerian gropings findA sudden way to fill those courts with woe,And swallow up that radiance in night?Florence Earle Coates.
A transient city, marvellously fair,Humane, harmonious, yet nobly free,She built for pure delight and memory.At her command, by lake and garden rare,Pylon and tower majestic rose in air,And sculptured forms of grace and symmetry.Then came a thought of God, and, reverently,—"Let there be Light!" she said; and Light was there.O miracle of splendor! Who could knowThat Crime, insensate, egoist and blind,Destructive, causeless, caring but to smite,Would in its dull Cimmerian gropings findA sudden way to fill those courts with woe,And swallow up that radiance in night?
Florence Earle Coates.
September 5 was set aside as President's Day. The attendance was very large, and President William McKinley spoke to an audience of thirty thousand people. The next afternoon a reception was held, at which all were invited to pass in line and shake hands with the President. In the line was a man whose right hand was bandaged with a handkerchief. The handkerchief concealed a revolver. As the President stretched out his hand, the assassin fired twice, one bullet penetrating the President's abdomen.
September 5 was set aside as President's Day. The attendance was very large, and President William McKinley spoke to an audience of thirty thousand people. The next afternoon a reception was held, at which all were invited to pass in line and shake hands with the President. In the line was a man whose right hand was bandaged with a handkerchief. The handkerchief concealed a revolver. As the President stretched out his hand, the assassin fired twice, one bullet penetrating the President's abdomen.
McKINLEY
[September 6, 1901]
'Tis not the President aloneWho, stricken by that bullet, fell;The assassin's shotthat laid him pronePierced a great nation's heart as well;And when the baleful tidings spedFrom lip to lip throughout the crowd,Then, as they deemed their ruler dead,'Twas Liberty that cried aloud.Ay, Liberty! for where the foamOf oceans twain marks out the coast'Tis there, in Freedom's very home,That anarchy has maimed its host;There 'tis that it has turned to biteThe hand that fed it; there repaidA country's welcome with black spite;There, Judas-like, that land betrayed.For 'tis no despot that's laid low,But a free nation's chosen chief;A free man, stricken by a blowBase, dastardly, past all belief.And Tyranny exulting hearsThe tidings flashed across the sea;While stern Repression hugs her fears,And mouths them in a harsh decree.Meanwhile the cloud, though black as death,Is lined with hopes, hopes light as life,And Liberty that, scant of breath,Had watched the issue of the strife,Fills the glad air with grateful criesTo find the sun no more obscured,And with new yearnings in her eyesClimbs to her watch-tower—reassured.LondonTruth.
'Tis not the President aloneWho, stricken by that bullet, fell;The assassin's shotthat laid him pronePierced a great nation's heart as well;And when the baleful tidings spedFrom lip to lip throughout the crowd,Then, as they deemed their ruler dead,'Twas Liberty that cried aloud.Ay, Liberty! for where the foamOf oceans twain marks out the coast'Tis there, in Freedom's very home,That anarchy has maimed its host;There 'tis that it has turned to biteThe hand that fed it; there repaidA country's welcome with black spite;There, Judas-like, that land betrayed.For 'tis no despot that's laid low,But a free nation's chosen chief;A free man, stricken by a blowBase, dastardly, past all belief.And Tyranny exulting hearsThe tidings flashed across the sea;While stern Repression hugs her fears,And mouths them in a harsh decree.Meanwhile the cloud, though black as death,Is lined with hopes, hopes light as life,And Liberty that, scant of breath,Had watched the issue of the strife,Fills the glad air with grateful criesTo find the sun no more obscured,And with new yearnings in her eyesClimbs to her watch-tower—reassured.LondonTruth.
'Tis not the President aloneWho, stricken by that bullet, fell;The assassin's shotthat laid him pronePierced a great nation's heart as well;And when the baleful tidings spedFrom lip to lip throughout the crowd,Then, as they deemed their ruler dead,'Twas Liberty that cried aloud.
Ay, Liberty! for where the foamOf oceans twain marks out the coast'Tis there, in Freedom's very home,That anarchy has maimed its host;There 'tis that it has turned to biteThe hand that fed it; there repaidA country's welcome with black spite;There, Judas-like, that land betrayed.
