Chapter II

'Tis Wilson takes God's flame from Lincoln's hand.
This Princeton man,--who has outgrown the prince,
A hundred years, and, in the ocean since,
Seen with delight, Eternity expand
And loom in glory from the despot's strand,--
Shapes fourteen dazzling bolts without a wince.
He pauses. Why not hurl them and convince
The world that, hence-forth, not one thrall shall stand?

What! Wilson's arm lacks strength to hurl the flame,
God gave to Lincoln for the Human race?
Look! Look! it falls. What! Gone? Quenched by dark space?
No; it describes an orbit there, the same
As comets, and regains its heavenly place
For one to hurl it true, and doom Earth's Shame.

THE CATACLYSM

In Wilson we beheld and proudly hailed
The World's Deliverer. In him, we saw
A luminous being rise from earth and draw
All lands above the clouds. We were regaled
With justice cascades flow, long ice impaled
Upon high mountains. Was not Nature's thaw
From his heart heat for truth, Eternal Law?
His was the heat of all the stars, he scaled.

Though his ascension was like Christ's, sublime
With lift of continents and every isle,
He, less than Christ, succumbed to Demon Guile.
Oh, God, that he should drop his mountain climb
Below sea-level, and let earth the while,
Fall back and settle in Primeval Slime!

AN EPOCH'S ANGEL FALL

Judging from Wilson's virile virtue-voice,
Whose whisper hushed Earth's Hum, were we not proud
To have him cross the sea to speak aloud
And, with a finger raised, hush battle noise,
And lift all lands to Justice's equipoise?
Oh, such his truth to God,--so oft avowed,--
A spirit thund'red from a luminous cloud:
"This man crowns Lincoln's work. All Men! Rejoice."

Oh, had he read his bible where St. Paul,
Grown man, put off child things--or, had not smiled,
When told, strong Ego oft, is man grown child!
Look! Who sees not an Epoch's Angel Fall
From hope for earth, in Wilson's truth, beguiled
By second childhood's toys to play with thrall?

THE AMERICA OF THE FUTURE

I

Our Country still is in the womb, dark Time.
It shows life by its brisk and robust turns,
Which thrill the Mother, Liberty, who yearns
To see her man-child born. Oh, how sublime
With genius, not of one, but every climb
Where art forms beauty, or the spirit spurns
The foul and spurious,--her desire, that burns
Prenatally in him, to form him prime!

Oh People, all--Italian, Spanish, French,
Dutch, English, Irish, German, Jew, and Greek--
What see you, as you climb the Future's Peak?
Oh! no illusion. What looms there, shall wrench
From life, all monsters out from Hell, to seek
Dead consciences and plague earth with their stench.

II

Ascend, O Land of every Creed and Race!
Not thy full image, in New England's brook,
Nor in the South's lagoon; though there, a look
Delights us with thy chubby, infant face.
'Tis seas of joy, that shorelessly replace
The Ocean which, in time of old, forsook
The prairies for the cloud, or spring in nook,--
That show thee, Grown, through God's abundant grace.

From East to West, how joy's high seas expand,
Reflecting, not a foolish, mundane pride
That, thinking it does all, sets God aside--
But Virtue which, with heart and head and hand,
Works out God's purpose, with dear Christ for guide,
And holy spirits Light to understand!

III

All Virtues from the longing of the soul;
From wisdom, gained by sorrow through long ages;
From inspiration of the bards, in rages
That inter-marrying maniacs control
A people's life, and drain its sea to shoal,
And from the vision of sky-topping sages,
Gasping for breath from rot in all its stages,--
Aye, these and new-born Genius loom there Whole.

Look, People! Little less than God's own size,
Your virtues merge and, with speed God-ward, burn,
An unconsuming sun, that at no turn
In spiral flight, for still a grander rise,
Lets night advance where human Rights still yearn,
Except with great, new stars and dawning skys!

THE INEVITABLE

I

Behold two fleets, the one with woe for trail,
The other, rapture. As they sight the strait,
Through which but one can pass, Greed, urged by Hate,
Drives Thraldom's crafts with help of steam and gale.
They feel their way. The guns, with which they hale,
Raise jets, that look tall elms from Hope, the gate,
To Peace, the Palace; then, their speed is great,
Manoeuvering fast to head off, or assail.

Drawing the sea up for his driving steam,
Greed breaks all mirrors in his grand state room,
That show him dark inevitable doom,
Close hovering, and exults: "I am Supreme.
When seas lack water for my funnel fume,
I bid life send its every crimson stream."