The windows of Heaven were open wide,The storm cloud broke, and the people cried,Will Conemaugh dam hold out?But the great folks down at Johnstown played,They ate, they drank, they were nought afraid,For Conemaugh dam holds Conemaugh lake,By Conemaugh dam their pleasure they take,Fine catching are Conemaugh trout.The four mile lake at the back of its wallIs growing to five, and the rains still fall,And the flood by night and by dayIs burrowing deep thro' buttress and mound,Fresh waters spring and spurt from the ground;While God is thundering out of His cloudThe fountain voices are crying aloud,Away to the hills! away!Away to the hills! leave altar and shrine,Away to the hills! leave table and wine,Away from the trade and your tills;Let the strong man speed with the weakest child,And the mother who just on her babe has smiledBe carried, leave only the dead on their biers,No time for the tomb, and no time for tears;Away, away to the hills!Daniel Periton heard the wailOf the waters gathering over the vale,With sorrow for city and field,—Felt already the mountain quake'Twixt living and dead. For the brethren's sakeDaniel Periton dared to rideFull in front of the threatening tide,And what if the dam do yield?To a man it is given but once to die,Though the flood break forth he will raise his cryFor the thousands there in the town.At least, some child may be saved by his voice,Some lover may still in the sun rejoice,Some man that has fled, when he wins his breath,Shall bless the rider who rode thro' death,For his fellows' life gave his own.He leapt to his horse that was black as night,He turned not left and he turned not right,Down to the valley he dashed;He heard behind him a thunderous boom,The dam had burst and he knew his doom;"Fly, fly for your lives!" it was all he spoke;"Fly, fly, for the Conemaugh dam has broke!"And the cataract after him crashed.They saw a man with the God in his face,Pale from the desperate whirlwind pace,They heard an angel cry.And the steed's black mane was flecked as he flew,And its flanks were red with the spur's red dew,Into the city and out of the gate,Rider and ridden were racing with fate,Wild with one agony."Flash on the news that the dam has burst,"And one looked forth, and she knew the worst,"My last message!" she said.The words at her will flashed on beforePeriton's call and the torrent's roar;And not in vain had Periton cried,His heart had caught a brave heart to his side,As bold for the saving he sped.The flood came down and its strong arms tookThe city, and all together shook,Tower and church and street,Like a pack of cards that a player may crush,The houses fell in the whirlpool rush,Rose and floated and jammed at the last,Then a fierce flame fed by the deluge blastWove them a winding-sheet.God have mercy! was ever a pyreLit like that of the flood's fierce fire!Cattle and men caught fast,Prisoners held between life and death,While the flame struck down with its sulphurous breath,And the flood struck up with its strong, cold hand,No hope from the water, no help from the land,And the torrent thundering past!Daniel Periton, still he rides,By the heaving flank and the shortening strides,The race must be well-nigh won."Away to the hills!" but the cataract's boundHas caught and has dashed him from saddle to ground,—And the man who saw the end of the race,Saw a dark, dead horse, and a pale dead face,Did they hear Heaven's great "Well done"?Hardwick Drummond Rawnsley.
The windows of Heaven were open wide,The storm cloud broke, and the people cried,Will Conemaugh dam hold out?But the great folks down at Johnstown played,They ate, they drank, they were nought afraid,For Conemaugh dam holds Conemaugh lake,By Conemaugh dam their pleasure they take,Fine catching are Conemaugh trout.The four mile lake at the back of its wallIs growing to five, and the rains still fall,And the flood by night and by dayIs burrowing deep thro' buttress and mound,Fresh waters spring and spurt from the ground;While God is thundering out of His cloudThe fountain voices are crying aloud,Away to the hills! away!Away to the hills! leave altar and shrine,Away to the hills! leave table and wine,Away from the trade and your tills;Let the strong man speed with the weakest child,And the mother who just on her babe has smiledBe carried, leave only the dead on their biers,No time for the tomb, and no time for tears;Away, away to the hills!Daniel Periton heard the wailOf the waters gathering over the vale,With sorrow for city and field,—Felt already the mountain quake'Twixt living and dead. For the brethren's sakeDaniel Periton dared to rideFull in front of the threatening tide,And what if the dam do yield?To a man it is given but once to die,Though the flood break forth he will raise his cryFor the thousands there in the town.At least, some child may be saved by his voice,Some lover may still in the sun rejoice,Some man that has fled, when he wins his breath,Shall bless the rider who rode thro' death,For his fellows' life gave his own.He leapt to his horse that was black as night,He turned not left and he turned not right,Down to the valley he dashed;He heard behind him a thunderous boom,The dam had burst and he knew his doom;"Fly, fly for your lives!" it was all he spoke;"Fly, fly, for the Conemaugh dam has broke!"And the cataract after him crashed.They saw a man with the God in his face,Pale from the desperate whirlwind pace,They heard an angel cry.And the steed's black mane was flecked as he flew,And its flanks were red with the spur's red dew,Into the city and out of the gate,Rider and ridden were racing with fate,Wild with one agony."Flash on the news that the dam has burst,"And one looked forth, and she knew the worst,"My last message!" she said.The words at her will flashed on beforePeriton's call and the torrent's roar;And not in vain had Periton cried,His heart had caught a brave heart to his side,As bold for the saving he sped.The flood came down and its strong arms tookThe city, and all together shook,Tower and church and street,Like a pack of cards that a player may crush,The houses fell in the whirlpool rush,Rose and floated and jammed at the last,Then a fierce flame fed by the deluge blastWove them a winding-sheet.God have mercy! was ever a pyreLit like that of the flood's fierce fire!Cattle and men caught fast,Prisoners held between life and death,While the flame struck down with its sulphurous breath,And the flood struck up with its strong, cold hand,No hope from the water, no help from the land,And the torrent thundering past!Daniel Periton, still he rides,By the heaving flank and the shortening strides,The race must be well-nigh won."Away to the hills!" but the cataract's boundHas caught and has dashed him from saddle to ground,—And the man who saw the end of the race,Saw a dark, dead horse, and a pale dead face,Did they hear Heaven's great "Well done"?Hardwick Drummond Rawnsley.
The windows of Heaven were open wide,The storm cloud broke, and the people cried,Will Conemaugh dam hold out?But the great folks down at Johnstown played,They ate, they drank, they were nought afraid,For Conemaugh dam holds Conemaugh lake,By Conemaugh dam their pleasure they take,Fine catching are Conemaugh trout.
The four mile lake at the back of its wallIs growing to five, and the rains still fall,And the flood by night and by dayIs burrowing deep thro' buttress and mound,Fresh waters spring and spurt from the ground;While God is thundering out of His cloudThe fountain voices are crying aloud,Away to the hills! away!
Away to the hills! leave altar and shrine,Away to the hills! leave table and wine,Away from the trade and your tills;Let the strong man speed with the weakest child,And the mother who just on her babe has smiledBe carried, leave only the dead on their biers,No time for the tomb, and no time for tears;Away, away to the hills!
Daniel Periton heard the wailOf the waters gathering over the vale,With sorrow for city and field,—Felt already the mountain quake'Twixt living and dead. For the brethren's sakeDaniel Periton dared to rideFull in front of the threatening tide,And what if the dam do yield?
To a man it is given but once to die,Though the flood break forth he will raise his cryFor the thousands there in the town.At least, some child may be saved by his voice,Some lover may still in the sun rejoice,Some man that has fled, when he wins his breath,Shall bless the rider who rode thro' death,For his fellows' life gave his own.
He leapt to his horse that was black as night,He turned not left and he turned not right,Down to the valley he dashed;He heard behind him a thunderous boom,The dam had burst and he knew his doom;"Fly, fly for your lives!" it was all he spoke;"Fly, fly, for the Conemaugh dam has broke!"And the cataract after him crashed.
They saw a man with the God in his face,Pale from the desperate whirlwind pace,They heard an angel cry.And the steed's black mane was flecked as he flew,And its flanks were red with the spur's red dew,Into the city and out of the gate,Rider and ridden were racing with fate,Wild with one agony.
"Flash on the news that the dam has burst,"And one looked forth, and she knew the worst,"My last message!" she said.The words at her will flashed on beforePeriton's call and the torrent's roar;And not in vain had Periton cried,His heart had caught a brave heart to his side,As bold for the saving he sped.