For 'tis no despot that's laid low,But a free nation's chosen chief;A free man, stricken by a blowBase, dastardly, past all belief.And Tyranny exulting hearsThe tidings flashed across the sea;While stern Repression hugs her fears,And mouths them in a harsh decree.
Meanwhile the cloud, though black as death,Is lined with hopes, hopes light as life,And Liberty that, scant of breath,Had watched the issue of the strife,Fills the glad air with grateful criesTo find the sun no more obscured,And with new yearnings in her eyesClimbs to her watch-tower—reassured.
LondonTruth.
Surgical aid was at hand. It was found that the bullet had passed through the stomach; both wounds were sewed up, and five days later the President was pronounced out of danger. The next day, he showed signs of a relapse, and sank steadily until death came early on the morning of Saturday, September 14.
Surgical aid was at hand. It was found that the bullet had passed through the stomach; both wounds were sewed up, and five days later the President was pronounced out of danger. The next day, he showed signs of a relapse, and sank steadily until death came early on the morning of Saturday, September 14.
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH
[September 14, 1901]
His work is done, his toil is o'er;A martyr for our land he fell—The land he loved, that loved him well;Honor his name for evermore!Let all the world its tribute pay,For glorious shall be his renown;Though duty's was his only crown,Yet duty's path is glory's way.For he was great without pretence;A man of whom none whispered shame,A man who knew nor guile nor blame;Good in his every influence.On battle-field, in council-hall,Long years with sterling service rifeHe gave us, and at last his life—Still unafraid at duty's call.Let the last solemn pageant move,The nation's grief to consecrateTo him struck down by maniac hateAmid a mighty nation's love;And though the thought it solace gives,Beside the martyr's grave to-dayWe feel 'tis almost hard to say:"God reigns and the Republic lives!"Richard Handfield Titherington.
His work is done, his toil is o'er;A martyr for our land he fell—The land he loved, that loved him well;Honor his name for evermore!Let all the world its tribute pay,For glorious shall be his renown;Though duty's was his only crown,Yet duty's path is glory's way.For he was great without pretence;A man of whom none whispered shame,A man who knew nor guile nor blame;Good in his every influence.On battle-field, in council-hall,Long years with sterling service rifeHe gave us, and at last his life—Still unafraid at duty's call.Let the last solemn pageant move,The nation's grief to consecrateTo him struck down by maniac hateAmid a mighty nation's love;And though the thought it solace gives,Beside the martyr's grave to-dayWe feel 'tis almost hard to say:"God reigns and the Republic lives!"Richard Handfield Titherington.
His work is done, his toil is o'er;A martyr for our land he fell—The land he loved, that loved him well;Honor his name for evermore!
Let all the world its tribute pay,For glorious shall be his renown;Though duty's was his only crown,Yet duty's path is glory's way.
For he was great without pretence;A man of whom none whispered shame,A man who knew nor guile nor blame;Good in his every influence.
On battle-field, in council-hall,Long years with sterling service rifeHe gave us, and at last his life—Still unafraid at duty's call.
Let the last solemn pageant move,The nation's grief to consecrateTo him struck down by maniac hateAmid a mighty nation's love;
And though the thought it solace gives,Beside the martyr's grave to-dayWe feel 'tis almost hard to say:"God reigns and the Republic lives!"
Richard Handfield Titherington.
THE COMFORT OF THE TREES
Gentle and generous, brave-hearted, kind,And full of love and trust was he, our chief;He never harmed a soul! Oh, dull and blindAnd cruel, the hand that smote, beyond belief!Strike him? It could not be! Soon should we find'Twas but a torturing dream—our sudden grief!Then sobs and wailings down the northern windLike the wild voice of shipwreck from a reef!By false hope lulled (his courage gave us hope!)By day, by night we watched,—until unfurledAt last the word of fate!—Our memoriesCherish one tender thought in their sad scope:He, looking from the window on this world,Found comfort in the moving green of trees.Richard Watson Gilder.
