Chapter VIII: Introduction (6)

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,
But he shall fade into a feebler age—
Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares,
And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap
His withered hands, and from their ambush call
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send
Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words
To charm they ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread,
That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms
With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yet
Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by
Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps,
And thou must watch and combat till the day
Of the new earth and heaven.

AMERICA

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Oh, mother of a mighty race,
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace!
The elder dames, thy haughty peers,
Admire and hate thy blooming years.
With words of shame
And taunts of scorn they join thy name.

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread
That tints thy morning hills with red;
Thy step—the wild deer’s rustling feet
Within thy woods are not more fleet;
Thy hopeful eye
Is bright as thine own sunny sky.

Aye, let them rail—those haughty ones,
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons.
They do not know how loved thou art,
How many a fond and fearless heart
Would rise to throw
Its life between thee and the foe.

They know not, in their hate and pride,
What virtues with thy children bide;
How true, how good, thy graceful maids
Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades;
What generous men
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;—

What cordial welcomes greet the guest
By thy lone rivers of the West;
How faith is kept, and truth revered,
And man is loved, and God is feared,
In woodland homes,
And where the ocean border foams.

There’s freedom at thy gates and rest
For Earth’s down-trodden and opprest,
A shelter for the hunted head,
For the starved laborer toil and bread.
Power, at thy bounds,
Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.

Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow
Shall sit a nobler grace than now.
Deep in the brightness of the skies
The thronging years in glory rise,
And, as they fleet,
Drop strength and riches at thy feet.

Thine eye, with every coming hour,
Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower;
And when thy sisters, elder born,
Would brand thy name with words of scorn,
Before thine eye,
Upon their lips the taunt shall die.

ODE

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON

(Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857.)

O tenderly the haughty day
Fills his blue urn with fire;
One morn is in the mighty heaven,
And one in our desire.

The cannon booms from town to town,
Our pulses beat not less,
The joy-bells chime their tidings down,
Which children’s voices bless.

For He that flung the broad blue fold
O’er-mantling land and sea,
One third part of the sky unrolled
For the banner of the free.

The men are ripe of Saxon kind
To build an equal state,—
To take the statute from the mind
And make of duty fate.

United States! the ages plead,—
Present and Past in under-song,—
Go put your creed into your deed,
Nor speak with double tongue.

For sea and land don’t understand
Nor skies without a frown
See rights for which the one hand fights
By the other cloven down.

Be just at home; then write your scroll
Of honor o’er the sea,
And bid the broad Atlantic roll
A ferry of the free.

And henceforth there shall be no chain,
Save underneath the sea
The wires shall murmur through the main
Sweet songs of liberty.

The conscious stars accord above,
The waters wild below,
And under, through the cable wove,
Her fiery errands go.

AMERICA FIRST[12]

ANONYMOUS

This is the season when Young America celebrates the glorious deeds of the forefathers, when they cut the leading-strings that bound them to the Old World, and stepped forth with the independence of manhood.

It took Rome five hundred years, five centuries of war, intrigue and arrogance, to overspread Southern Europe. In a little more than one century America has grown to a magnitude in area and perhaps in population also, equal to that of Rome in its most magnificent days.

“_Civis Romanus sum!_” was the proudest boast that could fall from the lips of man at the beginning of the Christian era. Is there to-day an American who rates his citizenship in the Great Republic at a lower value than Roman freedom nineteen hundred years ago?

The day for “spread-eagle” brag is long past, but there is no reason why we should hesitate to say what not we alone but all the people of the world believe, that it is the destiny of this country to become the greatest, the strongest, the wealthiest, the most self-supporting of all the nations of the earth. It is already the greatest self-governing community the world has ever seen.

How can we make it greater? By standing together as Americans. We shall not magnify, but shall belittle ourselves, if we swagger before our neighbors—using bravado for the strong, and insolence in our treatment of the weak. But we should take American views instead of party views, when questions arise between this government and others.

The motto “America against the world” would be a contemptible motto. Yet is it not better to adopt even such a motto than to take the side of the world against America, or to be indifferent when the interests of one’s own country are assailed?

The Fourth of July is a good time for us all to resolve that we will be Americans at heart. Not that we will build up our own country on the ruins of others, but that when there is a clashing of interests those of our native land shall have our hearty support.

LIBERTY FOR ALL

BY WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON

They tell me, Liberty! that in thy name
I may not plead for all the human race;
That some are born to bondage and disgrace,
Some to a heritage of woe and shame,
And some to power supreme, and glorious fame:
With my whole soul I spurn the doctrine base,
And, as an equal brotherhood, embrace
All people, and for all fair freedom claim!
Know this, O man! whate’er thy earthly fate—
God never made a tyrant nor a slave:
Woe, then, to those who dare to desecrate
His glorious image!—for to all He gave
Eternal rights, which none may violate;
And, by a mighty hand, the oppressed He yet shall save!

