THE BUGLE CALL

In the city of tents, by the restless sea,My sailor-lad long has dwelt,Since Fate has put forth her dark decree,And strangely our children’s future is spelt,By the horrors of things to be.And I think, in his heart he begins to knowThe meaning which glamor obscured,For his words are like cups that overflowWith things which he has endured,Though never just saying so.For he is as brave, and more I ween,Than many a fellow-lad,And courage excels in his cheerful mien,He even tries to make others glad,This sailor of seventeen.But a letter arrived, the other day,To his little sister of seven,To whom he wrote in a childlike wayOf things in a vision given,And this is what he did say:—“I stood on the shore of the moonlit lake,Where the billows came rolling high,The sound of the sea did my soul awakeTo the breaker’s music and westwinds sighAnd to musings of my own make.”“Methought I saw on the whitecapped wavesMy dear ones come to me,—For the heart perceives what most it craves,On the world’s dark, turbulent sea,The sea of clamoring waves.”“And I saw you dance on the foamy crest,Like a Naiad or spirit fair,And mother and all whom I love bestDid beckon to me out there,In the wind from the plains of the west.”“And I called on you all by your dearest name,As lonely I stood that night,But none of you heard me, and none of you came,But vanished full soon from my sight,Like the sheen of a dying flame.”“And it may have been the mist from the spray,Or something like that which blurredMy eyes as I tried to look away,And only the moan of the billows I heard,As they came in a wild array.”“I went to my little tent in the camp,All cold in the April night,My bed was cheerless and chill and damp,And my heart was heavy as I did write,In the light of the sky’s bright lamp.”

In the city of tents, by the restless sea,My sailor-lad long has dwelt,Since Fate has put forth her dark decree,And strangely our children’s future is spelt,By the horrors of things to be.

And I think, in his heart he begins to knowThe meaning which glamor obscured,For his words are like cups that overflowWith things which he has endured,Though never just saying so.

For he is as brave, and more I ween,Than many a fellow-lad,And courage excels in his cheerful mien,He even tries to make others glad,This sailor of seventeen.

But a letter arrived, the other day,To his little sister of seven,To whom he wrote in a childlike wayOf things in a vision given,And this is what he did say:—

“I stood on the shore of the moonlit lake,Where the billows came rolling high,The sound of the sea did my soul awakeTo the breaker’s music and westwinds sighAnd to musings of my own make.”

“Methought I saw on the whitecapped wavesMy dear ones come to me,—For the heart perceives what most it craves,On the world’s dark, turbulent sea,The sea of clamoring waves.”

“And I saw you dance on the foamy crest,Like a Naiad or spirit fair,And mother and all whom I love bestDid beckon to me out there,In the wind from the plains of the west.”

“And I called on you all by your dearest name,As lonely I stood that night,But none of you heard me, and none of you came,But vanished full soon from my sight,Like the sheen of a dying flame.”

“And it may have been the mist from the spray,Or something like that which blurredMy eyes as I tried to look away,And only the moan of the billows I heard,As they came in a wild array.”

“I went to my little tent in the camp,All cold in the April night,My bed was cheerless and chill and damp,And my heart was heavy as I did write,In the light of the sky’s bright lamp.”

America, awake, awake!Put on thy armor, for the hourHas come when Freedom is at stake!Arise, and show thy spirit’s power,And now, as in thy youth,The tyrant’s shackles break;And let the truth,Which made thee great,Decide the destiny of mankindEre ’tis too late!To thee the world is looking for salvation;Thou hast it. Give it in God’s name!And it will make thee tenfold more a nation—Withhold it, and on thee shall be the blameOf ages—and the shame.This is the testing-time,Which like a fire brings forthThe people’s real worth;For men from every climeIs now this testing-time,But we shall joy to see,The gold of love is there,For home and Liberty,And Loyalty shall beTheir watchword everywhere.Awake, America, awake!The bugle-call to arms is sounding,Thy sons are hearing it and shakeOld Glory to the winds, with faith abounding,And ’neath this emblem of the freeA sacred pledge they make,That it shall beUnharmed by any foe,And aid the world in despots’ overthrow.They come—these lads from country-home and town,From crowded cities and the lonely plains,They come in blouses blue and khaki brown,They come by thousands on the speeding trains,To meet the hardships and the pains.Still, thou, America, art half asleep,Entranced by pleasant ease,Thou dreamest yet of peace,For it seems far across the deep,Where death and grave a harvest reap—It seems so far awayThe nations’ judgment day,But, like nocturnal thief,It may bring thee to grief,—Therefore obey the bugle-call to fight,Arise, put on thy armor, show thy might!