Gentle and generous, brave-hearted, kind,And full of love and trust was he, our chief;He never harmed a soul! Oh, dull and blindAnd cruel, the hand that smote, beyond belief!Strike him? It could not be! Soon should we find'Twas but a torturing dream—our sudden grief!Then sobs and wailings down the northern windLike the wild voice of shipwreck from a reef!By false hope lulled (his courage gave us hope!)By day, by night we watched,—until unfurledAt last the word of fate!—Our memoriesCherish one tender thought in their sad scope:He, looking from the window on this world,Found comfort in the moving green of trees.Richard Watson Gilder.
Gentle and generous, brave-hearted, kind,And full of love and trust was he, our chief;He never harmed a soul! Oh, dull and blindAnd cruel, the hand that smote, beyond belief!Strike him? It could not be! Soon should we find'Twas but a torturing dream—our sudden grief!Then sobs and wailings down the northern windLike the wild voice of shipwreck from a reef!By false hope lulled (his courage gave us hope!)By day, by night we watched,—until unfurledAt last the word of fate!—Our memoriesCherish one tender thought in their sad scope:He, looking from the window on this world,Found comfort in the moving green of trees.
Richard Watson Gilder.
OUTWARD BOUND
Farewell! for now a stormy morn and darkThe hour of greeting and of parting brings;Already on the rising wind yon barkSpreads her impatient wings.Too hasty keel, a little while delay!A moment tarry, O thou hurrying dawn!For long and sad will be the mourners' dayWhen their beloved is gone.But vain the hands that beckon from the shore:Alike our passion and our grief are vain.Behind him lies our little world: beforeThe illimitable main.Yet, none the less, about his moving bedImmortal eyes a tireless vigil keep—An angel at the feet and at the headGuard his untroubled sleep.Two nations bowed above a common bier,Made one forever by a martyred son—One in their agony of hope and fear,And in their sorrow one.And thou, lone traveller, of a waste so wide,The uncharted seas that all must pass in turn,May the same star that was so long thy guideO'er thy last voyage burn.No eye can reach where through yon sombre veilThat bark to its eternal haven fares;No earthly breezes swell its shadowy sail:Only our love and prayers.Edward Sydney Tylee.
Farewell! for now a stormy morn and darkThe hour of greeting and of parting brings;Already on the rising wind yon barkSpreads her impatient wings.Too hasty keel, a little while delay!A moment tarry, O thou hurrying dawn!For long and sad will be the mourners' dayWhen their beloved is gone.But vain the hands that beckon from the shore:Alike our passion and our grief are vain.Behind him lies our little world: beforeThe illimitable main.Yet, none the less, about his moving bedImmortal eyes a tireless vigil keep—An angel at the feet and at the headGuard his untroubled sleep.Two nations bowed above a common bier,Made one forever by a martyred son—One in their agony of hope and fear,And in their sorrow one.And thou, lone traveller, of a waste so wide,The uncharted seas that all must pass in turn,May the same star that was so long thy guideO'er thy last voyage burn.No eye can reach where through yon sombre veilThat bark to its eternal haven fares;No earthly breezes swell its shadowy sail:Only our love and prayers.Edward Sydney Tylee.
Farewell! for now a stormy morn and darkThe hour of greeting and of parting brings;Already on the rising wind yon barkSpreads her impatient wings.
Too hasty keel, a little while delay!A moment tarry, O thou hurrying dawn!For long and sad will be the mourners' dayWhen their beloved is gone.
But vain the hands that beckon from the shore:Alike our passion and our grief are vain.Behind him lies our little world: beforeThe illimitable main.
Yet, none the less, about his moving bedImmortal eyes a tireless vigil keep—An angel at the feet and at the headGuard his untroubled sleep.
Two nations bowed above a common bier,Made one forever by a martyred son—One in their agony of hope and fear,And in their sorrow one.
And thou, lone traveller, of a waste so wide,The uncharted seas that all must pass in turn,May the same star that was so long thy guideO'er thy last voyage burn.
No eye can reach where through yon sombre veilThat bark to its eternal haven fares;No earthly breezes swell its shadowy sail:Only our love and prayers.
Edward Sydney Tylee.
Theodore Roosevelt, Vice-President, succeeded to the Presidency. The greatest project which the new administration undertook was the construction of a ship canal across the Isthmus of Panama. This enterprise had been agitated as early as 1826, and in 1879 a French company under Ferdinand de Lesseps had secured a concession from Colombia and started to work. At the end of ten years, the company had exhausted its resources and work ceased.