HYMN

(For the Fourth of July, 1863.)

ANONYMOUS

Lord, the people of the land
In Thy presence humbly stand;
On this day, when Thou didst free
Men of old from tyranny,
We, their children, bow to Thee.
Help us, Lord, our only trust!
We are helpless, we are dust!

All our homes are red with blood;
Long our grief we have withstood;
Every lintel, each door-post,
Drips, at tidings from the host,
With the blood of some one lost.
Help us, Lord, our only trust!
We are helpless, we are dust!

Comfort, Lord, the grieving one
Who bewails a stricken son!
Comfort, Lord, the weeping wife,
In her long, long widowed life,
Brooding o’er the fatal strife,
Help us, Lord, our only trust!
We are helpless, we are dust!

On our Nation’s day of birth,
Bless Thy own long-favored earth!
Urge the soldier with Thy will!
Aid their leaders with Thy skill!
Let them hear Thy trumpet thrill!
Help us, Lord, our only trust!
We are helpless, we are dust!

Lord, we only fight for peace,
Fight that freedom may increase.
Give us back the peace of old,
When the land with plenty rolled,
And our banner awed the bold!
Help us, Lord, our only trust!
We are helpless, we are dust!

Lest we pray in thoughtless guilt,
Shape the future as Thou wilt!
Purge our realm from hoary crime
With Thy battles, dread, sublime,
In Thy well-appointed time!
Help us, Lord, our only trust!
We are helpless, we are dust!

With one heart the Nation’s cries
From our choral lips arise:
Thou didst point a noble way
For our Fathers through the fray;
Lead their children thus to-day!
Help us, Lord, our only trust!
We are helpless, we are dust!

In His name, who bravely bore
Cross and crown begemmed with gore,
By His last immortal groan,
Ere He mounted to His throne,
Make our sacred cause Thy own!
Help us, Lord, our only trust!
We are helpless, we are dust!

THE DAWNING FUTURE

BY WILLIAM PRESTON JOHNSON, PRESIDENT OF TULANE UNIVERSITY, LA.

(Closing stanza of patriotic poem, “The Patriot South.”)

Thus, in the march of time, and long procession
Of coming ages, year on year,
We mark the great Republic’s proud career,
Like Philip’s phalanx, manifold,
With bucklers linked, one front against aggression,
Till Freedom’s perfect vision is unrolled,
And man, with eye unsealed, its glories shall behold.

LIBERTY

The people never give up their liberties but under some delusion.

BURKE—_Speech at a County Meeting at Bucks, 1784._

Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us do or die.

BURNS—_Bannockburn._

What is liberty without wisdom and without virtue? It is the greatest of all possible evils; for it is folly, vice, and madness, without tuition or restraint.

BURKE—_Reflections on the Revolution in France._

The poorest man may in his cottage bid defiance to all the force of the crown.

EARL OF CHATHAM—_Speech on the Excise Bill._

’Tis liberty alone that gives the flower
Of fleeting life its luster and perfume;
And we are weeds without it.

COWPER—_The Task._ Bk. V. Line 446.

The love of liberty with life is given,
And life itself the inferior gift of heaven.

DRYDEN—_Palamon and Arcite._ Bk. II. Line 291.

This is true liberty when freeborn men,
Having to advise the public, may speak free:
Which he who can and will deserves high praise:
Who neither can nor will may hold his peace.
What can be juster in a state than this?

MILTON—Trans. _Horace._ Ep. i. 16, 40.

Give me again my hollow tree
A crust of bread, and liberty!

POPE—_Imitations of Horace._ Bk. II. Satire VI. Line 220.

O Liberty! Liberty! how many crimes are committed in thy name!

MADAME ROLAND—_Macaulay._ _Mirabeau._

FREEDOM

Hereditary bondsmen! Know ye not
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow?

BYRON—_Childe Harold._ Canto II. St. 67.

Freedom has a thousand charms to show,
That slaves howe’er contented, never know.

COWPER—_Table Talk._ Line 260.

He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free,
And all are slaves besides.

COWPER—_The Task._ Bk. V. Line 733.

When Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there.

DRAKE—_The American Flag._

My angel—his name is Freedom,—
Choose him to be your king;
He shall cut pathways east and west,
And fend you with his wing.

EMERSON—_Boston Hymn._

Yes, to this thought I hold with firm persistence;
The last result of wisdom stamps it true;
He only earns his freedom and existence
Who daily conquers them anew.