The flood came down and its strong arms tookThe city, and all together shook,Tower and church and street,Like a pack of cards that a player may crush,The houses fell in the whirlpool rush,Rose and floated and jammed at the last,Then a fierce flame fed by the deluge blastWove them a winding-sheet.
God have mercy! was ever a pyreLit like that of the flood's fierce fire!Cattle and men caught fast,Prisoners held between life and death,While the flame struck down with its sulphurous breath,And the flood struck up with its strong, cold hand,No hope from the water, no help from the land,And the torrent thundering past!
Daniel Periton, still he rides,By the heaving flank and the shortening strides,The race must be well-nigh won."Away to the hills!" but the cataract's boundHas caught and has dashed him from saddle to ground,—And the man who saw the end of the race,Saw a dark, dead horse, and a pale dead face,Did they hear Heaven's great "Well done"?
Hardwick Drummond Rawnsley.
In charge of the telegraph office at Johnstown was a Mrs. Ogle. She stayed at her post, sending message after message of warning down the valley until she herself was overwhelmed and swept away.
In charge of the telegraph office at Johnstown was a Mrs. Ogle. She stayed at her post, sending message after message of warning down the valley until she herself was overwhelmed and swept away.
CONEMAUGH
"Fly to the mountain! Fly!"Terribly rang the cry.The electric soul of the wireQuivered like sentient fire.The soul of the woman who stoodFace to face with the floodAnswered to the shockLike the eternal rock.For she stayedWith her hand on the wire,Unafraid,Flashing the wild word downInto the lower town.Is there a lower yet and another?Into the valley she and none otherCan hurl the warning cry:"Fly to the mountain! Fly!The water from ConemaughHas opened its awful jaw.The dam is wideOn the mountain-side!""Fly foryourlife, oh, fly!"They said.She lifted her noble head:"I can stay at my post, and die."Face to face with duty and death,Dear is the drawing of human breath."Steady, my hand! Hold fastTo the trust upon thee cast.Steady, my wire! Go, sayThat death is on the way!Steady, strong wire! Go, save!Grand is the power you have!"Grander the soul that can standBehind the trembling hand;Grander the woman who dares;Glory her high name wears."This message is my last!"Shot over the wire, and passedTo the listening ear of the land.The mountain and the strandReverberate the cry:"Fly for your lives, oh, fly!I stay at my post, and die."The torrent took her. God knows all.Fiercely the savage currents fallTo muttering calm. Men count their dead.The June sky smileth overhead.God's will we neither read nor guess.Poorer by one more hero less,We bow the head, and clasp the hand:"Teach us, altho' we die, to stand."Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward.
"Fly to the mountain! Fly!"Terribly rang the cry.The electric soul of the wireQuivered like sentient fire.The soul of the woman who stoodFace to face with the floodAnswered to the shockLike the eternal rock.For she stayedWith her hand on the wire,Unafraid,Flashing the wild word downInto the lower town.Is there a lower yet and another?Into the valley she and none otherCan hurl the warning cry:"Fly to the mountain! Fly!The water from ConemaughHas opened its awful jaw.The dam is wideOn the mountain-side!""Fly foryourlife, oh, fly!"They said.She lifted her noble head:"I can stay at my post, and die."Face to face with duty and death,Dear is the drawing of human breath."Steady, my hand! Hold fastTo the trust upon thee cast.Steady, my wire! Go, sayThat death is on the way!Steady, strong wire! Go, save!Grand is the power you have!"Grander the soul that can standBehind the trembling hand;Grander the woman who dares;Glory her high name wears."This message is my last!"Shot over the wire, and passedTo the listening ear of the land.The mountain and the strandReverberate the cry:"Fly for your lives, oh, fly!I stay at my post, and die."The torrent took her. God knows all.Fiercely the savage currents fallTo muttering calm. Men count their dead.The June sky smileth overhead.God's will we neither read nor guess.Poorer by one more hero less,We bow the head, and clasp the hand:"Teach us, altho' we die, to stand."Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward.
"Fly to the mountain! Fly!"Terribly rang the cry.The electric soul of the wireQuivered like sentient fire.The soul of the woman who stoodFace to face with the floodAnswered to the shockLike the eternal rock.For she stayedWith her hand on the wire,Unafraid,Flashing the wild word downInto the lower town.Is there a lower yet and another?Into the valley she and none otherCan hurl the warning cry:"Fly to the mountain! Fly!The water from ConemaughHas opened its awful jaw.The dam is wideOn the mountain-side!"
"Fly foryourlife, oh, fly!"They said.She lifted her noble head:"I can stay at my post, and die."
Face to face with duty and death,Dear is the drawing of human breath."Steady, my hand! Hold fastTo the trust upon thee cast.Steady, my wire! Go, sayThat death is on the way!Steady, strong wire! Go, save!Grand is the power you have!"
Grander the soul that can standBehind the trembling hand;Grander the woman who dares;Glory her high name wears."This message is my last!"Shot over the wire, and passedTo the listening ear of the land.The mountain and the strandReverberate the cry:"Fly for your lives, oh, fly!I stay at my post, and die."
The torrent took her. God knows all.Fiercely the savage currents fallTo muttering calm. Men count their dead.The June sky smileth overhead.God's will we neither read nor guess.Poorer by one more hero less,We bow the head, and clasp the hand:"Teach us, altho' we die, to stand."
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward.
On May 1, 1893, the most remarkable exposition ever held in America opened at Chicago, to celebrate the four hundredth anniversary of the discovery of America. The group of exposition buildings soon became known as "The White City."
On May 1, 1893, the most remarkable exposition ever held in America opened at Chicago, to celebrate the four hundredth anniversary of the discovery of America. The group of exposition buildings soon became known as "The White City."
"THE WHITE CITY"
IGreece was; Greece is no more.Temple and townHave crumbled down;Time is the fire that hath consumed them all.Statue and wallIn ruin strew the universal floor.IIGreece lives, but Greece no more!Its ashes breedThe undying seedBlown westward till, in Rome's imperial towers,Athens reflowers;Still westward—lo, a veiled and virgin shore!IIISay not, "Greece is no more."Through the clear mornOn light winds borneHer white-winged soul sinks on the New World's breast.Ah! happy West—Greece flowers anew, and all her temples soar!IVOne bright hour, then no moreShall to the skiesThese columns rise.But though art's flower shall fade, again the seedOnward shall speed,Quickening the land from lake to ocean's roar.VArt lives, though Greece may neverFrom the ancient moldAs once of oldExhale to heaven the inimitable bloom;Yet from that tombBeauty walks forth to light the world forever!Richard Watson Gilder.
IGreece was; Greece is no more.Temple and townHave crumbled down;Time is the fire that hath consumed them all.Statue and wallIn ruin strew the universal floor.IIGreece lives, but Greece no more!Its ashes breedThe undying seedBlown westward till, in Rome's imperial towers,Athens reflowers;Still westward—lo, a veiled and virgin shore!IIISay not, "Greece is no more."Through the clear mornOn light winds borneHer white-winged soul sinks on the New World's breast.Ah! happy West—Greece flowers anew, and all her temples soar!IVOne bright hour, then no moreShall to the skiesThese columns rise.But though art's flower shall fade, again the seedOnward shall speed,Quickening the land from lake to ocean's roar.VArt lives, though Greece may neverFrom the ancient moldAs once of oldExhale to heaven the inimitable bloom;Yet from that tombBeauty walks forth to light the world forever!Richard Watson Gilder.
IGreece was; Greece is no more.Temple and townHave crumbled down;Time is the fire that hath consumed them all.Statue and wallIn ruin strew the universal floor.
IIGreece lives, but Greece no more!Its ashes breedThe undying seedBlown westward till, in Rome's imperial towers,Athens reflowers;Still westward—lo, a veiled and virgin shore!
IIISay not, "Greece is no more."Through the clear mornOn light winds borneHer white-winged soul sinks on the New World's breast.Ah! happy West—Greece flowers anew, and all her temples soar!
IVOne bright hour, then no moreShall to the skiesThese columns rise.But though art's flower shall fade, again the seedOnward shall speed,Quickening the land from lake to ocean's roar.
