When your doctors fail to render—When your lotions fail to heal—When the salted scar is burning—When aturtle turns the keel:When the lights are lost to leeward—When the last least hope is gone—Then I call ye—Oh my children—As a Mother calls her spawn.By no magic may I do it—By no sudden quick surcease:Slow, so slow, ye cannot know itDo I bring ye your release.As the blackened heavens softenTo the morning’s growing gray,And the gray spreads gold and crimsonTill in splendor breaks the day:So by little and by little,That ye may not know or see,Do I soothe the salted searing—Do I bid the shadows flee—Do I weld the torn heart-cordNo surgeon art may heal,Till ye lift the fastened latchetAnd go forth in laughing weal.From Eastward and from WestwardI call my broken clan;We may not meet in lane or streetOr greet us man and man:But slowly spread my wide-leagued wings—And falling tenderly,I wrap my troubled Earth-spawnUnto the heart of me.
When your doctors fail to render—When your lotions fail to heal—When the salted scar is burning—When aturtle turns the keel:When the lights are lost to leeward—When the last least hope is gone—Then I call ye—Oh my children—As a Mother calls her spawn.By no magic may I do it—By no sudden quick surcease:Slow, so slow, ye cannot know itDo I bring ye your release.As the blackened heavens softenTo the morning’s growing gray,And the gray spreads gold and crimsonTill in splendor breaks the day:So by little and by little,That ye may not know or see,Do I soothe the salted searing—Do I bid the shadows flee—Do I weld the torn heart-cordNo surgeon art may heal,Till ye lift the fastened latchetAnd go forth in laughing weal.From Eastward and from WestwardI call my broken clan;We may not meet in lane or streetOr greet us man and man:But slowly spread my wide-leagued wings—And falling tenderly,I wrap my troubled Earth-spawnUnto the heart of me.
When your doctors fail to render—When your lotions fail to heal—When the salted scar is burning—When aturtle turns the keel:When the lights are lost to leeward—When the last least hope is gone—Then I call ye—Oh my children—As a Mother calls her spawn.
By no magic may I do it—By no sudden quick surcease:Slow, so slow, ye cannot know itDo I bring ye your release.As the blackened heavens softenTo the morning’s growing gray,And the gray spreads gold and crimsonTill in splendor breaks the day:
So by little and by little,That ye may not know or see,Do I soothe the salted searing—Do I bid the shadows flee—Do I weld the torn heart-cordNo surgeon art may heal,Till ye lift the fastened latchetAnd go forth in laughing weal.
From Eastward and from WestwardI call my broken clan;We may not meet in lane or streetOr greet us man and man:But slowly spread my wide-leagued wings—And falling tenderly,I wrap my troubled Earth-spawnUnto the heart of me.
Oh do you wish to know my Loves?Then you must come with meTo every land of all the landsAnd the waves of every sea.My love she nestles to my side,Nor careth who discern,For she’s the breeze o’ the Southern SeasWhere the egg-spume waters turn.My love she wraps me in her armsWith a crushing grasp and wild,For she was born o’ the six-months morn,A strong, tumultuous child.My love needs throw a kiss to me,And the kiss is the rainbow spray,Then laughing in glee, coquettishly,She lightly trips away.My love she comes with open arms,A dazzling beauty bold—Lilac and rose and amber,Scarlet and blazing gold.My love she gently beckons meAnd folds me nearer yet,A blushing maid with crown of jadeWhere the first pale stars are set.Oh do you wish to know my Loves?Then you must come with meTo every land of all the landsAnd the waves of every sea.
Oh do you wish to know my Loves?Then you must come with meTo every land of all the landsAnd the waves of every sea.My love she nestles to my side,Nor careth who discern,For she’s the breeze o’ the Southern SeasWhere the egg-spume waters turn.My love she wraps me in her armsWith a crushing grasp and wild,For she was born o’ the six-months morn,A strong, tumultuous child.My love needs throw a kiss to me,And the kiss is the rainbow spray,Then laughing in glee, coquettishly,She lightly trips away.My love she comes with open arms,A dazzling beauty bold—Lilac and rose and amber,Scarlet and blazing gold.My love she gently beckons meAnd folds me nearer yet,A blushing maid with crown of jadeWhere the first pale stars are set.Oh do you wish to know my Loves?Then you must come with meTo every land of all the landsAnd the waves of every sea.
Oh do you wish to know my Loves?Then you must come with meTo every land of all the landsAnd the waves of every sea.
My love she nestles to my side,Nor careth who discern,For she’s the breeze o’ the Southern SeasWhere the egg-spume waters turn.
My love she wraps me in her armsWith a crushing grasp and wild,For she was born o’ the six-months morn,A strong, tumultuous child.
My love needs throw a kiss to me,And the kiss is the rainbow spray,Then laughing in glee, coquettishly,She lightly trips away.
My love she comes with open arms,A dazzling beauty bold—Lilac and rose and amber,Scarlet and blazing gold.
My love she gently beckons meAnd folds me nearer yet,A blushing maid with crown of jadeWhere the first pale stars are set.
Oh do you wish to know my Loves?Then you must come with meTo every land of all the landsAnd the waves of every sea.
Here strode triumphant CæsarsReturning honored home:Here rose the gorgeous templesOf proud imperial Rome.Here burned the Vestal FireThe endless seasons through:Here reared the haughty ArchesThe far-flung Nations knew.Lord of the last least horizon—King of the Outer Seas—Where beat a heart, where stood a mart,There bended suppliant knees—To Thee—Resplendent Sovereign—Cradled among the hills,Who still through the countless centuriesThe wondering watcher thrills.Only a Tale of the Ages—Power and Pride and Death—And the afterlight of an Empire’s might—And the soft Campania’s breath.Only the crumbled marble,And Memory’s lingering wine,And the grass and the scarlet poppiesAnd clover and dandelion.
Here strode triumphant CæsarsReturning honored home:Here rose the gorgeous templesOf proud imperial Rome.Here burned the Vestal FireThe endless seasons through:Here reared the haughty ArchesThe far-flung Nations knew.Lord of the last least horizon—King of the Outer Seas—Where beat a heart, where stood a mart,There bended suppliant knees—To Thee—Resplendent Sovereign—Cradled among the hills,Who still through the countless centuriesThe wondering watcher thrills.Only a Tale of the Ages—Power and Pride and Death—And the afterlight of an Empire’s might—And the soft Campania’s breath.Only the crumbled marble,And Memory’s lingering wine,And the grass and the scarlet poppiesAnd clover and dandelion.
Here strode triumphant CæsarsReturning honored home:Here rose the gorgeous templesOf proud imperial Rome.
Here burned the Vestal FireThe endless seasons through:Here reared the haughty ArchesThe far-flung Nations knew.
Lord of the last least horizon—King of the Outer Seas—Where beat a heart, where stood a mart,There bended suppliant knees—
To Thee—Resplendent Sovereign—Cradled among the hills,Who still through the countless centuriesThe wondering watcher thrills.
Only a Tale of the Ages—Power and Pride and Death—And the afterlight of an Empire’s might—And the soft Campania’s breath.
Only the crumbled marble,And Memory’s lingering wine,And the grass and the scarlet poppiesAnd clover and dandelion.