To thee the world is looking for salvation;Thou hast it. Give it in God’s name!And it will make thee tenfold more a nation—Withhold it, and on thee shall be the blameOf ages—and the shame.

This is the testing-time,Which like a fire brings forthThe people’s real worth;For men from every climeIs now this testing-time,But we shall joy to see,The gold of love is there,For home and Liberty,And Loyalty shall beTheir watchword everywhere.

Awake, America, awake!The bugle-call to arms is sounding,Thy sons are hearing it and shakeOld Glory to the winds, with faith abounding,And ’neath this emblem of the freeA sacred pledge they make,That it shall beUnharmed by any foe,And aid the world in despots’ overthrow.

They come—these lads from country-home and town,From crowded cities and the lonely plains,They come in blouses blue and khaki brown,They come by thousands on the speeding trains,To meet the hardships and the pains.

Still, thou, America, art half asleep,Entranced by pleasant ease,Thou dreamest yet of peace,For it seems far across the deep,Where death and grave a harvest reap—It seems so far awayThe nations’ judgment day,But, like nocturnal thief,It may bring thee to grief,—Therefore obey the bugle-call to fight,Arise, put on thy armor, show thy might!

July, 1917

No longer as an ornament,Adoring festive places,The flag is to the masthead sent,Before uplifted faces,—No longer as a children’s playWe fling it to the breezes,With thoughtless praise on gala-days,When each acts as he pleases.But like a sacramental actIts raising is attended,When loyal hearts behold a pactIn colors sweetly blended,—When men, responsive to its call,Make grim determination,That tyranny at last must fallBefore a freeborn nation.And as it waves above their heads,’Tis like a benedictionWhich sacredness and glory shedsOn men of just conscription,—They stand aloof, they seem apart,Like heroes consecrated,So true and brave, so strong of heartTo freedom dedicated.October, 1917

But like a sacramental actIts raising is attended,When loyal hearts behold a pactIn colors sweetly blended,—When men, responsive to its call,Make grim determination,That tyranny at last must fallBefore a freeborn nation.

And as it waves above their heads,’Tis like a benedictionWhich sacredness and glory shedsOn men of just conscription,—They stand aloof, they seem apart,Like heroes consecrated,So true and brave, so strong of heartTo freedom dedicated.October, 1917

O, crimson cross of Calvary!O, heavenly sign of Constantine!O, mercy-emblem of the free,The victory must still be thine!Thou paradox of horrid warShalt stand unscathed when it is o’er!Was by this sign the pagan hostOn Tiber’s banks subdued at last,Without the reck’ning of the cost,And all the suff’ring of the past,How much less now should money beThe measure of its victory!A holy emblem of the heartsWhich love and weep, and gladly give,That each true soldier who departsMay mid the conflict hope to live,For when he does the cross behold,It cheers his soul and makes him bold.Ah, let it go where’er he goes,With all its kindly ministries!Through this from million hearts there flowsA stream of warmest sympathies;And must he give his all, even then,It is to him his last true friend.Speed on, Red Cross, thou heaven-sent,Into the lands of pain and woe,Until their madness shall be spent,And thou shalt stand amid the glowOf that new dawn of Brotherhood,A symbol of man’s highest good!

O, crimson cross of Calvary!O, heavenly sign of Constantine!O, mercy-emblem of the free,The victory must still be thine!Thou paradox of horrid warShalt stand unscathed when it is o’er!

Was by this sign the pagan hostOn Tiber’s banks subdued at last,Without the reck’ning of the cost,And all the suff’ring of the past,How much less now should money beThe measure of its victory!

A holy emblem of the heartsWhich love and weep, and gladly give,That each true soldier who departsMay mid the conflict hope to live,For when he does the cross behold,It cheers his soul and makes him bold.

Ah, let it go where’er he goes,With all its kindly ministries!Through this from million hearts there flowsA stream of warmest sympathies;And must he give his all, even then,It is to him his last true friend.

Speed on, Red Cross, thou heaven-sent,Into the lands of pain and woe,Until their madness shall be spent,And thou shalt stand amid the glowOf that new dawn of Brotherhood,A symbol of man’s highest good!