VArt lives, though Greece may neverFrom the ancient moldAs once of oldExhale to heaven the inimitable bloom;Yet from that tombBeauty walks forth to light the world forever!
Richard Watson Gilder.
On February 2, 1894, the famous old corvette, Kearsarge, which destroyed the Confederate cruiser Alabama, off Cherbourg, during the Civil War, was wrecked on Roncador reef in the Caribbean Sea.
On February 2, 1894, the famous old corvette, Kearsarge, which destroyed the Confederate cruiser Alabama, off Cherbourg, during the Civil War, was wrecked on Roncador reef in the Caribbean Sea.
THE KEARSARGE
[February 2, 1894]
In the gloomy ocean bedDwelt a formless thing, and said,In the dim and countless eons long ago,"I will build a stronghold high,Ocean's power to defy,And the pride of haughty man to lay low."Crept the minutes for the sad,Sped the cycles for the glad,But the march of time was neither less nor more;While the formless atom died,Myriad millions by its side,And above them slowly lifted Roncador.Roncador of Caribee,Coral dragon of the sea,Ever sleeping with his teeth below the wave;Woe to him who breaks the sleep!Woe to them who sail the deep!Woe to ship and man that fear a shipman's grave!Hither many a galleon old,Heavy-keeled with guilty gold,Fled before the hardy rover smiting sore;But the sleeper silent layTill the preyer and his preyBrought their plunder and their bones to Roncador.Be content, O conqueror!Now our bravest ship of war,War and tempest who had often braved before,All her storied prowess past,Strikes her glorious flag at lastTo the formless thing that builded Roncador.James Jeffrey Roche.
In the gloomy ocean bedDwelt a formless thing, and said,In the dim and countless eons long ago,"I will build a stronghold high,Ocean's power to defy,And the pride of haughty man to lay low."Crept the minutes for the sad,Sped the cycles for the glad,But the march of time was neither less nor more;While the formless atom died,Myriad millions by its side,And above them slowly lifted Roncador.Roncador of Caribee,Coral dragon of the sea,Ever sleeping with his teeth below the wave;Woe to him who breaks the sleep!Woe to them who sail the deep!Woe to ship and man that fear a shipman's grave!Hither many a galleon old,Heavy-keeled with guilty gold,Fled before the hardy rover smiting sore;But the sleeper silent layTill the preyer and his preyBrought their plunder and their bones to Roncador.Be content, O conqueror!Now our bravest ship of war,War and tempest who had often braved before,All her storied prowess past,Strikes her glorious flag at lastTo the formless thing that builded Roncador.James Jeffrey Roche.
In the gloomy ocean bedDwelt a formless thing, and said,In the dim and countless eons long ago,"I will build a stronghold high,Ocean's power to defy,And the pride of haughty man to lay low."
Crept the minutes for the sad,Sped the cycles for the glad,But the march of time was neither less nor more;While the formless atom died,Myriad millions by its side,And above them slowly lifted Roncador.
Roncador of Caribee,Coral dragon of the sea,Ever sleeping with his teeth below the wave;Woe to him who breaks the sleep!Woe to them who sail the deep!Woe to ship and man that fear a shipman's grave!
Hither many a galleon old,Heavy-keeled with guilty gold,Fled before the hardy rover smiting sore;But the sleeper silent layTill the preyer and his preyBrought their plunder and their bones to Roncador.
Be content, O conqueror!Now our bravest ship of war,War and tempest who had often braved before,All her storied prowess past,Strikes her glorious flag at lastTo the formless thing that builded Roncador.
James Jeffrey Roche.
In 1896 Tennessee celebrated the one hundredth anniversary of her admission to the Union, by an exposition held at Nashville.
In 1896 Tennessee celebrated the one hundredth anniversary of her admission to the Union, by an exposition held at Nashville.
TENNESSEE
PRIZE CENTENNIAL ODE
[June 1, 1896]
She is touching the cycle,—her tender treadIs soft on the hearts of her hallowed dead,And she proudly stands where her sons have bledFor God and Tennessee;Where the love of her women set the sealOf the warrior's faith for the country's weal,With hand on the rifle and hand on the wheel,By the altars of Tennessee.They have builded well for the niche of fame,Through the sleet of want and the heat of blame,But the courage of heroes tried the flame,As they builded Tennessee.'Twas up to the port-holes and down in the dust,Not the weight of might, but the force of must,With faith and rifle-bore free from rust,They were building Tennessee.'Twas up in the saddle and off to the fight,Where arrow and tomahawk shrieked in the light;But the sinews of pioneers won for the right,—The bulwarks of Tennessee.*****She was true when they pressed like a shadowy fate,—Her royal foes at her unbarred gate,—And as true when were menaced her Rights of State,—The mother,—Tennessee.And she gave of her life for the stars and bars,As she gave of her sons for the earlier wars,And the breast of her motherhood wears the scars,For the manhood of Tennessee.But she wrought again, in the strength of might,In the face of defeat and a yielded right,The Cloth of Gold from the loom of night,—The mantle of Tennessee.She has given all that she held most dear,With a Spartan hope and a Spartan fear,—Crowned in her statehood "Volunteer,"—Glorious Tennessee!She has rounded the cycle,—the tale is told;The circlet is iron, the clasp is gold;And the leaves of a wonderful past unfoldThe garland of Tennessee.And her garments gleam in the sunlit years,And the songs of her children fill her ears;And the listening heart of the great world hearsThe pæans of Tennessee!Virginia Fraser Boyle.
She is touching the cycle,—her tender treadIs soft on the hearts of her hallowed dead,And she proudly stands where her sons have bledFor God and Tennessee;Where the love of her women set the sealOf the warrior's faith for the country's weal,With hand on the rifle and hand on the wheel,By the altars of Tennessee.They have builded well for the niche of fame,Through the sleet of want and the heat of blame,But the courage of heroes tried the flame,As they builded Tennessee.'Twas up to the port-holes and down in the dust,Not the weight of might, but the force of must,With faith and rifle-bore free from rust,They were building Tennessee.'Twas up in the saddle and off to the fight,Where arrow and tomahawk shrieked in the light;But the sinews of pioneers won for the right,—The bulwarks of Tennessee.*****She was true when they pressed like a shadowy fate,—Her royal foes at her unbarred gate,—And as true when were menaced her Rights of State,—The mother,—Tennessee.And she gave of her life for the stars and bars,As she gave of her sons for the earlier wars,And the breast of her motherhood wears the scars,For the manhood of Tennessee.But she wrought again, in the strength of might,In the face of defeat and a yielded right,The Cloth of Gold from the loom of night,—The mantle of Tennessee.She has given all that she held most dear,With a Spartan hope and a Spartan fear,—Crowned in her statehood "Volunteer,"—Glorious Tennessee!She has rounded the cycle,—the tale is told;The circlet is iron, the clasp is gold;And the leaves of a wonderful past unfoldThe garland of Tennessee.And her garments gleam in the sunlit years,And the songs of her children fill her ears;And the listening heart of the great world hearsThe pæans of Tennessee!Virginia Fraser Boyle.
She is touching the cycle,—her tender treadIs soft on the hearts of her hallowed dead,And she proudly stands where her sons have bledFor God and Tennessee;
Where the love of her women set the sealOf the warrior's faith for the country's weal,With hand on the rifle and hand on the wheel,By the altars of Tennessee.
They have builded well for the niche of fame,Through the sleet of want and the heat of blame,But the courage of heroes tried the flame,As they builded Tennessee.
'Twas up to the port-holes and down in the dust,Not the weight of might, but the force of must,With faith and rifle-bore free from rust,They were building Tennessee.
'Twas up in the saddle and off to the fight,Where arrow and tomahawk shrieked in the light;But the sinews of pioneers won for the right,—The bulwarks of Tennessee.
*****
She was true when they pressed like a shadowy fate,—Her royal foes at her unbarred gate,—And as true when were menaced her Rights of State,—The mother,—Tennessee.
And she gave of her life for the stars and bars,As she gave of her sons for the earlier wars,And the breast of her motherhood wears the scars,For the manhood of Tennessee.
But she wrought again, in the strength of might,In the face of defeat and a yielded right,The Cloth of Gold from the loom of night,—The mantle of Tennessee.