“Des Sohnes letzter Gruss” (“The Son’s last Salutation”). A modern painting by Karl Hoff in the Royal Picture Gallery, Dresden.
“Des Sohnes letzter Gruss” (“The Son’s last Salutation”). A modern painting by Karl Hoff in the Royal Picture Gallery, Dresden.
We tramped the stretching galleries—We gazed each priceless gem—Jordäens—Rubens—Raphael—We paused and pondered them.The famous, same Madonnas—The fatuous forms at ease—And the Wedding Feast with Cavaliers—And a drunken Hercules.We saw the Sistine Mother,The farthest Nations know—Till room on room of light and gloomSwept row on outer row.And some we knew and reverenced—Whose praise the wide World sings;And some we fled with callous dreadFor flat and flaccid things.Till at last at the gallery’s endingIn the room with the roof-let door,We saw a young man standing—The Lone Son bid to War.Lithe and strong and supple,Clean-limbed, clear-eyed and tall—And the parting gaze of the parting waysWhen the battered trumpets call.And we saw the widowed Mother—And the prostrate, sobless grief;And the pitying priest beside her,And the gentle, vain relief.And the Sister—standing—watching—’Twixt love, reproach and tears—The tender light of the summer nightWhere brood the unfathomed years.The Maiden—standing, watching—Fair as the first, faint star:A dainty symbol sent to proveHow near the angels are.. . . . . . . . . .We gleaned the gallery’s gorgeous wealth—But lost its wondrous worth,As we bowed a head in silenceTo the Good of all the Earth.
We tramped the stretching galleries—We gazed each priceless gem—Jordäens—Rubens—Raphael—We paused and pondered them.The famous, same Madonnas—The fatuous forms at ease—And the Wedding Feast with Cavaliers—And a drunken Hercules.We saw the Sistine Mother,The farthest Nations know—Till room on room of light and gloomSwept row on outer row.And some we knew and reverenced—Whose praise the wide World sings;And some we fled with callous dreadFor flat and flaccid things.Till at last at the gallery’s endingIn the room with the roof-let door,We saw a young man standing—The Lone Son bid to War.Lithe and strong and supple,Clean-limbed, clear-eyed and tall—And the parting gaze of the parting waysWhen the battered trumpets call.And we saw the widowed Mother—And the prostrate, sobless grief;And the pitying priest beside her,And the gentle, vain relief.And the Sister—standing—watching—’Twixt love, reproach and tears—The tender light of the summer nightWhere brood the unfathomed years.The Maiden—standing, watching—Fair as the first, faint star:A dainty symbol sent to proveHow near the angels are.. . . . . . . . . .We gleaned the gallery’s gorgeous wealth—But lost its wondrous worth,As we bowed a head in silenceTo the Good of all the Earth.
We tramped the stretching galleries—We gazed each priceless gem—Jordäens—Rubens—Raphael—We paused and pondered them.
The famous, same Madonnas—The fatuous forms at ease—And the Wedding Feast with Cavaliers—And a drunken Hercules.
We saw the Sistine Mother,The farthest Nations know—Till room on room of light and gloomSwept row on outer row.
And some we knew and reverenced—Whose praise the wide World sings;And some we fled with callous dreadFor flat and flaccid things.
Till at last at the gallery’s endingIn the room with the roof-let door,We saw a young man standing—The Lone Son bid to War.
Lithe and strong and supple,Clean-limbed, clear-eyed and tall—And the parting gaze of the parting waysWhen the battered trumpets call.
And we saw the widowed Mother—And the prostrate, sobless grief;And the pitying priest beside her,And the gentle, vain relief.
And the Sister—standing—watching—’Twixt love, reproach and tears—The tender light of the summer nightWhere brood the unfathomed years.
The Maiden—standing, watching—Fair as the first, faint star:A dainty symbol sent to proveHow near the angels are.. . . . . . . . . .We gleaned the gallery’s gorgeous wealth—But lost its wondrous worth,As we bowed a head in silenceTo the Good of all the Earth.
Full well they tilled the barren soil—Full well they sowed the seed—Full well they held by life and lifeThe seal of the title deed.From Bunker Hill to YorktownThey waged a sacred fray:Oh Sons of Iron Men give ye notYour heritage away.By commerce, mart and cultureYe’ve raised a mighty state;But ’ware the pampered spirit,Ere ye ’ware the worst too late.By commerce, mart and cultureThrive ye forevermore,But hold ye to the Iron Age—The Iron Age of War.With rugged heart and sinew—With spirit stern and high,Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days—The days that may not die.Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days,Maintain the armor bright,For where ye’ve raised your fathers blazed—Hold ye their honor white.That through the unborn years to come—Unpampered, age on age—Shall guarded stand their promised land—Our Sacred Heritage.
Full well they tilled the barren soil—Full well they sowed the seed—Full well they held by life and lifeThe seal of the title deed.From Bunker Hill to YorktownThey waged a sacred fray:Oh Sons of Iron Men give ye notYour heritage away.By commerce, mart and cultureYe’ve raised a mighty state;But ’ware the pampered spirit,Ere ye ’ware the worst too late.By commerce, mart and cultureThrive ye forevermore,But hold ye to the Iron Age—The Iron Age of War.With rugged heart and sinew—With spirit stern and high,Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days—The days that may not die.Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days,Maintain the armor bright,For where ye’ve raised your fathers blazed—Hold ye their honor white.That through the unborn years to come—Unpampered, age on age—Shall guarded stand their promised land—Our Sacred Heritage.
Full well they tilled the barren soil—Full well they sowed the seed—Full well they held by life and lifeThe seal of the title deed.
From Bunker Hill to YorktownThey waged a sacred fray:Oh Sons of Iron Men give ye notYour heritage away.
By commerce, mart and cultureYe’ve raised a mighty state;But ’ware the pampered spirit,Ere ye ’ware the worst too late.
By commerce, mart and cultureThrive ye forevermore,But hold ye to the Iron Age—The Iron Age of War.
With rugged heart and sinew—With spirit stern and high,Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days—The days that may not die.
Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days,Maintain the armor bright,For where ye’ve raised your fathers blazed—Hold ye their honor white.
That through the unborn years to come—Unpampered, age on age—Shall guarded stand their promised land—Our Sacred Heritage.
Just the Adjusting Hour,With nobody else around,And you sort o’ straighten things a bit,Beginning right down at the ground.Just the Adjusting Hour,When plans have gone askew,And you stand with your back to the fire—And only your God and you.Just the Adjusting Hour,Pondering very slow,And you lay the firm foundationsAnd you pray that they will grow—Tall and strong and splendid—That they who run may see,What the Adjusting HourHas given to you and me.
Just the Adjusting Hour,With nobody else around,And you sort o’ straighten things a bit,Beginning right down at the ground.Just the Adjusting Hour,When plans have gone askew,And you stand with your back to the fire—And only your God and you.Just the Adjusting Hour,Pondering very slow,And you lay the firm foundationsAnd you pray that they will grow—Tall and strong and splendid—That they who run may see,What the Adjusting HourHas given to you and me.
Just the Adjusting Hour,With nobody else around,And you sort o’ straighten things a bit,Beginning right down at the ground.