GOETHE—_Faust._

Know ye why the Cypress tree as Freedom’s tree is known?
Know ye why the Lily fair as Freedom’s flower is shown?
Hundred arms the Cypress has, yet never plunder seeks;
With ten well-developed tongues the Lily never speaks!

OMAR KHAYYAM—Frederich Bodenstedt, Translator.

What is freedom? Rightly understood,
A universal license to be good.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

A RHAPSODY

BY CASSIUS MARCELLUS CLAY

I may be an enthusiast; but I cannot but give utterance to the conceptions of my own mind. When I look upon the special developments of European civilization; when I contemplate the growing freedom of the cities, and the middle class which has sprung up between the pretenders to divine rule on the one hand, and the abject serf on the other; when I consider the Reformation, and the invention of the press, and see, on the southern shore of the continent, an humble individual, amidst untold difficulties and repeated defeats, pursuing the mysterious suggestions which the mighty deep poured unceasingly upon his troubled spirit, till at last, with great and irrepressible energy of soul, he discovered that there lay in the far western ocean a continent open for the infusion of those elementary principles of liberty which were dwarfed in European soil,—I conceive that the hand of destiny was there!

When I see the immigration of the Pilgrims from the chalky shores of England,—in the night fleeing from their native home,—so dramatically and ably pictured by Mr. Webster in his celebrated oration,—when father, mother, brother, wife, sister, lover, were all lost by those melancholy wanderers—“stifling,” in the language of one who is immortal in the conception, “the mighty hunger of the heart,” and landing, amidst cold and poverty and death, upon the rude rocks of Plymouth,—I venture to think the will of Deity was there!

When I have remembered the Revolution of ’76,—the Seven Years’ War—three millions of men in arms against the most powerful nation in history, and vindicating their independence,—I have thought that their sufferings and death were not in vain! When I have seen the forsaken hearthstone,—looked upon the battle-field, upon the dying and the dead,—heard the agonizing cry, “Water, for the sake of God! water;” seeing the dissolution of being—pale lips pressing in death the yet loved images of wife, sister, lover,—I have not deemed—I will not deem all these things in vain! I cannot regard this great continent, reaching from the Atlantic to the far Pacific, and from the St. John’s to the Rio del Norte, as the destined home of a barbarian people of third-rate civilization.

Like the Roman who looked back upon the glory of his ancestors, in woe, exclaiming,

“Great Scipio’s ghost complains that we are slow,
And Pompey’s shade walks unavenged among us,”

the great dead hover around me:—Lawrence, “Don’t give up the ship.”—Henry, “Give me liberty or give me death!”—Adams, “Survive or perish, I am for the Declaration.”—Allan, “In the name of the living God, I come!”

Come then, Thou Eternal, who dwellest not in temples made with hands, but who, in the city’s crowd or by the far forest stream, revealest Thyself to the earnest seeker after the true and right, inspire my heart; give me undying courage to pursue the promptings of my spirit; and whether I shall be called in the shades of life to look upon as sweet and kind and lovely faces as now, or shut in by sorrow and night, horrid visions shall gloom upon me in my dying hour, O my country, mayest thou yet be free!

COLUMBIA

BY FREDERICK LAWRENCE KNOWLES

Mated to the Millennium,—Time’s last heir
And proudest daughter, conquerless as he;
Girdled with lakes like jewels princely fair,
With strong feet planted in the Mexic sea!

Where Law is liberty, where Love is power,
And the twain one, there Treason cannot dwell;
A fangless asp, it coiled one impotent hour,
But at thy white glance backward writhed to hell.

Leave dotard empires flames of drunken war,
Be thine chaste hours of labor and increase,
Vineyards and harvests yielding guiltless store,
Toil’s bloodless battles on the plains of peace!

Yet when slain Weakness, dying at thy door,
Summoning thy right arm’s vengeance, clasps thy feet,—
Thy sword that drinks her murderer’s blood is pure
As laughing sickles in the saffron wheat.

Clearing a crimson path where Peace may tread
More safely; thou dost play thy patient part,
Love’s pledged ally,—yea, though thy blade be red;
Thrusting War’s weapons thro’ his own false heart.

O goddess, arctic-crowned and tropic-shod
And belted with great waters, hear our cry,—
More honest never reached the ear of God,—
We’ll serve thee, laud thee, love thee, till we die!