She has given all that she held most dear,With a Spartan hope and a Spartan fear,—Crowned in her statehood "Volunteer,"—Glorious Tennessee!
She has rounded the cycle,—the tale is told;The circlet is iron, the clasp is gold;And the leaves of a wonderful past unfoldThe garland of Tennessee.
And her garments gleam in the sunlit years,And the songs of her children fill her ears;And the listening heart of the great world hearsThe pæans of Tennessee!
Virginia Fraser Boyle.
On May 31, 1897, a monument to the memory of Robert Gould Shaw, who fell at the head of his colored regiment during the Civil War, was unveiled on Boston Common. The monument, designed by Augustus Saint-Gaudens, is perhaps the most noteworthy of its kind in America.
On May 31, 1897, a monument to the memory of Robert Gould Shaw, who fell at the head of his colored regiment during the Civil War, was unveiled on Boston Common. The monument, designed by Augustus Saint-Gaudens, is perhaps the most noteworthy of its kind in America.
AN ODE
ON THE UNVEILING OF THE SHAW MEMORIAL ON BOSTON COMMON
May 31, 1897
INot with slow, funereal soundCome we to this sacred ground;Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum,Bringing a cypress wreathTo lay, with bended knee,On the cold brows of Death—Not so, dear God, we come,But with the trumpets' blareAnd shot-torn battle-banners flung to air,As for a victory!Hark to the measured tread of martial feet,The music and the murmurs of the street!No bugle breathes this dayDisaster and retreat!—Hark, how the iron lipsOf the great battle-shipsSalute the City from her azure Bay!IITime was—time was, ah, unforgotten years!—We paid our hero tribute of our tears.But now let goAll sounds and signs and formulas of woe:'Tis Life, not Death, we celebrate;To Life, not Death, we dedicateThis storied bronze, whereon is wroughtThe lithe immortal figure of our thought,To show forever to men's eyes,Our children's children's children's eyes,How once he stoodIn that heroic mood,He and his dusky bravesSo fain of glorious graves!—One instant stood, and thenDrave through that cloud of purple steel and flame,Which wrapt him, held him, gave him not again,But in its trampled ashes left to FameAn everlasting name!IIIThat was indeed to live—At one bold swoop to wrestFrom darkling death the bestThat death to life can give.He fell as Roland fellThat day at Roncevaux,With foot upon the ramparts of the foe!A pæan, not a knell,For heroes dying so!No need for sorrow here,No room for sigh or tear,Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know.See where he rides, our Knight!Within his eyes the lightOf battle, and youth's gold about his brow;Our Paladin, our Soldier of the Cross,Not weighing gain with loss—World-loser, that won allObeying duty's call!Not his, at peril's frown,A pulse of quicker beat;Not his to hesitateAnd parley hold with Fate,But proudly to fling downHis gauntlet at her feet.O soul of loyal valor and white truth,Here, by this iron gate,Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore,Stand thou for evermoreIn thy undying youth!The tender heart, the eagle eye!Oh, unto him belongThe homages of Song;Our praises and the praiseOf coming daysTo him belong—To him, to him, the dead that shall not die!Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
INot with slow, funereal soundCome we to this sacred ground;Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum,Bringing a cypress wreathTo lay, with bended knee,On the cold brows of Death—Not so, dear God, we come,But with the trumpets' blareAnd shot-torn battle-banners flung to air,As for a victory!Hark to the measured tread of martial feet,The music and the murmurs of the street!No bugle breathes this dayDisaster and retreat!—Hark, how the iron lipsOf the great battle-shipsSalute the City from her azure Bay!IITime was—time was, ah, unforgotten years!—We paid our hero tribute of our tears.But now let goAll sounds and signs and formulas of woe:'Tis Life, not Death, we celebrate;To Life, not Death, we dedicateThis storied bronze, whereon is wroughtThe lithe immortal figure of our thought,To show forever to men's eyes,Our children's children's children's eyes,How once he stoodIn that heroic mood,He and his dusky bravesSo fain of glorious graves!—One instant stood, and thenDrave through that cloud of purple steel and flame,Which wrapt him, held him, gave him not again,But in its trampled ashes left to FameAn everlasting name!IIIThat was indeed to live—At one bold swoop to wrestFrom darkling death the bestThat death to life can give.He fell as Roland fellThat day at Roncevaux,With foot upon the ramparts of the foe!A pæan, not a knell,For heroes dying so!No need for sorrow here,No room for sigh or tear,Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know.See where he rides, our Knight!Within his eyes the lightOf battle, and youth's gold about his brow;Our Paladin, our Soldier of the Cross,Not weighing gain with loss—World-loser, that won allObeying duty's call!Not his, at peril's frown,A pulse of quicker beat;Not his to hesitateAnd parley hold with Fate,But proudly to fling downHis gauntlet at her feet.O soul of loyal valor and white truth,Here, by this iron gate,Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore,Stand thou for evermoreIn thy undying youth!The tender heart, the eagle eye!Oh, unto him belongThe homages of Song;Our praises and the praiseOf coming daysTo him belong—To him, to him, the dead that shall not die!Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
INot with slow, funereal soundCome we to this sacred ground;Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum,Bringing a cypress wreathTo lay, with bended knee,On the cold brows of Death—Not so, dear God, we come,But with the trumpets' blareAnd shot-torn battle-banners flung to air,As for a victory!
Hark to the measured tread of martial feet,The music and the murmurs of the street!No bugle breathes this dayDisaster and retreat!—Hark, how the iron lipsOf the great battle-shipsSalute the City from her azure Bay!
IITime was—time was, ah, unforgotten years!—We paid our hero tribute of our tears.But now let goAll sounds and signs and formulas of woe:'Tis Life, not Death, we celebrate;To Life, not Death, we dedicateThis storied bronze, whereon is wroughtThe lithe immortal figure of our thought,To show forever to men's eyes,Our children's children's children's eyes,How once he stoodIn that heroic mood,He and his dusky bravesSo fain of glorious graves!—One instant stood, and thenDrave through that cloud of purple steel and flame,Which wrapt him, held him, gave him not again,But in its trampled ashes left to FameAn everlasting name!
IIIThat was indeed to live—At one bold swoop to wrestFrom darkling death the bestThat death to life can give.He fell as Roland fellThat day at Roncevaux,With foot upon the ramparts of the foe!A pæan, not a knell,For heroes dying so!No need for sorrow here,No room for sigh or tear,Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know.See where he rides, our Knight!Within his eyes the lightOf battle, and youth's gold about his brow;Our Paladin, our Soldier of the Cross,Not weighing gain with loss—World-loser, that won allObeying duty's call!Not his, at peril's frown,A pulse of quicker beat;Not his to hesitateAnd parley hold with Fate,But proudly to fling downHis gauntlet at her feet.O soul of loyal valor and white truth,Here, by this iron gate,Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore,Stand thou for evermoreIn thy undying youth!The tender heart, the eagle eye!Oh, unto him belongThe homages of Song;Our praises and the praiseOf coming daysTo him belong—To him, to him, the dead that shall not die!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
The years 1897 and 1898 witnessed a great rush of gold-seekers to Alaska, where placer gold in large quantities had been discovered, the year before, in the Yukon district on Klondike Creek.
The years 1897 and 1898 witnessed a great rush of gold-seekers to Alaska, where placer gold in large quantities had been discovered, the year before, in the Yukon district on Klondike Creek.