Just the Adjusting Hour,When plans have gone askew,And you stand with your back to the fire—And only your God and you.
Just the Adjusting Hour,Pondering very slow,And you lay the firm foundationsAnd you pray that they will grow—
Tall and strong and splendid—That they who run may see,What the Adjusting HourHas given to you and me.
We’vetête-à-têtedhere and thereWhence all the breezes fan,From Cuba clear to TokioAnd back to Hindustan.We’ve journeyed out of AgraTo see the Taj MahalRise mystic white in the moonlit nightAbove the Jumna wall.Along the plains of JavaWe shook you by the hand,And watched among Tosari’s hillsThe lace Tjemaras stand:Or Aden’s great cathedral rocks—High—majestic—bare—Or Karnak’s columns rising sheerThrough the clear Egyptian air.We’ve laughed with you in Poeroek Tjahoe,[A]In the heart of Borneo,Ere we hit the trail to northwardWhere the lesser rivers flow:Where the angry Moeroeng cuts the hillsAnd the endless jungles rise,And the Dyak kampongs nestle ’neathThe speckless, fleckless skies.By the myriad ship-lights stretching throughThe Roads of Singapore,By the crooked, winding, white-walled streetsOf burning Bangalore:By the mighty, gilded Shwe DagonAglitter above the trees,Where the tiny ti bells tinkleIn the sough of the sunset breeze:From where the terrace-sculptured gatesOf the great Sri Rangam rise,To Bangkok’s triple temple roofs,Red-gold against the skies:By crowded, sewerless Canton—By Hong Kong’s towering lights—By the gorgeous Rajputana starsThat blazon the blue-black nights:We’ve met you, Men of the Millionth Mark—Outposters—far—alone—Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut,And we claim you for our own.(Beyond the glut of the cities’ rutAnd the roar of the rolling cart,Beyond the blind of the stifled mindAnd the hawking, haggling mart.)And some of you were “rotters”—And some were “18 fine”—But on the whole—we saw your soul—Oh outbound kin of mine.So stand we pledged and hand in handBy every ocean, gulf and land,Stout hearts and humble knees:Oh men of the Outer Reaches—Oh men of the palm-lined beaches—Oh men where the ice-pack bleaches—Oh Brethren o’ the far-flung seas.
We’vetête-à-têtedhere and thereWhence all the breezes fan,From Cuba clear to TokioAnd back to Hindustan.We’ve journeyed out of AgraTo see the Taj MahalRise mystic white in the moonlit nightAbove the Jumna wall.Along the plains of JavaWe shook you by the hand,And watched among Tosari’s hillsThe lace Tjemaras stand:Or Aden’s great cathedral rocks—High—majestic—bare—Or Karnak’s columns rising sheerThrough the clear Egyptian air.We’ve laughed with you in Poeroek Tjahoe,[A]In the heart of Borneo,Ere we hit the trail to northwardWhere the lesser rivers flow:Where the angry Moeroeng cuts the hillsAnd the endless jungles rise,And the Dyak kampongs nestle ’neathThe speckless, fleckless skies.By the myriad ship-lights stretching throughThe Roads of Singapore,By the crooked, winding, white-walled streetsOf burning Bangalore:By the mighty, gilded Shwe DagonAglitter above the trees,Where the tiny ti bells tinkleIn the sough of the sunset breeze:From where the terrace-sculptured gatesOf the great Sri Rangam rise,To Bangkok’s triple temple roofs,Red-gold against the skies:By crowded, sewerless Canton—By Hong Kong’s towering lights—By the gorgeous Rajputana starsThat blazon the blue-black nights:We’ve met you, Men of the Millionth Mark—Outposters—far—alone—Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut,And we claim you for our own.(Beyond the glut of the cities’ rutAnd the roar of the rolling cart,Beyond the blind of the stifled mindAnd the hawking, haggling mart.)And some of you were “rotters”—And some were “18 fine”—But on the whole—we saw your soul—Oh outbound kin of mine.So stand we pledged and hand in handBy every ocean, gulf and land,Stout hearts and humble knees:Oh men of the Outer Reaches—Oh men of the palm-lined beaches—Oh men where the ice-pack bleaches—Oh Brethren o’ the far-flung seas.
We’vetête-à-têtedhere and thereWhence all the breezes fan,From Cuba clear to TokioAnd back to Hindustan.
We’ve journeyed out of AgraTo see the Taj MahalRise mystic white in the moonlit nightAbove the Jumna wall.
Along the plains of JavaWe shook you by the hand,And watched among Tosari’s hillsThe lace Tjemaras stand:
Or Aden’s great cathedral rocks—High—majestic—bare—Or Karnak’s columns rising sheerThrough the clear Egyptian air.
We’ve laughed with you in Poeroek Tjahoe,[A]In the heart of Borneo,Ere we hit the trail to northwardWhere the lesser rivers flow:
Where the angry Moeroeng cuts the hillsAnd the endless jungles rise,And the Dyak kampongs nestle ’neathThe speckless, fleckless skies.
By the myriad ship-lights stretching throughThe Roads of Singapore,By the crooked, winding, white-walled streetsOf burning Bangalore:
By the mighty, gilded Shwe DagonAglitter above the trees,Where the tiny ti bells tinkleIn the sough of the sunset breeze:
From where the terrace-sculptured gatesOf the great Sri Rangam rise,To Bangkok’s triple temple roofs,Red-gold against the skies:
By crowded, sewerless Canton—By Hong Kong’s towering lights—By the gorgeous Rajputana starsThat blazon the blue-black nights:
We’ve met you, Men of the Millionth Mark—Outposters—far—alone—Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut,And we claim you for our own.
(Beyond the glut of the cities’ rutAnd the roar of the rolling cart,Beyond the blind of the stifled mindAnd the hawking, haggling mart.)
And some of you were “rotters”—And some were “18 fine”—But on the whole—we saw your soul—Oh outbound kin of mine.
So stand we pledged and hand in handBy every ocean, gulf and land,Stout hearts and humble knees:Oh men of the Outer Reaches—Oh men of the palm-lined beaches—Oh men where the ice-pack bleaches—Oh Brethren o’ the far-flung seas.
[A]Pronounced Poorook Jow.
Leaning on the midnight rail,Looking o’er the sea,Winking at the little stars,While they wink at me.Wondering how it happenedAges long ago,Wondering why I’m here to night—Wondering where I’ll go.Wondering how the ScorpionBends his mighty tail,Wondering if the Archer’s aimMakes Antares quail:Wondering why Australia’s CrownHappened to be made,Wondering if I really oughtNot to be afraid.Wondering if the blackened seaEver has a bend,Wondering if the Milky WayEver has an end,Wondering why the Southern CrossHas an arm askew,Wondering lots o’ funny things,(I wonder, wouldn’t you?)Wondering where He’s watching from—Wondering if He’d seeAnything so very smallJust as you or me?Wondering and wondering—But still the echoes fail—And so I’m left awonderingOver the silent rail.