A RENAISSANCE OF PATRIOTISM[13]

BY GEORGE J. MANSON

A RENAISSANCE

Within the past few years there has been what ex-President Harrison once happily termed “a renaissance of patriotism.” It started with the centennial anniversaries of 1776, which had the effect of carrying the memories of the people back to the period of the Nation’s birth, and subsequently resulted in the formation of several societies which will be the means of fostering the patriotic spirit and love of country, and recall remembrances of our Revolutionary struggle. The organizers of these societies found that there was a growing lack of what may be called national patriotism—the patriotism that grows out of a lively recollection of the early making of the country through battle, toil, and hardship of the fathers. This lukewarm spirit was not charged to the flood of immigration, or to the lapse of time, but was principally due to neglect on the part of the descendants of Revolutionary heroes to perform their duty of keeping before the public mind the memory of the services of their ancestors, the times in which they lived and the principles for which they contended.

THE SONS OF THE REVOLUTION

One of the first of these societies to be started was the “Sons of the Revolution.” This was organized February 22, 1876, reorganized December 4, 1883, and incorporated May 3, 1884. The aim of this society is to perpetuate the memory of the men who, in military, naval or civil service, by their acts or counsel, achieved American independence. The members promote and assist in the proper celebration of the anniversaries of Washington’s Birthday, the battles of Lexington and Bunker Hill, the Fourth of July, the capitulation of Saratoga and Yorktown, and the formal evacuation of New York by the British army, December 3, 1783, as a relinquishment of territorial sovereignty, and other prominent events relating to or connected with the War of the Revolution.

The roll-book of the members is something more than a mere list of names. Before each name is the year, showing when the member was admitted into the society, and there is also given in a paragraph his genealogical history so far as it relates to his ancestors who were in any way connected with the Revolutionary struggle. There is a general, or national society, divided into state societies which regulate their own affairs. Under the rules of the New York State society, ten or more members can organize within any county outside of the county of New York, such a body being called a local chapter. The total membership is now about six thousand. When membership is asked on the ground of an ancestor having been a “sailor” or “marine,” it must be shown that such service was other than shore duty and regularly performed in the Continental navy, or the navy of one of the original thirteen states, or on an armed vessel other than a merchant ship. When the ancestor has been an “official” his service must have been sufficiently important in character to have rendered him specially liable to arrest and imprisonment, if captured by the enemy, as well as liable to conviction of treason against the Government of Great Britain.

A few years ago the society stimulated interest in its work by offering two prizes to the cadets of the United States Naval Academy, at Annapolis, Md.,—a gold medal and a silver medal—for the best original essays upon the subject, “The Navy of the Revolution.” A singular and patriotic feature of these essays was that they were not to contain less than 1,776 words. A gold medal is likewise annually awarded by the New York society to a student in the College of the City of New York, for the best essay on a patriotic subject, and gold, silver, and bronze medals to the scholars of the high schools throughout the State for like essays. Similar prizes are awarded by the societies in other states.

Congress has also been urged, by the Sons of the Revolution as a body, to pass a bill which has already been introduced in that body, making an appropriation of a sum of money to erect a monument to John Paul Jones. It has also memorialized Congress to enact such a law as will secure the publication of all the archives of the United States Government relating to the War of the Revolution, in a manner similar to the publication of the records of the War of the Rebellion.

The seal of the society is an interesting study, suggesting as it does, in small compass, the spirit of patriotism the society desires to cultivate. The seal consists of the figure of a minute-man, in Continental uniform, standing on a ladder leading to a belfry. In his right hand he holds a musket and an olive branch, while his left hand grasps a bell-rope. Above is seen the cracked Liberty bell, from which issues a ribbon bearing the motto of the society: _Exegi monumentum aere perennius_. Many members of this society did gallant service in the war with Spain.

SONS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION

The second important patriotic society is the “Sons of the American Revolution,” a name very similar to that of the organization just mentioned. The first branch of this society was formed in California in 1876 by a body of descendants of officers, soldiers, and seamen of the Revolution gathered in San Francisco for the purpose of celebrating the one hundredth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. Similar societies were therefore organized in other states and, on April 30, 1889, these societies with two or three exceptions celebrated the centennial inauguration of Washington as first President of the United States. This meeting was held in Fraunce’s Tavern, in New York City, in the identical long room (now marked with a commemorative tablet) in which Washington bade farewell to his officers, December 3, 1783. The national organization was formed on the occasion of this meeting.

This society exists in about thirty states, and numbers about five thousand members. A singular and interesting feature in connection with this and kindred organizations is that their existence has led to and greatly stimulated genealogical research, a species of investigation to which Americans, as a rule, have given but little attention. Persons who have become interested in these societies, it has been found, have rescued unrecorded facts from the aged members of their families who were destined soon to pass away, information which could have been obtained in no other way and which would have been lost forever in a few years.