THE KLONDIKE
[1898]
Never mind the day we left, or the way the women clung to us;All we need now is the last way they looked at us.Never mind the twelve men there amid the cheering—Twelve men or one man, 'twill soon be all the same;For this is what we know: we are five men together,Five left o' twelve men to find the golden river.Far we came to find it out, but the place was here for all of us;Far, far we came, and here we have the last of us.We that were the front men, we that would be early,We that had the faith, and the triumph in our eyes:We that had the wrong road, twelve men together,—Singing when the devil sang to find the golden river.Say the gleam was not for us, but never say we doubted it;Say the wrong road was right before we followed it.We that were the front men, fit for all forage,—Say that while we dwindle we are front men still;For this is what we know to-night: we're starving here together—Starving on the wrong road to find the golden river.Wrong, we say, but wait a little: hear him in the corner there;He knows more than we, and he'll tell us if we listen there—He that fought the snow-sleep less than all the othersStays awhile yet, and he knows where he stays:Foot and hand a frozen clout, brain a freezing feather,Still he's here to talk with us and to the golden river."Flow," he says, "and flow along, but you cannot flow away from us;All the world's ice will never keep you far from us;Every man that heeds your call takes the way that leads him—The one way that's his way, and lives his own life:Starve or laugh, the game goes on, and on goes the river;Gold or no, they go their way—twelve men together."Twelve," he says, "who sold their shame for a lure you call too fair for them—You that laugh and flow to the same word that urges them:Twelve who left the old town shining in the sunset,Left the weary street and the small safe days:Twelve who knew but one way out, wide the way or narrow:Twelve who took the frozen chance and laid their lives on yellow."Flow by night and flow by day, nor ever once be seen by them;Flow, freeze, and flow, till time shall hide the bones of them:Laugh and wash their names away, leave them all forgotten,Leave the old town to crumble where it sleeps;Leave it there as they have left it, shining in the valley,—Leave the town to crumble down and let the women marry."Twelve of us or five," he says, "we know the night is on us now:Five while we last, and we may as well be thinking now:Thinking each his own thought, knowing, when the light comes,Five left or none left, the game will not be lost.Crouch or sleep, we go the way, the last way together:Five or none, the game goes on, and on goes the river."For after all that we have done and all that we have failed to do,Life will be life and the world will have its work to do:Every man who follows us will heed in his own fashionThe calling and the warning and the friends who do not know:Each will hold an icy knife to punish his heart's lover,And each will go the frozen way to find the golden river."There you hear him, all he says, and the last we'll ever get from him.Now he wants to sleep, and that will be the best for him.Let him have his own way—no, you needn't shake him—Your own turn will come, so let the man sleep.For this is what we know: we are stalled here together—Hands and feet and hearts of us, to find the golden river.And there's a quicker way than sleep?... Never mind the looks of him:All he needs now is a finger on the eyes of him.You there on the left hand, reach a little over—Shut the stars away, or he'll see them all night:He'll see them all night and he'll see them all to-morrow,Crawling down the frozen sky, cold and hard and yellow.Won't you move an inch or two—to keep the stars away from him?—No, he won't move, and there's no need of asking him.Never mind the twelve men, never mind the women;Three while we last, we'll let them all go;And we'll hold our thoughts north while we starve here together,Looking each his own way to find the golden river.Edwin Arlington Robinson.
Never mind the day we left, or the way the women clung to us;All we need now is the last way they looked at us.Never mind the twelve men there amid the cheering—Twelve men or one man, 'twill soon be all the same;For this is what we know: we are five men together,Five left o' twelve men to find the golden river.Far we came to find it out, but the place was here for all of us;Far, far we came, and here we have the last of us.We that were the front men, we that would be early,We that had the faith, and the triumph in our eyes:We that had the wrong road, twelve men together,—Singing when the devil sang to find the golden river.Say the gleam was not for us, but never say we doubted it;Say the wrong road was right before we followed it.We that were the front men, fit for all forage,—Say that while we dwindle we are front men still;For this is what we know to-night: we're starving here together—Starving on the wrong road to find the golden river.Wrong, we say, but wait a little: hear him in the corner there;He knows more than we, and he'll tell us if we listen there—He that fought the snow-sleep less than all the othersStays awhile yet, and he knows where he stays:Foot and hand a frozen clout, brain a freezing feather,Still he's here to talk with us and to the golden river."Flow," he says, "and flow along, but you cannot flow away from us;All the world's ice will never keep you far from us;Every man that heeds your call takes the way that leads him—The one way that's his way, and lives his own life:Starve or laugh, the game goes on, and on goes the river;Gold or no, they go their way—twelve men together."Twelve," he says, "who sold their shame for a lure you call too fair for them—You that laugh and flow to the same word that urges them:Twelve who left the old town shining in the sunset,Left the weary street and the small safe days:Twelve who knew but one way out, wide the way or narrow:Twelve who took the frozen chance and laid their lives on yellow."Flow by night and flow by day, nor ever once be seen by them;Flow, freeze, and flow, till time shall hide the bones of them:Laugh and wash their names away, leave them all forgotten,Leave the old town to crumble where it sleeps;Leave it there as they have left it, shining in the valley,—Leave the town to crumble down and let the women marry."Twelve of us or five," he says, "we know the night is on us now:Five while we last, and we may as well be thinking now:Thinking each his own thought, knowing, when the light comes,Five left or none left, the game will not be lost.Crouch or sleep, we go the way, the last way together:Five or none, the game goes on, and on goes the river."For after all that we have done and all that we have failed to do,Life will be life and the world will have its work to do:Every man who follows us will heed in his own fashionThe calling and the warning and the friends who do not know:Each will hold an icy knife to punish his heart's lover,And each will go the frozen way to find the golden river."There you hear him, all he says, and the last we'll ever get from him.Now he wants to sleep, and that will be the best for him.Let him have his own way—no, you needn't shake him—Your own turn will come, so let the man sleep.For this is what we know: we are stalled here together—Hands and feet and hearts of us, to find the golden river.And there's a quicker way than sleep?... Never mind the looks of him:All he needs now is a finger on the eyes of him.You there on the left hand, reach a little over—Shut the stars away, or he'll see them all night:He'll see them all night and he'll see them all to-morrow,Crawling down the frozen sky, cold and hard and yellow.Won't you move an inch or two—to keep the stars away from him?—No, he won't move, and there's no need of asking him.Never mind the twelve men, never mind the women;Three while we last, we'll let them all go;And we'll hold our thoughts north while we starve here together,Looking each his own way to find the golden river.Edwin Arlington Robinson.
Never mind the day we left, or the way the women clung to us;All we need now is the last way they looked at us.Never mind the twelve men there amid the cheering—Twelve men or one man, 'twill soon be all the same;For this is what we know: we are five men together,Five left o' twelve men to find the golden river.
Far we came to find it out, but the place was here for all of us;Far, far we came, and here we have the last of us.We that were the front men, we that would be early,We that had the faith, and the triumph in our eyes:We that had the wrong road, twelve men together,—Singing when the devil sang to find the golden river.
Say the gleam was not for us, but never say we doubted it;Say the wrong road was right before we followed it.We that were the front men, fit for all forage,—Say that while we dwindle we are front men still;For this is what we know to-night: we're starving here together—Starving on the wrong road to find the golden river.
Wrong, we say, but wait a little: hear him in the corner there;He knows more than we, and he'll tell us if we listen there—He that fought the snow-sleep less than all the othersStays awhile yet, and he knows where he stays:Foot and hand a frozen clout, brain a freezing feather,Still he's here to talk with us and to the golden river.
"Flow," he says, "and flow along, but you cannot flow away from us;All the world's ice will never keep you far from us;Every man that heeds your call takes the way that leads him—The one way that's his way, and lives his own life:Starve or laugh, the game goes on, and on goes the river;Gold or no, they go their way—twelve men together.
"Twelve," he says, "who sold their shame for a lure you call too fair for them—You that laugh and flow to the same word that urges them:Twelve who left the old town shining in the sunset,Left the weary street and the small safe days:Twelve who knew but one way out, wide the way or narrow:Twelve who took the frozen chance and laid their lives on yellow.
"Flow by night and flow by day, nor ever once be seen by them;Flow, freeze, and flow, till time shall hide the bones of them:Laugh and wash their names away, leave them all forgotten,Leave the old town to crumble where it sleeps;Leave it there as they have left it, shining in the valley,—Leave the town to crumble down and let the women marry.
"Twelve of us or five," he says, "we know the night is on us now:Five while we last, and we may as well be thinking now:Thinking each his own thought, knowing, when the light comes,Five left or none left, the game will not be lost.Crouch or sleep, we go the way, the last way together:Five or none, the game goes on, and on goes the river.
"For after all that we have done and all that we have failed to do,Life will be life and the world will have its work to do:Every man who follows us will heed in his own fashionThe calling and the warning and the friends who do not know:Each will hold an icy knife to punish his heart's lover,And each will go the frozen way to find the golden river."