Leaning on the midnight rail,Looking o’er the sea,Winking at the little stars,While they wink at me.Wondering how it happenedAges long ago,Wondering why I’m here to night—Wondering where I’ll go.Wondering how the ScorpionBends his mighty tail,Wondering if the Archer’s aimMakes Antares quail:Wondering why Australia’s CrownHappened to be made,Wondering if I really oughtNot to be afraid.Wondering if the blackened seaEver has a bend,Wondering if the Milky WayEver has an end,Wondering why the Southern CrossHas an arm askew,Wondering lots o’ funny things,(I wonder, wouldn’t you?)Wondering where He’s watching from—Wondering if He’d seeAnything so very smallJust as you or me?Wondering and wondering—But still the echoes fail—And so I’m left awonderingOver the silent rail.
Leaning on the midnight rail,Looking o’er the sea,Winking at the little stars,While they wink at me.Wondering how it happenedAges long ago,Wondering why I’m here to night—Wondering where I’ll go.
Wondering how the ScorpionBends his mighty tail,Wondering if the Archer’s aimMakes Antares quail:Wondering why Australia’s CrownHappened to be made,Wondering if I really oughtNot to be afraid.
Wondering if the blackened seaEver has a bend,Wondering if the Milky WayEver has an end,Wondering why the Southern CrossHas an arm askew,Wondering lots o’ funny things,(I wonder, wouldn’t you?)
Wondering where He’s watching from—Wondering if He’d seeAnything so very smallJust as you or me?Wondering and wondering—But still the echoes fail—And so I’m left awonderingOver the silent rail.
Written in a presentation copy of “My Bunkie and Other Ballads” given to A. Van Vleck, Esq., of New York City.
Written in a presentation copy of “My Bunkie and Other Ballads” given to A. Van Vleck, Esq., of New York City.
Where the sails hang limp and lifelessIn the doldrums’ deadly pause,Where the lights above the Polar capesSpread out in a golden gauze:Where lilac tints are listingO’er purple tropic seas—Where the Arctic winds are whistlingAnd the north-flung rivers freeze—We’ve met the men the Maker madeTo dwell ’neath fir and palm—And, we salute thee, friend and man—M’sieur—le gentilhomme.
Where the sails hang limp and lifelessIn the doldrums’ deadly pause,Where the lights above the Polar capesSpread out in a golden gauze:Where lilac tints are listingO’er purple tropic seas—Where the Arctic winds are whistlingAnd the north-flung rivers freeze—We’ve met the men the Maker madeTo dwell ’neath fir and palm—And, we salute thee, friend and man—M’sieur—le gentilhomme.
Where the sails hang limp and lifelessIn the doldrums’ deadly pause,Where the lights above the Polar capesSpread out in a golden gauze:Where lilac tints are listingO’er purple tropic seas—Where the Arctic winds are whistlingAnd the north-flung rivers freeze—We’ve met the men the Maker madeTo dwell ’neath fir and palm—And, we salute thee, friend and man—M’sieur—le gentilhomme.
Fools there lived when the Nations sprang newborn from the arms of God—Fools there’ll live when the Nations melt in the mold of the markless sod.Fools there are and fools there were and fools there’ll ever be—But none like the fools whom the ages teach, and then refuse to see.With Other Peoples building them in squadrons—The Other Peoples laden down with debt—In the richest of the Nations you’ll cut appropriations,But the Day of Reckoning—have ye counted yet?Oh be careful, Oh be meager, Oh My Brothers;Weigh the cost, and gasp, and pare it down again;Till the twelve-inch children roar and the troop-ships grate the shoreAnd you hear the coming tread of marching men.Then My Brothers, Oh my wise far-seeing Brothers,Build a Fleet and build it swiftly overnight;Ah truly ye who knew it all these years can surely do it,For ye and only ye alone are right.Go gaze across your growing, waving acres—Go gaze adown the peaceful, busy street;May the prestige of your town be your all-in-all renown,And scorn the men who bid you, “BUILD THE FLEET.”Or whine about your irrigation ditches—Much they’ll help a scarred and battle-riven land.Oh they’ll do a monstrous earning when the crops they grow are burning—Because you would not hear the clear command.With the jealous nations standing to the east-ward—And the Sneaking Cur that watches on the west—You’ll bargain, skimp and whine till the gray hulls lift the line,And your children stand betrayèd and confessed.For the sake of saving five or fifty millions—For the sake of “politics” or local greed—Will you brand yourselves arch traitors to the Nation—You, the sons of men who served us in our need?Will you risk a land your Sires died to bring you—A land our faithful Fathers fell to save,By the bleaching bones of Valley Forge and MonmouthOr the crimson flood the Bloody Angle gave?Will you see one half the Nation raped and burning—Will you learn War’s callous, lurid, livid wrathBy the wailing ’long the wayside, by the ashes of the cities,Ere your gathered army flings across their path?You may strut and boast our boundless might and power—You may call our race the Chosen of the Lord—But ifyourtown they raze—and ifyourhome’s ablazeYou will wake and learn the Kingdom of the Sword.You will wake and learn the word your Fathers taught you—You will wake and learn the truth—but all too late:By the shrieking shrapnel’s crying—by the homeless, wronged and dying—You shall count what, you begrudged to Guard the Gate.
Fools there lived when the Nations sprang newborn from the arms of God—Fools there’ll live when the Nations melt in the mold of the markless sod.Fools there are and fools there were and fools there’ll ever be—But none like the fools whom the ages teach, and then refuse to see.With Other Peoples building them in squadrons—The Other Peoples laden down with debt—In the richest of the Nations you’ll cut appropriations,But the Day of Reckoning—have ye counted yet?Oh be careful, Oh be meager, Oh My Brothers;Weigh the cost, and gasp, and pare it down again;Till the twelve-inch children roar and the troop-ships grate the shoreAnd you hear the coming tread of marching men.Then My Brothers, Oh my wise far-seeing Brothers,Build a Fleet and build it swiftly overnight;Ah truly ye who knew it all these years can surely do it,For ye and only ye alone are right.Go gaze across your growing, waving acres—Go gaze adown the peaceful, busy street;May the prestige of your town be your all-in-all renown,And scorn the men who bid you, “BUILD THE FLEET.”Or whine about your irrigation ditches—Much they’ll help a scarred and battle-riven land.Oh they’ll do a monstrous earning when the crops they grow are burning—Because you would not hear the clear command.With the jealous nations standing to the east-ward—And the Sneaking Cur that watches on the west—You’ll bargain, skimp and whine till the gray hulls lift the line,And your children stand betrayèd and confessed.For the sake of saving five or fifty millions—For the sake of “politics” or local greed—Will you brand yourselves arch traitors to the Nation—You, the sons of men who served us in our need?Will you risk a land your Sires died to bring you—A land our faithful Fathers fell to save,By the bleaching bones of Valley Forge and MonmouthOr the crimson flood the Bloody Angle gave?Will you see one half the Nation raped and burning—Will you learn War’s callous, lurid, livid wrathBy the wailing ’long the wayside, by the ashes of the cities,Ere your gathered army flings across their path?You may strut and boast our boundless might and power—You may call our race the Chosen of the Lord—But ifyourtown they raze—and ifyourhome’s ablazeYou will wake and learn the Kingdom of the Sword.You will wake and learn the word your Fathers taught you—You will wake and learn the truth—but all too late:By the shrieking shrapnel’s crying—by the homeless, wronged and dying—You shall count what, you begrudged to Guard the Gate.