The “Sons of the American Revolution” prides itself on being a practical and not merely a sentimental and ornamental organization. It has been particularly active in saving throughout the country valuable historical landmarks, such as the headquarters of Jonathan Trumbull, in Connecticut, which has been obtained and is now used for a museum. It is marking historical spots and, directly and indirectly, securing the erection of memorials of the Revolutionary heroes, such as the Bennington Monument, near that famous battle-field, the statue of Gen. John Stark, in New Hampshire, and a monument to be erected in Baltimore to Maryland’s heroes of the Revolution. It has obtained from Congress a law providing for the collection and indexing of the records of service of the Revolution. It has stimulated the general observance of national patriotic holidays, and was influential in setting apart June 14th as “Flag Day” in commemoration of the adoption of the Stars and Stripes as the national standard.

THE SOCIETY OF COLONIAL WARS

“The Society of Colonial Wars,” originated in New York, and was instituted August 18, 1892, and incorporated October 18, 1892. In May, 1893, the New York society with the societies in the states of Pennsylvania, Maryland, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and the District of Columbia organized the general society, these states, having been previously chartered by the society in the State of New York. The objects of the organizations are similar to those of the previously named societies, from which they differ only in minor details. The present membership is approximately 3,000. On June 14th of this year (1898) this society joined with the Sons of the Revolution in appropriate ceremonies attending the unveiling of commemorative tablets at Fort Ticonderoga, intended to perpetuate the memories of the capture of the fort by Colonel Ethan Allen and his gallant band, the Colonial battles fought in the vicinity of Fort Ticonderoga, etc.

THE MILITARY ORDER OF FOREIGN WARS

“The Military Order of Foreign Wars” is, as its name implies, a military organization with patriotic objects, having for its scope the period of American history since national independence. The principal feature of the order is the perpetuating of the names, as well as the services, of commissioned officers who served in either the War of the Revolution, the War with Tripoli, the War of 1812, the Mexican War, or the War with Spain. Veteran Companionship is conferred upon such officers, and Hereditary Companionship upon their direct lineal descendants in the male line. The present membership is 1,400, which is rapidly growing. Other societies that merit more extended notice but which can here only be named are the “Order of Cincinnati,” the “Society of the War of 1812,” the “Aztec Club,” the “Loyal Legion,” the “Grand Army of the Republic,” the “Flag Association,” “Colonial Order of the Acorn,” “Order of Washington,” the “Pilgrim Society,” and some others.

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE REVOLUTION

It is quite natural that women, whose patriotic services during the late Civil War have often been the subject of grateful eulogy, should become interested in this new movement. There are several patriotic societies, composed exclusively of women, the objects of which are practically the same as the organizations which have just been mentioned. The society known as the “Daughters of the Revolution” was organized by Mrs. Flora Adams Darling, September 9, 1891. In October, 1890, was organized the more important society known as the “Daughters of the American Revolution,” which now has a membership of about 3,500. This society has state chapters existing in most of the states. To become a member of this society a woman must be not less than eighteen years of age, and be the descendant of an ancestor who loyally rendered material aid as a soldier, sailor or civil officer to the cause of independence. The Daughters of the American Revolution have presented to the City of Paris an equestrian statue of Lafayette designed and executed by Daniel C. French. It was intended to be a return of the compliment to the American people conveyed by the French Government when it presented to the United States the statue of Washington which is now at the National Capital. The unveiling took place with imposing ceremonies on July 3rd.

THE COLONIAL DAMES OF AMERICA

The “Colonial Dames of America,” an organization incorporated in 1893, requires of a member that she shall be descended in her own right from some ancestor of worthy life who came to reside in the American colony prior to 1750. This ancestor, or some one of his descendants, shall be a lineal ascendant of the applicant, and shall have rendered efficient service to his country during the colonial period either in the founding of the commonwealth, or of an institution which has survived and developed into importance, or who shall have held an important position in the Colonial Government and by distinguished services shall have contributed to the founding of the Nation. Services rendered after 1783 are not recognized.

UNITED STATES DAUGHTERS, 1776-1812

Still another woman’s patriotic organization is known as the “United States Daughters, 1776-1812.” This society was founded by Mrs. Flora Adams Darling, and incorporated in 1892. Ladies to be eligible must be lineal descendants of an ancestor who assisted in the wars of 1776-1812, either as a military or naval officer, soldier, sailor, or in any way gave aid to the cause, tho’ the society reserves to itself the privilege of rejecting any nomination that may not be acceptable to it.

Another patriotic woman’s organization tho’ not of recent date, which has for years rendered important service, is the “Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association,” of Washington, D. C. This association has under its care and direction the Washington estate at Mount Vernon, Va. In 1895 a volume entitled “Ancestry” was published by Bailey, Banks and Biddle (Philadelphia) in connection with their Department of Heraldry that contained a complete list of the various patriotic societies, then forty-seven in number. Since the publication of this volume many new societies have sprung up.