There you hear him, all he says, and the last we'll ever get from him.Now he wants to sleep, and that will be the best for him.Let him have his own way—no, you needn't shake him—Your own turn will come, so let the man sleep.For this is what we know: we are stalled here together—Hands and feet and hearts of us, to find the golden river.
And there's a quicker way than sleep?... Never mind the looks of him:All he needs now is a finger on the eyes of him.You there on the left hand, reach a little over—Shut the stars away, or he'll see them all night:He'll see them all night and he'll see them all to-morrow,Crawling down the frozen sky, cold and hard and yellow.
Won't you move an inch or two—to keep the stars away from him?—No, he won't move, and there's no need of asking him.Never mind the twelve men, never mind the women;Three while we last, we'll let them all go;And we'll hold our thoughts north while we starve here together,Looking each his own way to find the golden river.
Edwin Arlington Robinson.
THE WAR WITH SPAIN
For three centuries and a half, Spain held possession of the island of Cuba, although she had lost, long before, her possessions in North and South America. The Cubans desired freedom, for the Spanish yoke was a galling one, and as early as 1822 sympathy with this desire was openly expressed in the United States.
For three centuries and a half, Spain held possession of the island of Cuba, although she had lost, long before, her possessions in North and South America. The Cubans desired freedom, for the Spanish yoke was a galling one, and as early as 1822 sympathy with this desire was openly expressed in the United States.
APOSTROPHE TO THE ISLAND OF CUBA
[November, 1822]
There is blood on thy desolate shore,Thou island of plunder and slaves!Thy billows are purpled with gore,And murder has crimsoned thy waves;The vengeance of nations will come,And wrath shall be rained on thy head,And in terror thy voice shall be dumb,When they ask for their brothers who bled.Thy hand was not stirred, when their life-blood was spilt;And therefore that hand must partake in the guilt.Thou art guilty or weak,—and the rodShould be wrenched from thy palsied hand;By the pirate thy green fields are trod,And his steps have polluted thy land;Unmoved is thy heart and thine eye,When our dear ones are tortured and slain;But their blood with a terrible cry,Calls on vengeance, and calls not in vain;If Europe regard not—our land shall awake,And thy walls and thy turrets shall tremble and shake.The voice of a world shall be heard,And thy faith shall be tried by the call;And that terrible voice shall be feared,And obeyed—or the proud one shall fall.Enough of our life has been shed,In watching and fighting for thee;If thy foot linger still—on thy headThe guilt and the vengeance shall be:We have sworn that the spirit ofAllenshall lead,And our wrath shall not rest, till we finish the deed.James Gates Percival.
There is blood on thy desolate shore,Thou island of plunder and slaves!Thy billows are purpled with gore,And murder has crimsoned thy waves;The vengeance of nations will come,And wrath shall be rained on thy head,And in terror thy voice shall be dumb,When they ask for their brothers who bled.Thy hand was not stirred, when their life-blood was spilt;And therefore that hand must partake in the guilt.Thou art guilty or weak,—and the rodShould be wrenched from thy palsied hand;By the pirate thy green fields are trod,And his steps have polluted thy land;Unmoved is thy heart and thine eye,When our dear ones are tortured and slain;But their blood with a terrible cry,Calls on vengeance, and calls not in vain;If Europe regard not—our land shall awake,And thy walls and thy turrets shall tremble and shake.The voice of a world shall be heard,And thy faith shall be tried by the call;And that terrible voice shall be feared,And obeyed—or the proud one shall fall.Enough of our life has been shed,In watching and fighting for thee;If thy foot linger still—on thy headThe guilt and the vengeance shall be:We have sworn that the spirit ofAllenshall lead,And our wrath shall not rest, till we finish the deed.James Gates Percival.
There is blood on thy desolate shore,Thou island of plunder and slaves!Thy billows are purpled with gore,And murder has crimsoned thy waves;The vengeance of nations will come,And wrath shall be rained on thy head,And in terror thy voice shall be dumb,When they ask for their brothers who bled.Thy hand was not stirred, when their life-blood was spilt;And therefore that hand must partake in the guilt.
Thou art guilty or weak,—and the rodShould be wrenched from thy palsied hand;By the pirate thy green fields are trod,And his steps have polluted thy land;Unmoved is thy heart and thine eye,When our dear ones are tortured and slain;But their blood with a terrible cry,Calls on vengeance, and calls not in vain;If Europe regard not—our land shall awake,And thy walls and thy turrets shall tremble and shake.
The voice of a world shall be heard,And thy faith shall be tried by the call;And that terrible voice shall be feared,And obeyed—or the proud one shall fall.Enough of our life has been shed,In watching and fighting for thee;If thy foot linger still—on thy headThe guilt and the vengeance shall be:We have sworn that the spirit ofAllenshall lead,And our wrath shall not rest, till we finish the deed.
James Gates Percival.
The people of Cuba revolted against their Spanish rulers in 1848, and kept up a guerilla warfare for some years. In August, 1851, a filibustering expedition, led by Narciso Lopez, sailed from New Orleans. The expedition was captured, and most of its members were executed, among them Lopez himself, and Colonel William L. Crittenden, of Kentucky, who, with fifty others, was shot at Havana, August 16.
The people of Cuba revolted against their Spanish rulers in 1848, and kept up a guerilla warfare for some years. In August, 1851, a filibustering expedition, led by Narciso Lopez, sailed from New Orleans. The expedition was captured, and most of its members were executed, among them Lopez himself, and Colonel William L. Crittenden, of Kentucky, who, with fifty others, was shot at Havana, August 16.
THE GALLANT FIFTY-ONE
WHO FORMED PART OF THE LOPEZ EXPEDITION AND WERE EXECUTED BY THE SPANISH AUTHORITIES IN HAVANA
[August 16, 1851]
Freedom called them—up they rose,Grasped their swords and showered blowsOn the heads of Freedom's foes—And Freedom's foes alone.Fate decreed that they should die;Pitying angels breathed a sigh;Freedom wildly wept on high,For the gallant Fifty-one!There they stood in proud array;None for mercy there would pray;None would coward looks betray—All stood forth with fearless eye,Showing by their dauntless air,What their noble souls could dare;Showing to the tyrants there,How Freedom's sons could die.None there strove their fate to shun—Gallant band of Fifty-one!Then a voice the stillness broke:'Twas their gallant leader spoke,Scorning to receive Death's stroke,Kneeling humbly on the sod!Gazing calmly on the dead,Whose life-blood had just been shed,Proudly then the words he said,"Americans kneel but to God!"Perished thus Kentucky's son—Leader of the Fifty-one.Rejoice! sons of Thermopylæ!Kindred spirits join with thee,Who fell in fight for Liberty,For Freedom's sacred name.Future days their deeds shall tell,How they nobly fought and fell,Youthful bosoms proudly swellAt mention of their fame—Rays of light from Freedom's sun,Gallant band of Fifty-one!Honor's rays will ever shedGlory 'round their hallowed bed.Though their hearts are cold and dead,Though their sands of life have run,Still their names revered will be,Among the noble and the free—Glorious sons of Liberty;Gallant band of Fifty-one!Henry Lynden Flash.
Freedom called them—up they rose,Grasped their swords and showered blowsOn the heads of Freedom's foes—And Freedom's foes alone.Fate decreed that they should die;Pitying angels breathed a sigh;Freedom wildly wept on high,For the gallant Fifty-one!There they stood in proud array;None for mercy there would pray;None would coward looks betray—All stood forth with fearless eye,Showing by their dauntless air,What their noble souls could dare;Showing to the tyrants there,How Freedom's sons could die.None there strove their fate to shun—Gallant band of Fifty-one!Then a voice the stillness broke:'Twas their gallant leader spoke,Scorning to receive Death's stroke,Kneeling humbly on the sod!Gazing calmly on the dead,Whose life-blood had just been shed,Proudly then the words he said,"Americans kneel but to God!"Perished thus Kentucky's son—Leader of the Fifty-one.Rejoice! sons of Thermopylæ!Kindred spirits join with thee,Who fell in fight for Liberty,For Freedom's sacred name.Future days their deeds shall tell,How they nobly fought and fell,Youthful bosoms proudly swellAt mention of their fame—Rays of light from Freedom's sun,Gallant band of Fifty-one!Honor's rays will ever shedGlory 'round their hallowed bed.Though their hearts are cold and dead,Though their sands of life have run,Still their names revered will be,Among the noble and the free—Glorious sons of Liberty;Gallant band of Fifty-one!Henry Lynden Flash.