Fools there lived when the Nations sprang newborn from the arms of God—Fools there’ll live when the Nations melt in the mold of the markless sod.Fools there are and fools there were and fools there’ll ever be—But none like the fools whom the ages teach, and then refuse to see.
With Other Peoples building them in squadrons—The Other Peoples laden down with debt—In the richest of the Nations you’ll cut appropriations,But the Day of Reckoning—have ye counted yet?
Oh be careful, Oh be meager, Oh My Brothers;Weigh the cost, and gasp, and pare it down again;Till the twelve-inch children roar and the troop-ships grate the shoreAnd you hear the coming tread of marching men.
Then My Brothers, Oh my wise far-seeing Brothers,Build a Fleet and build it swiftly overnight;Ah truly ye who knew it all these years can surely do it,For ye and only ye alone are right.
Go gaze across your growing, waving acres—Go gaze adown the peaceful, busy street;May the prestige of your town be your all-in-all renown,And scorn the men who bid you, “BUILD THE FLEET.”
Or whine about your irrigation ditches—Much they’ll help a scarred and battle-riven land.Oh they’ll do a monstrous earning when the crops they grow are burning—Because you would not hear the clear command.
With the jealous nations standing to the east-ward—And the Sneaking Cur that watches on the west—You’ll bargain, skimp and whine till the gray hulls lift the line,And your children stand betrayèd and confessed.
For the sake of saving five or fifty millions—For the sake of “politics” or local greed—Will you brand yourselves arch traitors to the Nation—You, the sons of men who served us in our need?
Will you risk a land your Sires died to bring you—A land our faithful Fathers fell to save,By the bleaching bones of Valley Forge and MonmouthOr the crimson flood the Bloody Angle gave?
Will you see one half the Nation raped and burning—Will you learn War’s callous, lurid, livid wrathBy the wailing ’long the wayside, by the ashes of the cities,Ere your gathered army flings across their path?
You may strut and boast our boundless might and power—You may call our race the Chosen of the Lord—But ifyourtown they raze—and ifyourhome’s ablazeYou will wake and learn the Kingdom of the Sword.
You will wake and learn the word your Fathers taught you—You will wake and learn the truth—but all too late:By the shrieking shrapnel’s crying—by the homeless, wronged and dying—You shall count what, you begrudged to Guard the Gate.
It should be needless to note that the persons here addressed do not comprise the whole American people but a certain distinctive type.
It should be needless to note that the persons here addressed do not comprise the whole American people but a certain distinctive type.
Oh little men and sheltered—Oh fatted pigs of a sty,Through the Star Spangled Banner ye calmly sit,Nor see the wrong, nor the why,And ye stand with your hats on your thoughtless heads,When the Flag of the Nation goes by.Has the lust of the dollar gripped youTill the fetid brain’s grown cold,Till ye forget the days that are setAnd the glorious deeds of old—And the Song and the Passing ColorsAre drowned in a flood of gold?Awake from your listless lethargy—Arise and understandThe battle-hymn of your fathers—And the Flag of your Fatherland—As it rose to the hum of the feet that comeTo the drum and the bugle’s call;As it tasted the dregs of raw reverse—As it rushed through the breach in the wall:As it fell again on the gore-wet plainTill new hands swung it high—As it dipped in rest to East and WestWhere it watched its Children die:As it swept anew o’er the shotted blue,And the great gulls reeled in fright;As it bore the brave ’neath the whispering waveTo the Squadron’s hushed Goodnight:As it mounted sheer ’mid cheer on cheer,Till, far o’er land and sea,It gave each fold to the sunlight’s gold—And the name of Victory.Then on your feet when the first proud strainOf the Anthem rolls on high—And see that ye stand uncoveredTo the Colors passing byAnd pray to your God for strength to guardThe Flag ye glorify.
Oh little men and sheltered—Oh fatted pigs of a sty,Through the Star Spangled Banner ye calmly sit,Nor see the wrong, nor the why,And ye stand with your hats on your thoughtless heads,When the Flag of the Nation goes by.Has the lust of the dollar gripped youTill the fetid brain’s grown cold,Till ye forget the days that are setAnd the glorious deeds of old—And the Song and the Passing ColorsAre drowned in a flood of gold?Awake from your listless lethargy—Arise and understandThe battle-hymn of your fathers—And the Flag of your Fatherland—As it rose to the hum of the feet that comeTo the drum and the bugle’s call;As it tasted the dregs of raw reverse—As it rushed through the breach in the wall:As it fell again on the gore-wet plainTill new hands swung it high—As it dipped in rest to East and WestWhere it watched its Children die:As it swept anew o’er the shotted blue,And the great gulls reeled in fright;As it bore the brave ’neath the whispering waveTo the Squadron’s hushed Goodnight:As it mounted sheer ’mid cheer on cheer,Till, far o’er land and sea,It gave each fold to the sunlight’s gold—And the name of Victory.Then on your feet when the first proud strainOf the Anthem rolls on high—And see that ye stand uncoveredTo the Colors passing byAnd pray to your God for strength to guardThe Flag ye glorify.
Oh little men and sheltered—Oh fatted pigs of a sty,Through the Star Spangled Banner ye calmly sit,Nor see the wrong, nor the why,And ye stand with your hats on your thoughtless heads,When the Flag of the Nation goes by.
Has the lust of the dollar gripped youTill the fetid brain’s grown cold,Till ye forget the days that are setAnd the glorious deeds of old—And the Song and the Passing ColorsAre drowned in a flood of gold?
Awake from your listless lethargy—Arise and understandThe battle-hymn of your fathers—And the Flag of your Fatherland—
As it rose to the hum of the feet that comeTo the drum and the bugle’s call;As it tasted the dregs of raw reverse—As it rushed through the breach in the wall:
As it fell again on the gore-wet plainTill new hands swung it high—As it dipped in rest to East and WestWhere it watched its Children die:
As it swept anew o’er the shotted blue,And the great gulls reeled in fright;As it bore the brave ’neath the whispering waveTo the Squadron’s hushed Goodnight:
As it mounted sheer ’mid cheer on cheer,Till, far o’er land and sea,It gave each fold to the sunlight’s gold—And the name of Victory.
Then on your feet when the first proud strainOf the Anthem rolls on high—And see that ye stand uncoveredTo the Colors passing byAnd pray to your God for strength to guardThe Flag ye glorify.
Chiefs of all the Conquerors—Kings above the Kings—Fame beyond all earthly fameWhere the censer swings.Brave and strong and silent—Patient, cautious, calm—E’en as the ministering angels—Even as Gilead’s Balm—They come; the quiet god-men,Where hope has fled apace,And the Reaper’s scythe is swayingAcross the ashen face.No miracle proclaims them—No thundering cheer and drum—As creeps the light of the starlit nightGod’s Emissaries come.A touch to the raveled life-cordOr ever it snaps in twain;And as the light of the starlit nightThey silently pass again.
Chiefs of all the Conquerors—Kings above the Kings—Fame beyond all earthly fameWhere the censer swings.Brave and strong and silent—Patient, cautious, calm—E’en as the ministering angels—Even as Gilead’s Balm—They come; the quiet god-men,Where hope has fled apace,And the Reaper’s scythe is swayingAcross the ashen face.No miracle proclaims them—No thundering cheer and drum—As creeps the light of the starlit nightGod’s Emissaries come.A touch to the raveled life-cordOr ever it snaps in twain;And as the light of the starlit nightThey silently pass again.