“Rest, rest, perturbed Earth!O, rest, thou doleful mother of mankind!”Wordsworth

I have not seen thy beauty for the pallOf horror, hanging over all the world,I have not heard thy music for the dinOf battle-lines against each other hurled.And now thy face is covered with a shroudOf purest white, and thou wilt take thy rest;The winds will sing their evening lullabies,With memories of love and feathered nest.And mothers, at the dusk, will list thereto,And think of croonings in the years gone by,When little boys sat by the window-panes,And gazed with wonder on the moonlit sky.And now, perchance, they lie beneath thy shroud,Or destined soon to join the sleeping host,—War’s sacrifice, O God, how man doth sin!How in the utter darkness he seems lost!How far from nature has he erred and strayed,A prey to greed, and arrogance of kings!Shall he at last, a prodigal, returnTo dwell in peace ’neath the “Almighty’s wings?”The doleful mother of mankind doth wait,And when her children come, anew she donsHer spring-attire, and smiles forgivingly,And breathes her peace upon her weary sons.And then again I’ll feel the throb of joy,And glory in the wonders of thy face,Yea, revel in thy thousand harmonies,And wander satisfied along thy ways.

I have not seen thy beauty for the pallOf horror, hanging over all the world,I have not heard thy music for the dinOf battle-lines against each other hurled.

And now thy face is covered with a shroudOf purest white, and thou wilt take thy rest;The winds will sing their evening lullabies,With memories of love and feathered nest.

And mothers, at the dusk, will list thereto,And think of croonings in the years gone by,When little boys sat by the window-panes,And gazed with wonder on the moonlit sky.

And now, perchance, they lie beneath thy shroud,Or destined soon to join the sleeping host,—War’s sacrifice, O God, how man doth sin!How in the utter darkness he seems lost!

How far from nature has he erred and strayed,A prey to greed, and arrogance of kings!Shall he at last, a prodigal, returnTo dwell in peace ’neath the “Almighty’s wings?”

The doleful mother of mankind doth wait,And when her children come, anew she donsHer spring-attire, and smiles forgivingly,And breathes her peace upon her weary sons.

And then again I’ll feel the throb of joy,And glory in the wonders of thy face,Yea, revel in thy thousand harmonies,And wander satisfied along thy ways.

Full tired of war and worry do I turnTo nature in her sweet midwinter dreams,To purple twilights, when the day’s last beamsLike flick’ring candles on the snowdrifts burn,While star and crescent, in the deepest blue,Shed peace on fields and woods and frozen lakes;And from the creeping shadows soon awakesLife’s fairy-world, the one as boy I knewIn unfeigned joy that varied with each sceneOf winter’s whiteness, or midsummer’s green.The dormant earth dreams of the life to be,When spring returns to call it from the grave,When through its breast shall rush the ardent waveOf love and hope, and songs of ecstasy;—But in the moonlight and the shadows dunThe dreams appear in emblems vague and frore,Like wandering spectres from a mystic shoreWhich track the glory of the setting sunLike love, that plays behind a rosy screen,Because ’tis yet too modest to be seen.The winter heavy hangs on humankind—In homes, and camps, and on the stormy seas,On Europe’s battlefields, whose miseriesAppall with horrors every normal mind;Its million graves, decked with the coveringOf jewelled purity, where heroes sleep,At whose low crosses countless hearts must weep,—Is holy ground, where life shall take its wingTo truer freedom and a larger love,With peace on earth and good will from above.Our country’s dream: that when the southwind’sbreathShall wake to life and gladness all the land,Like risen pow’r our chosen youth shall standAround the flag which means the tyrant’s death,—That like the life which quickens everything,Our hosts from South and North and East and WestShall fare rejoicing o’er the ocean’s crest,And Freedom’s victory to Europe bring,—Midwinter’s dream in every loyal heart,Who dreams it not, in Freedom has no part.

The dormant earth dreams of the life to be,When spring returns to call it from the grave,When through its breast shall rush the ardent waveOf love and hope, and songs of ecstasy;—But in the moonlight and the shadows dunThe dreams appear in emblems vague and frore,Like wandering spectres from a mystic shoreWhich track the glory of the setting sunLike love, that plays behind a rosy screen,Because ’tis yet too modest to be seen.

The winter heavy hangs on humankind—In homes, and camps, and on the stormy seas,On Europe’s battlefields, whose miseriesAppall with horrors every normal mind;Its million graves, decked with the coveringOf jewelled purity, where heroes sleep,At whose low crosses countless hearts must weep,—Is holy ground, where life shall take its wingTo truer freedom and a larger love,With peace on earth and good will from above.