Freedom called them—up they rose,Grasped their swords and showered blowsOn the heads of Freedom's foes—And Freedom's foes alone.Fate decreed that they should die;Pitying angels breathed a sigh;Freedom wildly wept on high,For the gallant Fifty-one!
There they stood in proud array;None for mercy there would pray;None would coward looks betray—All stood forth with fearless eye,Showing by their dauntless air,What their noble souls could dare;Showing to the tyrants there,How Freedom's sons could die.None there strove their fate to shun—Gallant band of Fifty-one!
Then a voice the stillness broke:'Twas their gallant leader spoke,Scorning to receive Death's stroke,Kneeling humbly on the sod!Gazing calmly on the dead,Whose life-blood had just been shed,Proudly then the words he said,"Americans kneel but to God!"Perished thus Kentucky's son—Leader of the Fifty-one.
Rejoice! sons of Thermopylæ!Kindred spirits join with thee,Who fell in fight for Liberty,For Freedom's sacred name.Future days their deeds shall tell,How they nobly fought and fell,Youthful bosoms proudly swellAt mention of their fame—Rays of light from Freedom's sun,Gallant band of Fifty-one!
Honor's rays will ever shedGlory 'round their hallowed bed.Though their hearts are cold and dead,Though their sands of life have run,Still their names revered will be,Among the noble and the free—Glorious sons of Liberty;Gallant band of Fifty-one!
Henry Lynden Flash.
Spain at last found it necessary to put the whole island under martial law, and American sympathy grew more outspoken.
Spain at last found it necessary to put the whole island under martial law, and American sympathy grew more outspoken.
CUBA
[1870]
Is it naught? Is it naughtThat the South-wind brings her wail to our shore,That the spoilers compass our desolate sister?Is it naught? Must we say to her, "Strive no more,"With the lips wherewith we loved her and kissed her?With the mocking lips wherewith we said,"Thou art the dearest and fairest to usOf all the daughters the sea hath bred,Of all green-girdled isles that woo us!"Is it naught?Must ye wait? Must ye wait,Till they ravage her gardens of orange and palm,Till her heart is dust, till her strength is water?Must ye see them trample her, and be calmAs priests when a virgin is led to slaughter?Shall they smite the marvel of all lands,—The nation's longing, the Earth's completeness,—On her red mouth dropping myrrh, her handsFilled with fruitage and spice and sweetness?Must ye wait?In the day, in the night,In the burning day, in the dolorous night,Her sun-browned cheeks are stained with weeping.Her watch-fires beacon the misty height:—Why are her friends and lovers sleeping?"Ye, at whose ear the flatterer bends,Who were my kindred before all others,—Hath he set your hearts afar, my friends?Hath he made ye alien, my brothers,Day and night?"Hear ye not? Hear ye notFrom the hollow sea the sound of her voice;The passionate far-off tone which sayeth:"Alas, my brothers! alas, what choice,—The lust that shameth, the sword that slayeth?They bind me! they rend my delicate locks;They shred the beautiful robes I won me!My round limbs bleed on the mountain rocks:Save me, ere they have quite undone me!"Hear ye not?Speak at last! Speak at last!In the might of your strength, in the strength of your right,Speak out at last to the treacherous spoiler!Say: "Will ye harry her in our sight?Ye shall not trample her down, nor soil her!Loose her bonds! let her rise in her loveliness,—Our virginal sister; or, if ye shame her,Dark Amnon shall rue for her sore distress,And her sure revenge shall be that of Tamar!"Speak at last!Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Is it naught? Is it naughtThat the South-wind brings her wail to our shore,That the spoilers compass our desolate sister?Is it naught? Must we say to her, "Strive no more,"With the lips wherewith we loved her and kissed her?With the mocking lips wherewith we said,"Thou art the dearest and fairest to usOf all the daughters the sea hath bred,Of all green-girdled isles that woo us!"Is it naught?Must ye wait? Must ye wait,Till they ravage her gardens of orange and palm,Till her heart is dust, till her strength is water?Must ye see them trample her, and be calmAs priests when a virgin is led to slaughter?Shall they smite the marvel of all lands,—The nation's longing, the Earth's completeness,—On her red mouth dropping myrrh, her handsFilled with fruitage and spice and sweetness?Must ye wait?In the day, in the night,In the burning day, in the dolorous night,Her sun-browned cheeks are stained with weeping.Her watch-fires beacon the misty height:—Why are her friends and lovers sleeping?"Ye, at whose ear the flatterer bends,Who were my kindred before all others,—Hath he set your hearts afar, my friends?Hath he made ye alien, my brothers,Day and night?"Hear ye not? Hear ye notFrom the hollow sea the sound of her voice;The passionate far-off tone which sayeth:"Alas, my brothers! alas, what choice,—The lust that shameth, the sword that slayeth?They bind me! they rend my delicate locks;They shred the beautiful robes I won me!My round limbs bleed on the mountain rocks:Save me, ere they have quite undone me!"Hear ye not?Speak at last! Speak at last!In the might of your strength, in the strength of your right,Speak out at last to the treacherous spoiler!Say: "Will ye harry her in our sight?Ye shall not trample her down, nor soil her!Loose her bonds! let her rise in her loveliness,—Our virginal sister; or, if ye shame her,Dark Amnon shall rue for her sore distress,And her sure revenge shall be that of Tamar!"Speak at last!Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Is it naught? Is it naughtThat the South-wind brings her wail to our shore,That the spoilers compass our desolate sister?Is it naught? Must we say to her, "Strive no more,"With the lips wherewith we loved her and kissed her?With the mocking lips wherewith we said,"Thou art the dearest and fairest to usOf all the daughters the sea hath bred,Of all green-girdled isles that woo us!"Is it naught?
Must ye wait? Must ye wait,Till they ravage her gardens of orange and palm,Till her heart is dust, till her strength is water?Must ye see them trample her, and be calmAs priests when a virgin is led to slaughter?Shall they smite the marvel of all lands,—The nation's longing, the Earth's completeness,—On her red mouth dropping myrrh, her handsFilled with fruitage and spice and sweetness?Must ye wait?
In the day, in the night,In the burning day, in the dolorous night,Her sun-browned cheeks are stained with weeping.Her watch-fires beacon the misty height:—Why are her friends and lovers sleeping?"Ye, at whose ear the flatterer bends,Who were my kindred before all others,—Hath he set your hearts afar, my friends?Hath he made ye alien, my brothers,Day and night?"
Hear ye not? Hear ye notFrom the hollow sea the sound of her voice;The passionate far-off tone which sayeth:"Alas, my brothers! alas, what choice,—The lust that shameth, the sword that slayeth?They bind me! they rend my delicate locks;They shred the beautiful robes I won me!My round limbs bleed on the mountain rocks:Save me, ere they have quite undone me!"Hear ye not?
Speak at last! Speak at last!In the might of your strength, in the strength of your right,Speak out at last to the treacherous spoiler!Say: "Will ye harry her in our sight?Ye shall not trample her down, nor soil her!Loose her bonds! let her rise in her loveliness,—Our virginal sister; or, if ye shame her,Dark Amnon shall rue for her sore distress,And her sure revenge shall be that of Tamar!"Speak at last!
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Then in 1873 came what was certain to come, sooner or later, an outrage by Spain against the United States. The Virginius, a vessel of American register, was captured on the high seas by a Spanish gunboat, taken to a Cuban port, and some fifty of her officers and crew, Americans for the most part, summarily shot. America was wild with rage, but Spain was permitted to settle by paying an indemnity.
Then in 1873 came what was certain to come, sooner or later, an outrage by Spain against the United States. The Virginius, a vessel of American register, was captured on the high seas by a Spanish gunboat, taken to a Cuban port, and some fifty of her officers and crew, Americans for the most part, summarily shot. America was wild with rage, but Spain was permitted to settle by paying an indemnity.