Chiefs of all the Conquerors—Kings above the Kings—Fame beyond all earthly fameWhere the censer swings.
Brave and strong and silent—Patient, cautious, calm—E’en as the ministering angels—Even as Gilead’s Balm—
They come; the quiet god-men,Where hope has fled apace,And the Reaper’s scythe is swayingAcross the ashen face.
No miracle proclaims them—No thundering cheer and drum—As creeps the light of the starlit nightGod’s Emissaries come.
A touch to the raveled life-cordOr ever it snaps in twain;And as the light of the starlit nightThey silently pass again.
The Dreamer saw a visionHigh in th’ empyrean blue,And slowly it passed until at lastHe called to the Man he knew—“Look, thou Dolt of the Blinded Heart—Slave of Rod and Rule—And drink of the wine of my sight divine—Oh churl of a plodding school!”The Doer he checked and plottedAnd hammered and pieced again,But his eyes they were on the things that he saw—The Things of the Earth-bound Men:And he called to the Dreamer passing—“Oh stop, thou fool, and seeOn water and land the work of my hand,For the service of such as thee.”“Dolt,” said the Dreamer, “ye stole my dreamI showed where the lightnings ran ...”“Fool,” said the Doer, “but for my toil—Ye’d still be a Stone-age Man.”
The Dreamer saw a visionHigh in th’ empyrean blue,And slowly it passed until at lastHe called to the Man he knew—“Look, thou Dolt of the Blinded Heart—Slave of Rod and Rule—And drink of the wine of my sight divine—Oh churl of a plodding school!”The Doer he checked and plottedAnd hammered and pieced again,But his eyes they were on the things that he saw—The Things of the Earth-bound Men:And he called to the Dreamer passing—“Oh stop, thou fool, and seeOn water and land the work of my hand,For the service of such as thee.”“Dolt,” said the Dreamer, “ye stole my dreamI showed where the lightnings ran ...”“Fool,” said the Doer, “but for my toil—Ye’d still be a Stone-age Man.”
The Dreamer saw a visionHigh in th’ empyrean blue,And slowly it passed until at lastHe called to the Man he knew—“Look, thou Dolt of the Blinded Heart—Slave of Rod and Rule—And drink of the wine of my sight divine—Oh churl of a plodding school!”
The Doer he checked and plottedAnd hammered and pieced again,But his eyes they were on the things that he saw—The Things of the Earth-bound Men:And he called to the Dreamer passing—“Oh stop, thou fool, and seeOn water and land the work of my hand,For the service of such as thee.”
“Dolt,” said the Dreamer, “ye stole my dreamI showed where the lightnings ran ...”“Fool,” said the Doer, “but for my toil—Ye’d still be a Stone-age Man.”
Might and far-flung powerAnd we call the vision Rome,Where the close-locked legions trampleAnd the triremes cut the foam.Grace and regal beauty—And Athena’s temples riseAbove the fertile Attic plainsAnd blue Ægean skies.But when, in wanton whispersCreeps o’er the tired brainThe word Romance, there falls the trance—The spell of olden Spain.. . . . . . . . . .The humdrum of the cityThe workshop and the street,They gently slip behind us—As glide our tired feetO’er the pavements of Sevilla,Where the Grandees pass againTo ogle in the balconiesThe matchless eyes of Spain.Once more the somersaulting bellsIn the great square tower ring—Once more the sword and cowl draw back—“The King—make way—The King!”Sevilla—Mother of a worldOf pride and golden gain,And greed and love and laughterOf Periclean Spain.Once more o’er purple oceanOr coral-locked lagoon,We watch the bowsprit cuttingThe pathway of the moon.The long white beach, the swaying palms’Shifting silver sheen—And the flickering flares of the flimsy fleetWhere the spear-poised fishers lean.The low-hung, skimming scuppers—The flaunting skull and bones—The buccaneer on his poop-deckRoaring in thunder tonesTo a swarthy, ill-begotten crew—As slow the daylight dies,And he lifts with a smile the chartless isleWhere the buried treasure lies.The lilt of living musicCaressing heart and brain:Harp, guitar and mandolinIn languorous, limpid strain.The fluttering fan—the furtive glance—The black mantilla’s reign—And the Captains bold who drop their goldTo bask in the eyes of Spain.The towering galleons plungingThrice-tiered above the foam:The ringing round-shot roaring,And the crash of the hit gone home:The yard-arms staggering under,Where, scorning the iron rainAnd showing its fangs to a parting world,Goes down the Lion of Spain.. . . . . . . . . .When the clattering city cloys youWith the stress of its strident call—When practical, calculating ThingsAre domineering all—When your clamped mind in its wearinessTo Romance turns again,Seek ye the Andalusian crags—The flare of the gold and crimson flags—And the scented breath where the night wind dragsThrough the Isles of the Spanish Main.
Might and far-flung powerAnd we call the vision Rome,Where the close-locked legions trampleAnd the triremes cut the foam.Grace and regal beauty—And Athena’s temples riseAbove the fertile Attic plainsAnd blue Ægean skies.But when, in wanton whispersCreeps o’er the tired brainThe word Romance, there falls the trance—The spell of olden Spain.. . . . . . . . . .The humdrum of the cityThe workshop and the street,They gently slip behind us—As glide our tired feetO’er the pavements of Sevilla,Where the Grandees pass againTo ogle in the balconiesThe matchless eyes of Spain.Once more the somersaulting bellsIn the great square tower ring—Once more the sword and cowl draw back—“The King—make way—The King!”Sevilla—Mother of a worldOf pride and golden gain,And greed and love and laughterOf Periclean Spain.Once more o’er purple oceanOr coral-locked lagoon,We watch the bowsprit cuttingThe pathway of the moon.The long white beach, the swaying palms’Shifting silver sheen—And the flickering flares of the flimsy fleetWhere the spear-poised fishers lean.The low-hung, skimming scuppers—The flaunting skull and bones—The buccaneer on his poop-deckRoaring in thunder tonesTo a swarthy, ill-begotten crew—As slow the daylight dies,And he lifts with a smile the chartless isleWhere the buried treasure lies.The lilt of living musicCaressing heart and brain:Harp, guitar and mandolinIn languorous, limpid strain.The fluttering fan—the furtive glance—The black mantilla’s reign—And the Captains bold who drop their goldTo bask in the eyes of Spain.The towering galleons plungingThrice-tiered above the foam:The ringing round-shot roaring,And the crash of the hit gone home:The yard-arms staggering under,Where, scorning the iron rainAnd showing its fangs to a parting world,Goes down the Lion of Spain.. . . . . . . . . .When the clattering city cloys youWith the stress of its strident call—When practical, calculating ThingsAre domineering all—When your clamped mind in its wearinessTo Romance turns again,Seek ye the Andalusian crags—The flare of the gold and crimson flags—And the scented breath where the night wind dragsThrough the Isles of the Spanish Main.