CENTENNIAL POEMS

CENTENNIAL HYMN[14]

BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

SUNG AT THE OPENING OF THE WORLD’S FAIR AT PHILADELPHIA, IN 1876.

Our fathers’ God, from out whose hand
The centuries fall like grains of sand,
We meet to-day, united, free,
And loyal to our land and Thee,
To thank Thee for the era done,
And trust Thee for the opening one.

Here, where of old, by Thy design,
The fathers spake that word of Thine
Whose echo is the glad refrain
Of rended bolt and falling chain,—
To grace our festal time, from all
The zones of earth, our guests we call.

Be with us while the New World greets
The Old World, thronging all our streets,
Unveiling all the triumphs won
By art or toil, beneath the sun,
And unto common good ordain
This rivalship of hand and brain.

Thou, who hast here, in Concord, furled
The war-flags of a gathered world,—
Beneath our Western skies fulfill
The Orient’s mission of good will,
And, freighted with Love’s Golden Fleece,
Send back the Argonauts of Peace.

For Art and Labor, met in truce,
For Beauty made the bride of Use,
We thank Thee; while, withal, we crave
The austere virtues, strong to save,—
The Honor, proof to place or gold,
The Manhood, never bought nor sold.

Oh, make Thou us, through centuries long,
In Peace secure, in justice strong;
Around our gift of Freedom draw
The safeguards of Thy righteous law;
And, cast in some diviner mold,
Let the new cycle shame the old.

WELCOME TO THE NATION[15]

(Centennial Hymn sung on Independence Day, 1876.)

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Bright on the banners of lily and rose,
Lo, the last sun of our country sets!
Wreathe the bright cannon that scowled on our foes,
All but her friendships the Nation forgets,
All but her friends, and their welcome, forgets.
These are around her: but where are her foes?
Lo, while the sun of her century sets,
Peace, with her garlands of lily and rose!

Welcome! a shout like the war-trumpet’s swell
Wakes the wild echoes that slumber around!
Welcome! it quivers from Liberty’s bell;
Welcome! the walls of her temple resound!
Hark! the gray walls of her temple resound!
Fade the far voices o’er hillside and dell;
Welcome! still whisper the echoes around!
Welcome! still trembles on Liberty’s bell!

Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea!
Yours are the garlands of peace we entwine;
Welcome once more to the land of the free,
Shadowed alike by the palm and the pine;
Softly they murmur, the palm and the pine,
“Hushed is our strife, in the land of the free;”
Over your children their branches entwine,
Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea!

LIBERTY’S LATEST DAUGHTER

BY BAYARD TAYLOR

(Third Canto.)

Foreseen in the vision of sages,
Foretold when martyrs bled,
She was born of the longing of ages,
By the truth of the noble dead,
And the faith of the living, fed!
No blood in her lightest veins
Frets at remembered chains,
Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head
In her form and features still,
The unblenching Puritan will,
Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace,
The Quaker truth and sweetness,
And the strength of the danger-girdled race
Of Holland, blend in a proud completeness.
From the homes of all, where her being began,
She took what she gave to man:
Justice that knew no station,
Belief as soul decreed,
Free air for aspiration,
Free force for independent deed.
She takes, but to give again,
As the sea returns the rivers in rain;
And gathered the chosen of her seed
From the hunted of every crown and creed.
Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine;
Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine;
Her France pursues some dream divine;
Her Norway keeps his mountain-pine;
Her Italy waits by the western brine;
And, broad-based under all
Is planted England’s oaken-hearted mood,
As rich in fortitude
As e’er went world-ward from the island wall.
Fused in her candid light,
To one strong race all races here united;
Tongues melt in hers; hereditary foemen
Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan;
’Twas glory, once, to be a Roman;
She makes it glory, now, to be a man.

“SCUM O’ THE EARTH”[16]

BY ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER

I

At the gate of the West I stand,
On the isle where the nations throng.
We call them “scum o’ the earth”;

Stay, are we doing you wrong,
Young fellow from Socrates’ land?—
You, like a Hermes so lissome and strong
Fresh from the master Praxiteles’ hand?
So you’re of Spartan birth?
Descended, perhaps, from one of the band—
Deathless in story and song—
Who combed their long hair at Thermopylæ’s pass?...
Ah, I forget the straits, alas!
More tragic than theirs, more compassion-worth,
That have doomed you to march in our “immigrant class”
Where you’re nothing but “scum o’ the earth.”