Our country’s dream: that when the southwind’sbreathShall wake to life and gladness all the land,Like risen pow’r our chosen youth shall standAround the flag which means the tyrant’s death,—That like the life which quickens everything,Our hosts from South and North and East and WestShall fare rejoicing o’er the ocean’s crest,And Freedom’s victory to Europe bring,—Midwinter’s dream in every loyal heart,Who dreams it not, in Freedom has no part.

Two hundred long miles and never a tree,O, nothing but plains all scorched by the sun!The buffalo’s trails one freely may see,Which over the billowing ridges run,And here the Indian hunted at will,And slaughtered and wasted the bison wild,The heaps of its bleached bones bear witness stillHow wanton was he, the prairie’s child.Yes, here is a wildness which bids my soulTo saddle my pony and ride away,And follow its weird and mysterious callTo freedom complete, if just for a day,To follow the paths where the bison did roam,To list to the coyotes and prairie-dog’s bark,But thankful at night for the lone settler’s homeAnd a gleam of his light in the dark.

Yes, here is a wildness which bids my soulTo saddle my pony and ride away,And follow its weird and mysterious callTo freedom complete, if just for a day,To follow the paths where the bison did roam,To list to the coyotes and prairie-dog’s bark,But thankful at night for the lone settler’s homeAnd a gleam of his light in the dark.

Majesty, power, and dominion and glory,Be unto Thee who these wonders hast wrought,Mountain peaks lofty, all snow-capped and hoary,Thou alone knowest their wonderful story,When from the bowels of the earth they were brought.Strangest formations and glaciers beaming,Cataracts rushing from dizziest heights,Emerald rivers with great swiftness streaming,Crystal-clear rivulets rushing and gleaming,Ne’er did I witness more glorious sights.Down in the valley the flowers are growing,Trees too, yea, forests are flourishing there,Sweetly their fragrance on cool breezes flowing,Terrible grandeur is meek beauty wooing,Happy the love-pact, the harmony rare.Thus is the image of God here reflected,Mighty sublimity, lowliness sweet,Happy the pilgrim who this has detected,Travel-worn be he, yet never dejected,Since he, O, Father, may sit at Thy feet.

Strangest formations and glaciers beaming,Cataracts rushing from dizziest heights,Emerald rivers with great swiftness streaming,Crystal-clear rivulets rushing and gleaming,Ne’er did I witness more glorious sights.

Down in the valley the flowers are growing,Trees too, yea, forests are flourishing there,Sweetly their fragrance on cool breezes flowing,Terrible grandeur is meek beauty wooing,Happy the love-pact, the harmony rare.

Thus is the image of God here reflected,Mighty sublimity, lowliness sweet,Happy the pilgrim who this has detected,Travel-worn be he, yet never dejected,Since he, O, Father, may sit at Thy feet.

When from the fiery pangs of earth this queenOf mountains was brought forth, the spirits ofThe air desired to dress her in the sheenAnd glory of their pure celestial love;They gave her for a veil the fleecy cloud,Which gently floats about her lofty brow;They gave her for a mantle to enshroudHer shoulders strong the ever glittering snow;And then they called upon the fir and pineTo weave a robe of never fading green,And with the silver stream their wool entwine,That here and there its bright gleam might be seen;She thus adorned has stood for eons long,The queen among the mountains of the west,In beauty cloth, inspiring men to song,And lifting human thoughts to what is best.

I’ve seen the forest and mountains,I’ve seen the far stretching plain,But oh for a whiff of the briny sea,And a journey across the main!Oh, then does my soul find its pleasure,Akin to my childhood joy,For my home was close to the seashore,And I lived with the fjord as a boy.Its unbounded freedom and greatnessCreated a love in my soul,And never I sail o’er the surging sea,But liberty’s voice does me call.Its mystery, aye, and its musicHave followed me all the way,And borne—as they are—by the foaming wave,They blend in an unsung lay.And all day long do I listen,And all day long do I lookTo freedom which never was nation’s,To songs that were never in book.

I’ve seen the forest and mountains,I’ve seen the far stretching plain,But oh for a whiff of the briny sea,And a journey across the main!

Oh, then does my soul find its pleasure,Akin to my childhood joy,For my home was close to the seashore,And I lived with the fjord as a boy.

Its unbounded freedom and greatnessCreated a love in my soul,And never I sail o’er the surging sea,But liberty’s voice does me call.

Its mystery, aye, and its musicHave followed me all the way,And borne—as they are—by the foaming wave,They blend in an unsung lay.

And all day long do I listen,And all day long do I lookTo freedom which never was nation’s,To songs that were never in book.