Might and far-flung powerAnd we call the vision Rome,Where the close-locked legions trampleAnd the triremes cut the foam.Grace and regal beauty—And Athena’s temples riseAbove the fertile Attic plainsAnd blue Ægean skies.But when, in wanton whispersCreeps o’er the tired brainThe word Romance, there falls the trance—The spell of olden Spain.. . . . . . . . . .The humdrum of the cityThe workshop and the street,They gently slip behind us—As glide our tired feetO’er the pavements of Sevilla,Where the Grandees pass againTo ogle in the balconiesThe matchless eyes of Spain.
Once more the somersaulting bellsIn the great square tower ring—Once more the sword and cowl draw back—“The King—make way—The King!”Sevilla—Mother of a worldOf pride and golden gain,And greed and love and laughterOf Periclean Spain.
Once more o’er purple oceanOr coral-locked lagoon,We watch the bowsprit cuttingThe pathway of the moon.The long white beach, the swaying palms’Shifting silver sheen—And the flickering flares of the flimsy fleetWhere the spear-poised fishers lean.
The low-hung, skimming scuppers—The flaunting skull and bones—The buccaneer on his poop-deckRoaring in thunder tonesTo a swarthy, ill-begotten crew—As slow the daylight dies,And he lifts with a smile the chartless isleWhere the buried treasure lies.
The lilt of living musicCaressing heart and brain:Harp, guitar and mandolinIn languorous, limpid strain.The fluttering fan—the furtive glance—The black mantilla’s reign—And the Captains bold who drop their goldTo bask in the eyes of Spain.
The towering galleons plungingThrice-tiered above the foam:The ringing round-shot roaring,And the crash of the hit gone home:The yard-arms staggering under,Where, scorning the iron rainAnd showing its fangs to a parting world,Goes down the Lion of Spain.. . . . . . . . . .When the clattering city cloys youWith the stress of its strident call—When practical, calculating ThingsAre domineering all—When your clamped mind in its wearinessTo Romance turns again,Seek ye the Andalusian crags—The flare of the gold and crimson flags—And the scented breath where the night wind dragsThrough the Isles of the Spanish Main.
Cities and kings and nationsHush at my outer breath,As sightless I glide o’er the wind-lashed tideIn my race with the deep-sea death.War and Trade and the Laws ye madeHalt at the Letters Three,Bound on my errand of mercy—I—The ultimate C.Q.D.No wave may intercept me,Though it tower a hundred feet;No storm shall ever stay me,Though sky and waters meet.Piercing the howling heavens—Skimming the churning sea—Through blast and gale I bring the tale—I—the pitying C.Q.D.And when through the white-toothed combersThe helping hull looms high,And when the small-boats leap asideThrough the glare of the red-shot sky,Out, out across the ocean’s dawnThe final flashes flee—“All saved!” And the circling shores ring back—“Thank God—and the C.Q.D!”
Cities and kings and nationsHush at my outer breath,As sightless I glide o’er the wind-lashed tideIn my race with the deep-sea death.War and Trade and the Laws ye madeHalt at the Letters Three,Bound on my errand of mercy—I—The ultimate C.Q.D.No wave may intercept me,Though it tower a hundred feet;No storm shall ever stay me,Though sky and waters meet.Piercing the howling heavens—Skimming the churning sea—Through blast and gale I bring the tale—I—the pitying C.Q.D.And when through the white-toothed combersThe helping hull looms high,And when the small-boats leap asideThrough the glare of the red-shot sky,Out, out across the ocean’s dawnThe final flashes flee—“All saved!” And the circling shores ring back—“Thank God—and the C.Q.D!”
Cities and kings and nationsHush at my outer breath,As sightless I glide o’er the wind-lashed tideIn my race with the deep-sea death.War and Trade and the Laws ye madeHalt at the Letters Three,Bound on my errand of mercy—I—The ultimate C.Q.D.
No wave may intercept me,Though it tower a hundred feet;No storm shall ever stay me,Though sky and waters meet.Piercing the howling heavens—Skimming the churning sea—Through blast and gale I bring the tale—I—the pitying C.Q.D.
And when through the white-toothed combersThe helping hull looms high,And when the small-boats leap asideThrough the glare of the red-shot sky,Out, out across the ocean’s dawnThe final flashes flee—“All saved!” And the circling shores ring back—“Thank God—and the C.Q.D!”
The fair-weather lights are gleamingAcross a tranquil main,By beam and beam so bright they seemA laughing, endless chain.The foul-weather lights are few and far—Nor flash nor leap nor fail—But slowly burn where the billows churnIn the teeth of the driving gale.Oh the fair-weather lights o’er the sheltered bightsAre welcome sights to see—But the foul-weather lights o’ the stormy nights,Are the Lamps of the Years to be.
The fair-weather lights are gleamingAcross a tranquil main,By beam and beam so bright they seemA laughing, endless chain.The foul-weather lights are few and far—Nor flash nor leap nor fail—But slowly burn where the billows churnIn the teeth of the driving gale.Oh the fair-weather lights o’er the sheltered bightsAre welcome sights to see—But the foul-weather lights o’ the stormy nights,Are the Lamps of the Years to be.
The fair-weather lights are gleamingAcross a tranquil main,By beam and beam so bright they seemA laughing, endless chain.
The foul-weather lights are few and far—Nor flash nor leap nor fail—But slowly burn where the billows churnIn the teeth of the driving gale.
Oh the fair-weather lights o’er the sheltered bightsAre welcome sights to see—But the foul-weather lights o’ the stormy nights,Are the Lamps of the Years to be.
And the Guiding One he pointed meTo each and each the deed,And never a word was ever heardOf Prophet or Saint or Creed.And never a word was ever heardBut the path that each had run,Till the purple mist stooped down and kissedAnd said that the work was done.And there stood he of the iron willNor gold could bend or buy:And there stood she of the Mother LoveThat never asketh why.And there stood he who striving lost,But striving, gained the Crest:And there stood she who nursed them backWith bullet-ridden breast.And there stood he whose right hand gave,But the left—it never knew:And there stood she who held him fastWhen the Beckoning Whispers blew.And there stood he who saved a lifeBy fire, sea or sword:And these were Chiefs of the Upper HostsAnd first before the Lord.But high o’er the great Arch-angels,Higher than any stand,I saw the chosen of the KingAt the right of the Master’s hand.And I questioning gazed in the deep-lit eyesAnd the silent face aglow,Till the Guiding One It answered meThe word that I wished to know—“Out of the crash of battle,Where the shrieking bullet sings,The roaring front lines reel and rockAs a wounded vulture swings.“As a wounded vulture halting swingsThe quivering squadrons break,Till the shattered herds catch up the words,‘Back, back for your Country’s sake!’”(Back, back to follow afterThe light of fearless eyes,And the sound of a voice that knows no choiceWhere the love of a Nation lies.)And the Guiding One it paused apace,And then I heard it say—“And he?—He died in leadingThe charge that won the day.”