II

You Pole with the child on your knee,
What dower bring you to the land of the free?
Hark! does she croon
That sad little tune
That Chopin once found on his Polish lea
And mounted in gold for you and for me?
Now a ragged young fiddler answers
In wild Czech melody
That Dvořak took whole from the dancers.
And the heavy faces bloom
In the wonderful Slavik way;
The little, dull eyes, the brows a-gloom,
Suddenly dawn like the day.
While, watching these folk and their mystery,
I forget that they’re nothing worth;
That Bohemians, Slovaks, Croatians,
And men of all Slavik nations
Are “polacks”—and “scum o’ the earth.”

III

Genoese boy of the level brow,
Lad of the lustrous, dreamy eyes
Astare at Manhattan’s pinnacles now
In the first, sweet shock of a hushed surprise;
Within your far-rapt seer’s eyes
I catch the glow of the wild surmise
That played on the Santa Maria’s prow
In that still gray dawn,
Four centuries gone,
When a world from the wave began to rise.
Oh, it’s hard to foretell what high emprise
Is the goal that gleams
When Italy’s dreams
Spread wing and sweep into the skies.
Cæsar dreamed him a world ruled well;
Dante dreamed Heaven out of Hell;
Angelo brought us there to dwell;
And you, are you of a different birth?—
You’re only a “dago,”—and “scum o’ the earth”!

IV

Stay, are we doing you wrong
Calling you “scum o’ the earth,”
Man of the sorrow-bowed head,
Of the features tender yet strong,—
Man of the eyes full of wisdom and mystery
Mingled with patience and dread?
Have I not known you in history,
Sorrow-bowed head?
Were you the poet-king, worth
Treasures of Ophir unpriced?
Were you the prophet, perchance, whose art
Foretold how the rabble would mock
That shepherd of spirits, erelong,
Who should carry the lambs on his heart
And tenderly feed his flock?
Man—lift that sorrow-bowed head.
Lo! ’tis the face of the Christ!

The vision dies at its birth.
You’re merely a butt for our mirth.
You’re a “sheeny”—and therefore despised
And rejected as “scum o’ the earth.”

V

Countrymen, bend and invoke
Mercy for us blasphemers,
For that we spat on these marvelous folk,
Nations of darers and dreamers,
Scions of singers and seers,
Our peers, and more than our peers.
“Rabble and refuse,” we name them
And “scum o’ the earth,” to shame them.
Mercy for us of the few, young years,
Of the culture so callow and crude,
Of the hands so grasping and rude,
The lips so ready for sneers
At the sons of our ancient more-than-peers.
Mercy for us who dare despise
Men in whose loins our Homer lies;
Mothers of men who shall bring to us
The glory of Titian, the grandeur of Huss;
Children in whose frail arms shall rest
Prophets and singers and saints of the West.
Newcomers all from the eastern seas,
Help us incarnate dreams like these.
Forget, and forgive, that we did you wrong.
Help us to father a nation, strong
In the comradeship of an equal birth,
In the wealth of the richest bloods of earth.

LIBERTY AND UNION ONE AND INSEPARABLE

BY DANIEL WEBSTER

I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that Union that we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That Union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings; and, although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread farther and farther, they have not outrun its protection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below; nor could I regard him as a safe counselor in the affairs of this government, whose thought should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union may be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it should be broken up and destroyed.

While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind! When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood!

Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured; bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as, _What is all this worth?_ nor those other words of delusion and folly,—_Liberty first and Union afterwards_; but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart,—_Liberty_ and _Union_, _now_ and _forever_, _one_ and _inseparable_!

ADDRESS TO LIBERTY

BY WILLIAM COWPER

Oh, could I worship aught beneath the skies
That earth hath seen, or fancy could devise,
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand,
Built by no mercenary, vulgar hand,
With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair
As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air.

Duly, as ever on the mountain’s height
The peep of morning shed a dawning light;
Again, when evening in her sober vest
Drew the gray curtain of the fading west;
My soul should yield thee willing thanks and praise
For the chief blessings of my fairest days:
But that were sacrilege: praise is not thine,
But His, who gave thee, and preserves thee mine;
Else I would say,—and, as I spake, bid fly
A captive bird into the boundless sky,—
This rising realm adores thee: thou art come
From Sparta hither, and art here at home;
We feel thy force still active; at this hour
Enjoys immunity from priestly power;
While conscience, happier than in ancient years,
Owns no superior but the God she fears.
Propitious Spirit! yet expunge a wrong
Thy rights have suffered, and our land, too long;
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share
The fears and hopes of a commercial care;
Prisons expect the wicked, and were built
To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt;
But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood
Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood:
And honest merit stands on slippery ground
Where covert guile and artifice abound.
Let just restraint, for public peace designed,
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind,—
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee,—
But let insolvent innocence go free.