Theodore Roosevelt, Vice-President, succeeded to the Presidency. The greatest project which the new administration undertook was the construction of a ship canal across the Isthmus of Panama. This enterprise had been agitated as early as 1826, and in 1879 a French company under Ferdinand de Lesseps had secured a concession from Colombia and started to work. At the end of ten years, the company had exhausted its resources and work ceased.
PANAMA
Here the oceans twain have waitedAll the ages to be mated,—Waited long and waited vainly,Though the script was written plainly:"This, the portal of the sea,Opes for him who holds the key;Here the empire of the earthWaits in patience for its birth."But the Spanish monarch, dimlySeeing little, answered grimly:"North and South the land is Spain's;As God gave it, it remains.He who seeks to break the tie,By mine honor, he shall die!"So the centuries rollèd on,And the gift of great Colon,Like a spendthrift's heritage,Dwindled slowly, age by age,Till the flag of red and goldFell from hands unnerved and old,And the granite-pillared gateWaited still the key of fate.Who shall hold that magic keyBut the child of destiny,In whose veins has mingled longAll the best blood of the strong?He who takes his place by graceOf no single tribe or race,But by many a rich bequestFrom the bravest and the best.Sentinel of duty, hereMust he guard a hemisphere.Let the old world keep its ways;Naught to him its blame or praise;Naught its greed, or hate, or fear;For all swords be sheathèd here.Yea, the gateway shall be freeUnto all, from sea to sea;And no fratricidal slaughterShall defile its sacred water;But—the hand that ope'd the gate shall forever hold the key!James Jeffrey Roche.
Here the oceans twain have waitedAll the ages to be mated,—Waited long and waited vainly,Though the script was written plainly:"This, the portal of the sea,Opes for him who holds the key;Here the empire of the earthWaits in patience for its birth."But the Spanish monarch, dimlySeeing little, answered grimly:"North and South the land is Spain's;As God gave it, it remains.He who seeks to break the tie,By mine honor, he shall die!"So the centuries rollèd on,And the gift of great Colon,Like a spendthrift's heritage,Dwindled slowly, age by age,Till the flag of red and goldFell from hands unnerved and old,And the granite-pillared gateWaited still the key of fate.Who shall hold that magic keyBut the child of destiny,In whose veins has mingled longAll the best blood of the strong?He who takes his place by graceOf no single tribe or race,But by many a rich bequestFrom the bravest and the best.Sentinel of duty, hereMust he guard a hemisphere.Let the old world keep its ways;Naught to him its blame or praise;Naught its greed, or hate, or fear;For all swords be sheathèd here.Yea, the gateway shall be freeUnto all, from sea to sea;And no fratricidal slaughterShall defile its sacred water;But—the hand that ope'd the gate shall forever hold the key!James Jeffrey Roche.
Here the oceans twain have waitedAll the ages to be mated,—Waited long and waited vainly,Though the script was written plainly:"This, the portal of the sea,Opes for him who holds the key;Here the empire of the earthWaits in patience for its birth."
But the Spanish monarch, dimlySeeing little, answered grimly:"North and South the land is Spain's;As God gave it, it remains.He who seeks to break the tie,By mine honor, he shall die!"
So the centuries rollèd on,And the gift of great Colon,Like a spendthrift's heritage,Dwindled slowly, age by age,Till the flag of red and goldFell from hands unnerved and old,And the granite-pillared gateWaited still the key of fate.
Who shall hold that magic keyBut the child of destiny,In whose veins has mingled longAll the best blood of the strong?He who takes his place by graceOf no single tribe or race,But by many a rich bequestFrom the bravest and the best.Sentinel of duty, hereMust he guard a hemisphere.
Let the old world keep its ways;Naught to him its blame or praise;Naught its greed, or hate, or fear;For all swords be sheathèd here.
Yea, the gateway shall be freeUnto all, from sea to sea;And no fratricidal slaughterShall defile its sacred water;But—the hand that ope'd the gate shall forever hold the key!
James Jeffrey Roche.