And the Guiding One he pointed meTo each and each the deed,And never a word was ever heardOf Prophet or Saint or Creed.And never a word was ever heardBut the path that each had run,Till the purple mist stooped down and kissedAnd said that the work was done.And there stood he of the iron willNor gold could bend or buy:And there stood she of the Mother LoveThat never asketh why.And there stood he who striving lost,But striving, gained the Crest:And there stood she who nursed them backWith bullet-ridden breast.And there stood he whose right hand gave,But the left—it never knew:And there stood she who held him fastWhen the Beckoning Whispers blew.And there stood he who saved a lifeBy fire, sea or sword:And these were Chiefs of the Upper HostsAnd first before the Lord.But high o’er the great Arch-angels,Higher than any stand,I saw the chosen of the KingAt the right of the Master’s hand.And I questioning gazed in the deep-lit eyesAnd the silent face aglow,Till the Guiding One It answered meThe word that I wished to know—“Out of the crash of battle,Where the shrieking bullet sings,The roaring front lines reel and rockAs a wounded vulture swings.“As a wounded vulture halting swingsThe quivering squadrons break,Till the shattered herds catch up the words,‘Back, back for your Country’s sake!’”(Back, back to follow afterThe light of fearless eyes,And the sound of a voice that knows no choiceWhere the love of a Nation lies.)And the Guiding One it paused apace,And then I heard it say—“And he?—He died in leadingThe charge that won the day.”
And the Guiding One he pointed meTo each and each the deed,And never a word was ever heardOf Prophet or Saint or Creed.
And never a word was ever heardBut the path that each had run,Till the purple mist stooped down and kissedAnd said that the work was done.
And there stood he of the iron willNor gold could bend or buy:And there stood she of the Mother LoveThat never asketh why.
And there stood he who striving lost,But striving, gained the Crest:And there stood she who nursed them backWith bullet-ridden breast.
And there stood he whose right hand gave,But the left—it never knew:And there stood she who held him fastWhen the Beckoning Whispers blew.
And there stood he who saved a lifeBy fire, sea or sword:And these were Chiefs of the Upper HostsAnd first before the Lord.
But high o’er the great Arch-angels,Higher than any stand,I saw the chosen of the KingAt the right of the Master’s hand.
And I questioning gazed in the deep-lit eyesAnd the silent face aglow,Till the Guiding One It answered meThe word that I wished to know—
“Out of the crash of battle,Where the shrieking bullet sings,The roaring front lines reel and rockAs a wounded vulture swings.
“As a wounded vulture halting swingsThe quivering squadrons break,Till the shattered herds catch up the words,‘Back, back for your Country’s sake!’”
(Back, back to follow afterThe light of fearless eyes,And the sound of a voice that knows no choiceWhere the love of a Nation lies.)
And the Guiding One it paused apace,And then I heard it say—“And he?—He died in leadingThe charge that won the day.”
Oh ye who tell of the harvest moonAbove the waving grain,Oh ye who tell of the silent moonThat glitters across the plain.Oh ye who tell of the mountain moonThat lifts each peak and crag,Oh ye who tell of the ocean moonWhere the long, black shadows drag.Oh ye who tell of the silver moonIn wanton ecstasy,Ye never tell of the fairest moon—The fairest moon to me.’Tis well the tale of the crescent moonAbove the lake-side pine,And good is your song of the circling moonWhere snowy meadows shine.And fair’s the lilt of the gleaming moonWhere dazzling rapids leap:For wondrous bright is the fairy sightOf the soul of a World asleep.But a waning moon, just half a moon,With a rough and ragged rim,And a mystic light that makes the nightAll bright but doubly dim....Low down, low down in a starry sky,O’er the shift of a swinging seaWith a mellow fold o’ silver gold,Reveals my moon to me.
Oh ye who tell of the harvest moonAbove the waving grain,Oh ye who tell of the silent moonThat glitters across the plain.Oh ye who tell of the mountain moonThat lifts each peak and crag,Oh ye who tell of the ocean moonWhere the long, black shadows drag.Oh ye who tell of the silver moonIn wanton ecstasy,Ye never tell of the fairest moon—The fairest moon to me.’Tis well the tale of the crescent moonAbove the lake-side pine,And good is your song of the circling moonWhere snowy meadows shine.And fair’s the lilt of the gleaming moonWhere dazzling rapids leap:For wondrous bright is the fairy sightOf the soul of a World asleep.But a waning moon, just half a moon,With a rough and ragged rim,And a mystic light that makes the nightAll bright but doubly dim....Low down, low down in a starry sky,O’er the shift of a swinging seaWith a mellow fold o’ silver gold,Reveals my moon to me.
Oh ye who tell of the harvest moonAbove the waving grain,Oh ye who tell of the silent moonThat glitters across the plain.
Oh ye who tell of the mountain moonThat lifts each peak and crag,Oh ye who tell of the ocean moonWhere the long, black shadows drag.
Oh ye who tell of the silver moonIn wanton ecstasy,Ye never tell of the fairest moon—The fairest moon to me.
’Tis well the tale of the crescent moonAbove the lake-side pine,And good is your song of the circling moonWhere snowy meadows shine.
And fair’s the lilt of the gleaming moonWhere dazzling rapids leap:For wondrous bright is the fairy sightOf the soul of a World asleep.
But a waning moon, just half a moon,With a rough and ragged rim,And a mystic light that makes the nightAll bright but doubly dim....
Low down, low down in a starry sky,O’er the shift of a swinging seaWith a mellow fold o’ silver gold,Reveals my moon to me.
The trumpets bore his name afarBy East and West anew,Where, roaring through the riven tapeThe sweeping Conqueror drew.And East and West they rose and blestWith laurel wreath and cheers,As they had done ’neath every sunAdorn the countless years.The trumpets echoed far ahead—A faltering footfall trailed,Till broken flesh that called on fleshStumbled and rocked and failed.A well run dry—a sightless sky—Where mind and matter part:A quivering frame—a nameless name—Wrapped in a lion’s heart.The nearer stars they winded him—The farther planets heard;The outer spheres of all the spheresTook up the Master’s word.They lifted him and bouyed himAnd bore him gently inTo the Goal of Lost Endeavor—In the Land of Might-have-been.
The trumpets bore his name afarBy East and West anew,Where, roaring through the riven tapeThe sweeping Conqueror drew.And East and West they rose and blestWith laurel wreath and cheers,As they had done ’neath every sunAdorn the countless years.The trumpets echoed far ahead—A faltering footfall trailed,Till broken flesh that called on fleshStumbled and rocked and failed.A well run dry—a sightless sky—Where mind and matter part:A quivering frame—a nameless name—Wrapped in a lion’s heart.The nearer stars they winded him—The farther planets heard;The outer spheres of all the spheresTook up the Master’s word.They lifted him and bouyed himAnd bore him gently inTo the Goal of Lost Endeavor—In the Land of Might-have-been.
The trumpets bore his name afarBy East and West anew,Where, roaring through the riven tapeThe sweeping Conqueror drew.And East and West they rose and blestWith laurel wreath and cheers,As they had done ’neath every sunAdorn the countless years.
The trumpets echoed far ahead—A faltering footfall trailed,Till broken flesh that called on fleshStumbled and rocked and failed.A well run dry—a sightless sky—Where mind and matter part:A quivering frame—a nameless name—Wrapped in a lion’s heart.
The nearer stars they winded him—The farther planets heard;The outer spheres of all the spheresTook up the Master’s word.They lifted him and bouyed himAnd bore him gently inTo the Goal of Lost Endeavor—In the Land of Might-have-been.