(Verses written while listening to a melody played on board the “Princess Charlotte,” sailing through the strait of Juan de Fuca)

What is nature’s charms and grandeur,When compared to what man is,In his sorrows and his longings,In his triumphs and his bliss!Oh, a soul that hath such feelings,As the one who now doth play,Such a depth of true emotions,Lives in God’s eternal day!Thou unconsciously hast moved me,I’m a captive at thy will,Though in thousand leagues of journeyOft my soul has had its fillOf the beauty of creation,Known its raptures and delight,Yet not once such inspirationHas possessed me as tonight.Play, play on thou sweet musician,While the darkness gathers round,While our ship is speeding onwardWith a rhythmic, rushing sound,While the stars look down upon us,Mirrored in the tranquil sea,Render thy interpretationOf life’s joy and misery.

Thou unconsciously hast moved me,I’m a captive at thy will,Though in thousand leagues of journeyOft my soul has had its fillOf the beauty of creation,Known its raptures and delight,Yet not once such inspirationHas possessed me as tonight.

Play, play on thou sweet musician,While the darkness gathers round,While our ship is speeding onwardWith a rhythmic, rushing sound,While the stars look down upon us,Mirrored in the tranquil sea,Render thy interpretationOf life’s joy and misery.

Thou princess of the sea, how thou hast grown,Since last I saw thee, and how beautiful!The ocean-breezes must to thee have blownThe ardent health which nothing wrong could dull,The blood of races mingle in thy veins,The spirit of two worlds have met in thee,Most genial and free thou here dost reign,A charming princess of the western sea.It was with thee I did a year abide,A year so antithetically mixed,When painful doubts forbade me to confide,And life’s career, confessed, still was unfixed;May be it was thy spirit, which I felt,That gave me song and Oriental dreams,And when in Occidental shrines I knelt,Of Oriental truth there came bright gleams.And hath not doubts been harassing my soul,And had I shunned to give a heed to fears,But followed—like thyself—the Spirit’s call,How different had been the lapsing years;Perhaps I then with glory now could meetThe growth and life, I see on every hand,But now I sit in sorrow at thy feet,And find my name was written in the sand.

It was with thee I did a year abide,A year so antithetically mixed,When painful doubts forbade me to confide,And life’s career, confessed, still was unfixed;May be it was thy spirit, which I felt,That gave me song and Oriental dreams,And when in Occidental shrines I knelt,Of Oriental truth there came bright gleams.

And hath not doubts been harassing my soul,And had I shunned to give a heed to fears,But followed—like thyself—the Spirit’s call,How different had been the lapsing years;Perhaps I then with glory now could meetThe growth and life, I see on every hand,But now I sit in sorrow at thy feet,And find my name was written in the sand.

Within the sound of the Pacific’s roarStands Gjoa amid palms and myrtle trees,Her prow is lifted toward the rocky shore,As if impatient for the stormy seas,The sturdy little ship of Arctic fame,Which bears from storms and ice full many a mark,Now like a lion in a cage, grown tame,Stands here—a relic only—in a park.A precious relic to Norwegian hearts,With pride and gratitude they look on thee;Proud that thou sailed, where man had made no charts,The first explorer of a strait and sea,And grateful that the land of Vikings stillHas sons of courage and adventure bold;For Roald Amundsen forever willRemain a man of true heroic mold.And thou art here incaged to sniff the brine,Forsaken by the captain and his crew,A monument the great throngs to remind,What talent mixed with manliness can do,And that a nation may be small, yet great,Be poor and still excel in noblest ken,A silent witness at the Golden Gate;A nation’s glory is her greatest men.

A precious relic to Norwegian hearts,With pride and gratitude they look on thee;Proud that thou sailed, where man had made no charts,The first explorer of a strait and sea,And grateful that the land of Vikings stillHas sons of courage and adventure bold;For Roald Amundsen forever willRemain a man of true heroic mold.

And thou art here incaged to sniff the brine,Forsaken by the captain and his crew,A monument the great throngs to remind,What talent mixed with manliness can do,And that a nation may be small, yet great,Be poor and still excel in noblest ken,A silent witness at the Golden Gate;A nation’s glory is her greatest men.

