Chapter IV

America! 'Tis not thy mines of gold,
Nor streams from mounts to meadows, like God's hand
From out the heavens, a-flash across the land
In long, deep sweeps to quicken winter's mould
To reaps of ripeness,--that mine eyes behold,
Invoking thee; for these are mere shore-sand
To the broad ocean of thy spirit grand,
Forming for man a new world for the old.

'Tis Liberty, to whose most blessed birth
The stars all lead, rejoicing, which souls thee
With God's compassion for humanity,--
That I invoke; and, now, when all the earth
Bears palms and chants hosannas--what! shall she,
The most devout, be shut from Freedom's mirth?

BRITISH GLORY IN KIPLING'S "BOOTS"

All English glory is in "Kipling's Boots."
O English People! read that poem true,
And answer,--are those maddening men not you?
Oh, not yea few, who gather all the loots,
But yea vast legions, lured to be recruits
To march, march, march and march with naught in view
But boots, boots, boots with blood and mud soaked through,--
And, after ages, with out rest, or fruits!

"Boots, boots, boots, and no discharge from war,"--
That is the Empire's anthem. Brass it out,
Ye Orchestras! But oh, leave not in doubt
Its import, Kipling,--that 'tis maelstrom roar--
'Tis England's streams of home-life, world about
And down a gulf, for Greed and Pride on shore!

TO THE ENGLISH PEOPLE

If deaf to Shelley's loudest sky-lark strain,
His rage at tyrants, and to Byron's thong,
Nerve-proof, how wake the English to the wrong
Done their true selves, no less than to the slain,
When willing weapons for Ambition's gain?
Aye, weapons only; for, to whom belong
The minds of England, and treed fields of song--
Nay, all but grave-ground, grudged by hill and plain?

O English People, whom the crafty class
Has huddled into graves from sight and sound
Of what God hands you, and, with pence, or pound,
Lids down your wild dead stare,--wake! why so crass?
See in the Celts spring-burst from underground,
The Human Resurrection come to pass.

SHAKESPEARE

Oh, what are England's lines of lords and kings,
Shakespeare, to thine, a-throb with thought and feeling?
In thine, imagination shines, revealing
The soul's convictions, swift on dawn-ward wings
From beastly life and such Hell-smelling things,
As wealth and pomp from church and abbey stealing,--
And hearts in hopes high Belfries, Heavenward pealing,
As Time, his Sun and Starry censor, swings.

Would thou wert England's Nature, Bard Supreme,
To fashion kings and lordlings fit to rule;
They would be flesh and blood, not fiend and ghoul;
And would thou wert her Sun, that every beam
Might not, for tally, show a youth's blood-pool,
Choking blithe Spring, as, now, to earth's extreme.

ENGLAND'S RIGHTEOUSNESS

The righteousness of England! "Tis to kneel
Full weight on weaker nations, and entone
Hosannas louder than the victims groan;
Then, stooping, drink their blood with gulps of zeal."
What right have wounds, though wide, to throb, or feel?
'Tis blasphemy to England's crimson throne.
Knee-deep in Erin's blood, she mocks Christ's moan:
Forgive them, Lord! they know not their true weal.

"Whose is the fault? Tis not my arrogance,
But candor, Lord, that puts the blame on Thee.
What right hadst Thou to make these people free
And let all nature prompt them to advance?--
Oh, no such blunder, Lord, hadst Thou called me,
Instead of Wisdom, to approve Thy plans!"

THE MASSACRE OF THE WELSH MINERS

The Bard's curse: "Ruin seize thee Ruthless King,"
Took bat-like form for hollow echo-flight.
Though stoned and lanced at, when, at fall of night,
It darted forth with ghastly--spreading wing,
It found in fresh, wide, royal ravishing,
New hollows, dark with horror and sad plight,
To dash in and live on. Oh, to my sight,
How grows its grimness, while eternaling!

Deep are the minds of Wales, but far more deep
The horror, gulfed out by McCreedy, firing
On men defenseless and, through want, expiring.
Oh, from that gulf the Bard's curse makes a sweep
Up to the Sun and, from its long desiring,
Grown eagle, shrieks to heaven from steep to step!

A DIRTY WORK

"A dirty work," said Dyer, rebuked for spilling
Hundreds of lives to irrigate new lands.
A dirty work, but not for British hands,
Dabbling in blood to earn each day their shilling.
Hark! Mohawk Valley and Wyoming, chilling
With thought of Tarleton's King-serving bands,
And Canada red-clayed, though high snow stands,
Cry: Work for which the British are too willing!

Invaded lands need terror irrigation
To make them fruitful. Better flood the field,
Then let the native bloom become the yield;
And, so, this Dyer submerged a small whole nation
With crimson death, that England might, deep-keeled,
Have for display, new seas of desolation.

HUMAN NATURE

The ocean, holding pure the azure's blue,
Laughs at the tempests, with one empire's dust
After an other, to round out Earth's crust.
Ah, so does Human Nature hold the hue
It takes from heaven, its conscience, and laughs, too,
At madness, wrecking life and with its gust
Forming new islands, where Pride, Greed, or Lust,
Welcomes the crater's glare, in sun-light's lieu.

Look in the sea and deep, what scattered rock,
The islands which at dusk, the tempest piled!
Ere rose a star, they sank with crews, beguiled.
O Tempests that with world formations, mock
The good Creator, how, as ye grow wild,
Earth quakes and no live thing survives the shock.

OUR COUNTRY--SOUL AND CHARACTER

I

Our country is not rock and wood and stream,
But soul transfusing them. What is the soul?
The substance, born of God, above control
And, when one, with God's love, called "Will," supreme;
And Freedom is the soul in thought, and dream
That Nature's beauty and harmonious whole--
God's foot-steps--followed, life attains its Goal;
And soul is purpose to achieve God's scheme.

The soul, then,--our true country,--is the brave
Who fought and bled for Freedom, or will fight
To their last pulse, last breath, for Human Right.----
Great soul! oh, how like bubbles in the wave,
Are the Sierras in cerulean flight,
To thy true grandeur, letting nought enslave!

II

O thou art Character--art only those
Who formed the good and great by thought, or deed.
All others are not worth a moment's heed,--
Mere prairie dogs, who raise gold hills in rows--
When gazing at thy glory; for that grows
With Freedom from all foul untruths; with lead
In art for weal; with science for all woes;
With hate of thrall and help for all unfreed.

No mere foot-shadow, on time's wall, art thou,
Without eye-sparkle, swing of arm, warm flow
From heart to vain, and cheeks with health of glow.
Oh, 'tis eternal heights reflect thy brow
And shoulders, that avert man's overthrow,
Threatened all times, and never more than now.