The United States was naturally looked to to carry on the project. The matter was brought before Congress, and in 1902 the French company was bought out for the sum of forty million dollars. The Republic of Panama was organized, when Colombia hesitated over the concession, and control of the canal route was thus secured.
The United States was naturally looked to to carry on the project. The matter was brought before Congress, and in 1902 the French company was bought out for the sum of forty million dollars. The Republic of Panama was organized, when Colombia hesitated over the concession, and control of the canal route was thus secured.
DARIEN
A.D. 1513-A.D. 1901
[The American Senate has ratified the isthmus treaty.—Washington Telegram.]
"Silent upon a peak in Darien,"The Spanish steel red in his conquering hand,While golden, green and gracious the vast landOf that new world comes sudden into ken—Stands Nuñez da Balboa. North and southHe sees at last the full Pacific rollIn blue and silver on each shelf and shoal,And the white bar of the broad river's mouth,And the long, ranked palm-trees. "Queen of Heaven," he cried,"To-day thou giv'st me this for all my pain,And I the glorious guerdon give to Spain,A new earth and new sea to be her pride,War ground and treasure-house." And while he spokeThe world's heart knew a mightier dawn was broke."Silent, upon a peak in Darien"—Four hundred years being fled, a Greater stoodOn that same height; and did behold the floodOf blue waves leaping; Mother of all men!Wise Nature! And she spake, "The gift I gaveTo Nuñez da Balboa could not keepSpain from her sins; now must the ages sweepTo larger legend, tho' her own was brave.Here on this ridge I do foresee fresh birth.That which departed shall bring side by side,The sea shall sever what hills did divide;Shall link in love." And there was joy on earth;Whilst England and Columbia, quitting fear,Kissed—and let in the eager waters there.Edwin Arnold.
"Silent upon a peak in Darien,"The Spanish steel red in his conquering hand,While golden, green and gracious the vast landOf that new world comes sudden into ken—Stands Nuñez da Balboa. North and southHe sees at last the full Pacific rollIn blue and silver on each shelf and shoal,And the white bar of the broad river's mouth,And the long, ranked palm-trees. "Queen of Heaven," he cried,"To-day thou giv'st me this for all my pain,And I the glorious guerdon give to Spain,A new earth and new sea to be her pride,War ground and treasure-house." And while he spokeThe world's heart knew a mightier dawn was broke."Silent, upon a peak in Darien"—Four hundred years being fled, a Greater stoodOn that same height; and did behold the floodOf blue waves leaping; Mother of all men!Wise Nature! And she spake, "The gift I gaveTo Nuñez da Balboa could not keepSpain from her sins; now must the ages sweepTo larger legend, tho' her own was brave.Here on this ridge I do foresee fresh birth.That which departed shall bring side by side,The sea shall sever what hills did divide;Shall link in love." And there was joy on earth;Whilst England and Columbia, quitting fear,Kissed—and let in the eager waters there.Edwin Arnold.
"Silent upon a peak in Darien,"The Spanish steel red in his conquering hand,While golden, green and gracious the vast landOf that new world comes sudden into ken—Stands Nuñez da Balboa. North and southHe sees at last the full Pacific rollIn blue and silver on each shelf and shoal,And the white bar of the broad river's mouth,And the long, ranked palm-trees. "Queen of Heaven," he cried,"To-day thou giv'st me this for all my pain,And I the glorious guerdon give to Spain,A new earth and new sea to be her pride,War ground and treasure-house." And while he spokeThe world's heart knew a mightier dawn was broke.
"Silent, upon a peak in Darien"—Four hundred years being fled, a Greater stoodOn that same height; and did behold the floodOf blue waves leaping; Mother of all men!Wise Nature! And she spake, "The gift I gaveTo Nuñez da Balboa could not keepSpain from her sins; now must the ages sweepTo larger legend, tho' her own was brave.Here on this ridge I do foresee fresh birth.That which departed shall bring side by side,The sea shall sever what hills did divide;Shall link in love." And there was joy on earth;Whilst England and Columbia, quitting fear,Kissed—and let in the eager waters there.
Edwin Arnold.
PANAMA
HOME OF THE DOVE-PLANT OR HOLY GHOST FLOWER