Amid the plains of yellow sand and cactus,Encircled by the distant barren hills,Amid the awful desert of Nevada,Beneath the glaring sun which burns and kills,There is a lonely grave, where the San PadroFast speeds from palm-groves of Los Angeles,A lonely grave just by the road-side,Which kindly hands unselfishly did bless.A wooden cross is standing at its head,On which no name nor date they did inscribe,Still, half in ruin, it stands there to blessAn unknown sleeper of the wandering tribe.And at the foot the symbol of his life,No fitter epitaph on any grave—For man is but a restless sojourner,So there they placed the pilgrim’s handworn stave.Who was he? None can tell, some say a tramp,Who stole a ride and crushed was ’neath the wheels;But tramps are also men, and sometimes moreOf worth than their unhappy plight reveals;But this I know: He was a mother’s son,Who still may wonder how her boy does fare,Who still, perchance, is praying for this one,The chiefest object of her loving care.May be some other hearts are looking forHis coming home, though after many years,Who think of him as he was in his youth,And seldom speak his name, except with tears,Who know not of this solitary grave,Where death and weird oblivion do reign,Where all seems hopeless, save the crumbling cross,Which shall at last life’s mystery explain.

A wooden cross is standing at its head,On which no name nor date they did inscribe,Still, half in ruin, it stands there to blessAn unknown sleeper of the wandering tribe.And at the foot the symbol of his life,No fitter epitaph on any grave—For man is but a restless sojourner,So there they placed the pilgrim’s handworn stave.

Who was he? None can tell, some say a tramp,Who stole a ride and crushed was ’neath the wheels;But tramps are also men, and sometimes moreOf worth than their unhappy plight reveals;But this I know: He was a mother’s son,Who still may wonder how her boy does fare,Who still, perchance, is praying for this one,The chiefest object of her loving care.

May be some other hearts are looking forHis coming home, though after many years,Who think of him as he was in his youth,And seldom speak his name, except with tears,Who know not of this solitary grave,Where death and weird oblivion do reign,Where all seems hopeless, save the crumbling cross,Which shall at last life’s mystery explain.

In the purple of the morning,Through the dreamy haze of day spring,Did the mountain-tops ’round Salt LakeLoom before us, as the desertWe were leaving far behind us.“Lofty mountains of the prophet,”Did I mutter without thinking,Came the words, as if repeatedAfter some one who knew better,After one whose inspirationWas from truth and heavenly wisdom;And instinctively I ponderedThat the prophet’s eyes had oftenLifted been to these blue mountains,Whence his help should come, and gloryOf the Lord appear to Zion,And ’mongst which the trail was winding,Bloody trail of weary pilgrims,Seeking an abiding city,Guarded by their rugged fastness,And the wide expanse of Salt Lake.Here, where seemed but barren desert,Did the prophet’s eye see visionsOf a city and a temple,Where the saints should dwell in saf’ty,Where in peace they God might worship;And this vision, now made real,Lends a lustre to the mountains,Gives a romance to their valleys;And whate’er their names may be, ICall them mountains of the prophet.

Here, where seemed but barren desert,Did the prophet’s eye see visionsOf a city and a temple,Where the saints should dwell in saf’ty,Where in peace they God might worship;And this vision, now made real,Lends a lustre to the mountains,Gives a romance to their valleys;And whate’er their names may be, ICall them mountains of the prophet.

O, wonder of our age!Consummate wonder, not of state alone, but of our land,Unique among the cities dost thou standUpon the pageOf history, in youth and might!Thou didst spring forth as in a night,From where the redman rovedAlong the dreamy shores of Michigan,Where four-score years agoThy life began;Some fairy movedHer wand upon thee,For like a fabled urban didst thou grow.Colossal mart,Of commerce, like the heartThou sendest out through arteries and veinsPulsating life into the world;Napoleons of business-brainsAre marshalling their forces,With colors high unfurled,Not on war-harnessed horses,To madly fight,To kill and blight,But to employ each pow’rTo make thee stronger, better every newborn hour.Thy mighty citadels of stone,So huge, so tall,So many and immense,That with their burden mother earth seems groan,Throb with a life intense,And from thy canyons, we call streets,Great traffic’s constant roar us meets.Great is thy wealth,Great is thy woe,Less great thy health,But great is its foe;Within thy pale the great extremesOf good and evil dwell:Felicities of heavenly dreams,And hopelessness of hell:Above thy scum of thingsThe voice of heaven sings.