THE GOSPEL OF PEACE
[1873]
Ay, let it rest! And give us peace.'Tis but another blotOn Freedom's fustian flag, and goldWill gild the unclean spot.Yes, fold the hands, and bear the wrongAs Christians over-meek,And wipe away the bloody stain,And turn the other cheek.What boots the loss of freemen's bloodBeside imperilled gold?Is honor more than merchandise?And cannot pride be sold?Let Cuba groan, let patriots fall;Americans may die;Our flag may droop in foul disgrace,But "Peace!" be still our cry.Ay, give us peace! And give us truthTo nature, to resignThe counterfeit which Freedom wearsUpon her banner fine.Remove the Stars,—they light our shame;But keep the Stripes of goreAnd craven White, to tell the wrongA prudent nation bore.James Jeffrey Roche.
Ay, let it rest! And give us peace.'Tis but another blotOn Freedom's fustian flag, and goldWill gild the unclean spot.Yes, fold the hands, and bear the wrongAs Christians over-meek,And wipe away the bloody stain,And turn the other cheek.What boots the loss of freemen's bloodBeside imperilled gold?Is honor more than merchandise?And cannot pride be sold?Let Cuba groan, let patriots fall;Americans may die;Our flag may droop in foul disgrace,But "Peace!" be still our cry.Ay, give us peace! And give us truthTo nature, to resignThe counterfeit which Freedom wearsUpon her banner fine.Remove the Stars,—they light our shame;But keep the Stripes of goreAnd craven White, to tell the wrongA prudent nation bore.James Jeffrey Roche.
Ay, let it rest! And give us peace.'Tis but another blotOn Freedom's fustian flag, and goldWill gild the unclean spot.
Yes, fold the hands, and bear the wrongAs Christians over-meek,And wipe away the bloody stain,And turn the other cheek.
What boots the loss of freemen's bloodBeside imperilled gold?Is honor more than merchandise?And cannot pride be sold?
Let Cuba groan, let patriots fall;Americans may die;Our flag may droop in foul disgrace,But "Peace!" be still our cry.
Ay, give us peace! And give us truthTo nature, to resignThe counterfeit which Freedom wearsUpon her banner fine.
Remove the Stars,—they light our shame;But keep the Stripes of goreAnd craven White, to tell the wrongA prudent nation bore.
James Jeffrey Roche.
The insurrection in Cuba dragged on, its horrors steadily increasing, and at last, in 1875, the American government intimated that if Spain did not stop the war, foreign intervention might become necessary. Spain took the hint and ended the struggle by granting Cuba certain reforms.
The insurrection in Cuba dragged on, its horrors steadily increasing, and at last, in 1875, the American government intimated that if Spain did not stop the war, foreign intervention might become necessary. Spain took the hint and ended the struggle by granting Cuba certain reforms.
CUBA
Isle of a summer sea,Fragrant with Eden's flowers,God meant thee to be free,And wills thee to beours!The blood of generous heartsHas freely drenched thy soil;That blood but strength imparts,Which tyrants cannot foil!Within thy fair retreat,'Mid victory and flame,Thy sons shall yet repeatHuzzas in Freedom's name!Yet, where his ashes rest,Whose eye revealed a world,From towers and mountain crest,Our flag shall be unfurled!In truth, it is but just,That Freedom's hand should hold,Confided to her trust,The key to lands of gold!Harvey Rice.
Isle of a summer sea,Fragrant with Eden's flowers,God meant thee to be free,And wills thee to beours!The blood of generous heartsHas freely drenched thy soil;That blood but strength imparts,Which tyrants cannot foil!Within thy fair retreat,'Mid victory and flame,Thy sons shall yet repeatHuzzas in Freedom's name!Yet, where his ashes rest,Whose eye revealed a world,From towers and mountain crest,Our flag shall be unfurled!In truth, it is but just,That Freedom's hand should hold,Confided to her trust,The key to lands of gold!Harvey Rice.
Isle of a summer sea,Fragrant with Eden's flowers,God meant thee to be free,And wills thee to beours!
The blood of generous heartsHas freely drenched thy soil;That blood but strength imparts,Which tyrants cannot foil!
Within thy fair retreat,'Mid victory and flame,Thy sons shall yet repeatHuzzas in Freedom's name!
Yet, where his ashes rest,Whose eye revealed a world,From towers and mountain crest,Our flag shall be unfurled!
In truth, it is but just,That Freedom's hand should hold,Confided to her trust,The key to lands of gold!
Harvey Rice.
But with a cynical disregard of good faith, Spain kept only such of her promises as she pleased; increased abuses followed, and in 1895 revolution flamed out again. Under such leaders as Gomez, Maceo, and Garcia, the revolutionists soon gained control of most of the provinces.
But with a cynical disregard of good faith, Spain kept only such of her promises as she pleased; increased abuses followed, and in 1895 revolution flamed out again. Under such leaders as Gomez, Maceo, and Garcia, the revolutionists soon gained control of most of the provinces.
CUBA TO COLUMBIA
[April, 1896]
A voice went over the waters—A stormy edge of the sea—Fairest of Freedom's daughters,Have you no help for me?Do you not hear the rusty chainClanking about my feet?Have you not seen my children slain,Whether in cell or street?Oh, if you were sad as I,And I as you were strong,You would not have to call or cry—You would not suffer long!"Patience?"—have I not learned it,Under the crushing years?Freedom—have I not earned it,Toiling with blood and tears?"Not of you?"—my banners waveNot on Egyptian shore,Or by Armenia's mammoth grave—But at your very door!Oh, if you were needy as I,And I as you were strong,You should not suffer, bleed, and die,Under the hoofs of wrong!Is it that you have neverFelt the oppressor's hand,Fighting, with fond endeavor,To cling to your own sweet land?Were you not half dismayed,There in the century's night,Till to your view a sister's aidCame, like a flash of light?Oh, what gift could ever be grandEnough to pay the debt,If out of the starry Western land,Should come my Lafayette!Will Carleton.
A voice went over the waters—A stormy edge of the sea—Fairest of Freedom's daughters,Have you no help for me?Do you not hear the rusty chainClanking about my feet?Have you not seen my children slain,Whether in cell or street?Oh, if you were sad as I,And I as you were strong,You would not have to call or cry—You would not suffer long!"Patience?"—have I not learned it,Under the crushing years?Freedom—have I not earned it,Toiling with blood and tears?"Not of you?"—my banners waveNot on Egyptian shore,Or by Armenia's mammoth grave—But at your very door!Oh, if you were needy as I,And I as you were strong,You should not suffer, bleed, and die,Under the hoofs of wrong!Is it that you have neverFelt the oppressor's hand,Fighting, with fond endeavor,To cling to your own sweet land?Were you not half dismayed,There in the century's night,Till to your view a sister's aidCame, like a flash of light?Oh, what gift could ever be grandEnough to pay the debt,If out of the starry Western land,Should come my Lafayette!Will Carleton.
A voice went over the waters—A stormy edge of the sea—Fairest of Freedom's daughters,Have you no help for me?Do you not hear the rusty chainClanking about my feet?Have you not seen my children slain,Whether in cell or street?Oh, if you were sad as I,And I as you were strong,You would not have to call or cry—You would not suffer long!
"Patience?"—have I not learned it,Under the crushing years?Freedom—have I not earned it,Toiling with blood and tears?"Not of you?"—my banners waveNot on Egyptian shore,Or by Armenia's mammoth grave—But at your very door!Oh, if you were needy as I,And I as you were strong,You should not suffer, bleed, and die,Under the hoofs of wrong!
Is it that you have neverFelt the oppressor's hand,Fighting, with fond endeavor,To cling to your own sweet land?Were you not half dismayed,There in the century's night,Till to your view a sister's aidCame, like a flash of light?Oh, what gift could ever be grandEnough to pay the debt,If out of the starry Western land,Should come my Lafayette!
Will Carleton.
American sympathy was soon awakened, and grew rapidly in strength. This was increased when Spain placed Valeriano Weyler in command in Cuba. Weyler had an evil reputation for cruelty and extortion, and at once proceeded to make it more evil by exterminating the "pacificos," or quiet people who were taking no active part in the war.
American sympathy was soon awakened, and grew rapidly in strength. This was increased when Spain placed Valeriano Weyler in command in Cuba. Weyler had an evil reputation for cruelty and extortion, and at once proceeded to make it more evil by exterminating the "pacificos," or quiet people who were taking no active part in the war.
CUBA LIBRE