Colossal mart,Of commerce, like the heartThou sendest out through arteries and veinsPulsating life into the world;Napoleons of business-brainsAre marshalling their forces,With colors high unfurled,Not on war-harnessed horses,To madly fight,To kill and blight,But to employ each pow’rTo make thee stronger, better every newborn hour.Thy mighty citadels of stone,So huge, so tall,So many and immense,That with their burden mother earth seems groan,Throb with a life intense,And from thy canyons, we call streets,Great traffic’s constant roar us meets.Great is thy wealth,Great is thy woe,Less great thy health,But great is its foe;Within thy pale the great extremesOf good and evil dwell:Felicities of heavenly dreams,And hopelessness of hell:Above thy scum of thingsThe voice of heaven sings.

July, 1915

The island of dreams lies not far away,Encompassed by sunlight and sea,I happened to reach it the other day,While breezes were playing so languidly—My boat scarcely moved on the bay.And this is the island I happened to find,The isle ’mid the glittering deep:A bower with luxuriant foliage entwined,’Mongst rocks that are mossy and steep,Where shadows give rest to the mind.And here in the shade is a clear, cooling spring,Which ceaselessly murmurs its song,And down in a glade the brown thrushes sing,In afternoons drowsy and long,In hours that bear dreams on their wings;And balm for the care-laden spirit have they,Of duty forgetfulness sweet,With fragrance of roses they lead you astray,To realms of fair visions replete,Bright visions of midsummer-day.The fairies are here and the unreal things,Derided by men of pure facts,Though Science doth saunter here, sometimes she clingsTo fancy’s prophetical acts,And out of the dreamland them brings.Yea, great things are born in this enchanted place,Where poets do loiter and rest,Beholding fair visions which beckon their raceTo vistas more lofty and blest,In beauty’s immaculate ways.

The island of dreams lies not far away,Encompassed by sunlight and sea,I happened to reach it the other day,While breezes were playing so languidly—My boat scarcely moved on the bay.

And this is the island I happened to find,The isle ’mid the glittering deep:A bower with luxuriant foliage entwined,’Mongst rocks that are mossy and steep,Where shadows give rest to the mind.

And here in the shade is a clear, cooling spring,Which ceaselessly murmurs its song,And down in a glade the brown thrushes sing,In afternoons drowsy and long,In hours that bear dreams on their wings;

And balm for the care-laden spirit have they,Of duty forgetfulness sweet,With fragrance of roses they lead you astray,To realms of fair visions replete,Bright visions of midsummer-day.

The fairies are here and the unreal things,Derided by men of pure facts,Though Science doth saunter here, sometimes she clingsTo fancy’s prophetical acts,And out of the dreamland them brings.

Yea, great things are born in this enchanted place,Where poets do loiter and rest,Beholding fair visions which beckon their raceTo vistas more lofty and blest,In beauty’s immaculate ways.

Behold the noiseless sailboat and canoe,That slowly glide upon the glassy lake,Which wedded seems to heaven’s lofty blue,And every silver cloud within its wake;The lonely youth dreams as he moves along,And who can tell what wondrous dreams they be,Fit theme, I ween, for any poet’s song,Of sadness or of gladsome reverie.There also sail the lover and his lass,They laugh and chat, and have a gleeful time,For them the golden moments swiftly pass,Since they are living in life’s summer clime,To them sweet nature’s beauty doth existAs background only to their happiness,And heav’n the blue-eyed Harriet has kist,Because their own true love they dare confess.And o’er the water strains from LohengrinCome floating from the Grecian-pillard stand,And add enchantment to the charming scene,The wedding-scene of sky and sea and land,—The hymeneal of youth’s dreams of life,Of hearts aglow with love’s sweet fervency,Of thousand souls who here forget their strife,And for an hour their wonted misery.

There also sail the lover and his lass,They laugh and chat, and have a gleeful time,For them the golden moments swiftly pass,Since they are living in life’s summer clime,To them sweet nature’s beauty doth existAs background only to their happiness,And heav’n the blue-eyed Harriet has kist,Because their own true love they dare confess.

And o’er the water strains from LohengrinCome floating from the Grecian-pillard stand,And add enchantment to the charming scene,The wedding-scene of sky and sea and land,—The hymeneal of youth’s dreams of life,Of hearts aglow with love’s sweet fervency,Of thousand souls who here forget their strife,And for an hour their wonted misery.

I wandered to-day in an institute,A wonderful palace of art,And this I can say in spirit and truth,It was a delight to my heart,To see how the masters of ages pastHave found a place in this shrine,Till I came to a room, methinks ’twas the last,Which the Cubist’s contortions confine.A disgrace, I said, to allow in this place,What lunatic homes should adorn,An insult to art and the human race,Of spirits degenerate born,A meaningless daub, a horrid displayOf colors and lines and all,But then to myself I also did say:May be ’tis the age—and its soul.A wicked word it was this to say,As I left for the congested street,And followed the masses which made their wayTo a place where ten thousand did meetThree times a day, to be edifiedWith burlesque, in Jesus name,And painfully in my soul it cried:“The Cubist again, just the same!”I glanced at a paper at hour of sleep,And found a whole page about bards,Who gained a renown by a single leap,With something which all art discards,Again I said: ’tis the Cubist’s age,A prophet is he after all,Of the church and the stage and the printed page,Of the age that has bartered its soul.

A disgrace, I said, to allow in this place,What lunatic homes should adorn,An insult to art and the human race,Of spirits degenerate born,A meaningless daub, a horrid displayOf colors and lines and all,But then to myself I also did say:May be ’tis the age—and its soul.

A wicked word it was this to say,As I left for the congested street,And followed the masses which made their wayTo a place where ten thousand did meetThree times a day, to be edifiedWith burlesque, in Jesus name,And painfully in my soul it cried:“The Cubist again, just the same!”

I glanced at a paper at hour of sleep,And found a whole page about bards,Who gained a renown by a single leap,With something which all art discards,Again I said: ’tis the Cubist’s age,A prophet is he after all,Of the church and the stage and the printed page,Of the age that has bartered its soul.

Full thousands of leagues over land, over seas,I travelled, for two things to find:From work, and its routine, a needed surcease,And knowledge, to quicken the mind.I moved mid the crowds in the cities of fame,I pondered their pleasures and pride,A stranger, alone, wherever I came,I heard but the surge of the tide.Though knowledge increased with the sight of the new,Though grandeur gave thrills of delight,Though marvelling oft at the things, man can do,Yet weariness came with the night.And I longed for the sound of the voice of a friend,I longed for my home far away,When, behold, I met one at a thoroughfare’s end,At the close of a wearisome day!The clasp of his hand, with the love of his heart,The warm and the genuine grip,Brought greater delight than the sight of all art,And all wonderful things of the trip.

Full thousands of leagues over land, over seas,I travelled, for two things to find:From work, and its routine, a needed surcease,And knowledge, to quicken the mind.

I moved mid the crowds in the cities of fame,I pondered their pleasures and pride,A stranger, alone, wherever I came,I heard but the surge of the tide.

Though knowledge increased with the sight of the new,Though grandeur gave thrills of delight,Though marvelling oft at the things, man can do,Yet weariness came with the night.

And I longed for the sound of the voice of a friend,I longed for my home far away,When, behold, I met one at a thoroughfare’s end,At the close of a wearisome day!

The clasp of his hand, with the love of his heart,The warm and the genuine grip,Brought greater delight than the sight of all art,And all wonderful things of the trip.

Beside a winding country roadA house unique one sees,It used to be the Lord’s abode,Now that of groceries.A church with graveyard in its rear,Where many saints do sleep,O, could they rise, I greatly fear,It would be for to weep,Beholding what the years have wroughtIn changes of the place,How man for gain has rudely soughtIts mem’ries to efface.For here, where generations metTo worship God in truth,Now Mammon has his motto set,With Vandal hand uncouth.Where once did sound the Holy Word,By men of earnest heart,Now bargainings are daily heard,—The language of the mart.Where once the altar stood, now standsA stove around which sitThe gossiper’s unholy bandsAnd swear and lie and spit.And could each much neglected moundYield up its dust to life again,The words of Christ would then resound:“My Father’s house ye made a den.”But thus our sacrilegious ageIs blinded by the god of gold,Soon finished is its sacred page,Our days of worship well-nigh told.

Beside a winding country roadA house unique one sees,It used to be the Lord’s abode,Now that of groceries.

A church with graveyard in its rear,Where many saints do sleep,O, could they rise, I greatly fear,It would be for to weep,

Beholding what the years have wroughtIn changes of the place,How man for gain has rudely soughtIts mem’ries to efface.

For here, where generations metTo worship God in truth,Now Mammon has his motto set,With Vandal hand uncouth.

Where once did sound the Holy Word,By men of earnest heart,Now bargainings are daily heard,—The language of the mart.

Where once the altar stood, now standsA stove around which sitThe gossiper’s unholy bandsAnd swear and lie and spit.

And could each much neglected moundYield up its dust to life again,The words of Christ would then resound:“My Father’s house ye made a den.”

But thus our sacrilegious ageIs blinded by the god of gold,Soon finished is its sacred page,Our days of worship well-nigh told.

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