THE TORCH OF LIBERTY

BY THOMAS MOORE

I saw it all in Fancy’s glass—
Herself, the fair, the wild magician,
Who bade this splendid day-dream pass,
And named each gilded apparition.
’Twas like a torch-race,—such as they
Of Greece performed, in ages gone,
When the fleet youths, in long array,
Passed the bright torch triumphant on.

I saw the expectant nations stand
To catch the coming flame in turn;
I saw, from ready hand to hand,
The clear, though struggling, glory burn.
And oh, their joy, as it came near,
’Twas, in itself, a joy to see;
While Fancy whispered in my ear,
“That torch they pass is Liberty!”

And each, as she received the flame,
Lighted her altar with its ray;
Then, smiling, to the next who came,
Speeded it on its sparkling way.
From Albion first, whose ancient shrine
Was furnished with the flame already,
Columbia caught the boon divine,
And lit a flame, like Albion’s, steady.

Shine, shine forever, glorious flame,
Divinest gift of gods to men!
From Greece thy earliest splendor came,
To Greece thy ray returns again.
Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round;
When dimmed, revive; when lost, return;
Till not a shrine through earth be found
On which thy glories shall not burn!

HOROLOGE OF LIBERTY

ANONYMOUS

The world heard: the battle of Lexington—one; the Declaration of Independence—two; the surrender of Burgoyne—three; the siege of Yorktown—four; the treaty of Paris—five; the inauguration of Washington—six; and then it was the sunrise of a new day, of which we have seen yet only the glorious forenoon.

THE AMERICAN REPUBLIC

BY GEORGE BANCROFT

In the fullness of time, a Republic rose up in the wilderness of America. Thousands of years had passed away before this child of the ages could be born. From whatever there was of good in the systems of former centuries she drew her nourishment; the wrecks of the past were her warnings. With the deepest sentiment of faith fixed in her inmost nature, she disenthralled religion from bondage to temporal power, that her worship might be worship only in spirit and in truth.

The wisdom which had passed from India through Greece, with what Greece had added of her own; the jurisprudence of Rome; the mediæval municipalities; the Teutonic method of representation, the political experience of England, the benignant wisdom of the expositors of the law of nature and of nations in France and Holland, all shed on her their selectest influence. She washed the gold of political wisdom from the sands wherever it was found; she cleft it from the rocks; she gleaned it among ruins. Out of all the discoveries of statesmen and sages, out of all the experience of past human life, she compiled a perennial political philosophy, the primordial principles of national ethics.

The wise men of Europe sought the best government in a mixture of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy; and America went behind these names to extract from them the vital elements of social forms, and blend them harmoniously in the free Commonwealth, which comes nearest to the illustration of the natural equality of all men. She entrusted the guardianship of established rights to law; the movements of reform to the spirit of the people, and drew her force from the happy reconciliation of both.

A NEW NATIONAL HYMN

BY FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD

Hail, Freedom! thy bright crest
And gleaming shield, thrice blest,
Mirror the glories of a world thine own.
Hail, heaven-born Peace! our sight,
Led by thy gentle light,
Shows us the paths with deathless flowers strewn.
Peace, daughter of a strife sublime,
Abide with us till strife be lost in endless time.

Her one hand seals with gold
The portals of night’s fold,
Her other the broad gates of dawn unbars;
O’er silent wastes of snows,
Crowning her lofty brows,
Gleams high her diadem of northern stars;
While, clothed in garlands of warm flowers,
Round Freedom’s feet the South her wealth of beauty showers.

Sweet is the toil of peace,
Sweet is the year’s increase,
To loyal men who live by Freedom’s laws;
And in war’s fierce alarms
God gives stout hearts and arms
To freemen sworn to save a rightful cause.
Fear none, trust God, maintain the right,
And triumph in unbroken Union’s might.

Welded in war’s fierce flame,
Forged on the hearth of fame,
The sacred Constitution was ordained;
Tried in the fire of time,
Tempered in woes sublime,
An age was passed and left it yet unstained.
God grant its glories still may shine,
While ages fade, forgotten, in time’s slow decline!

Honor the few who shared
Freedom’s first fight, and dared
To face war’s desperate tide at the full flood;
Who fell on hard-won ground,
And into Freedom’s wound
Poured the sweet balsam of their brave hearts’ blood.
They fell; but o’er that glorious grave
Floats free the banner of the cause they died to save.

In radiance heavenly fair,
Floats on the peaceful air
That flag that never stooped from Victory’s pride;
Those stars that softly gleam,
Those stripes that o’er us stream,
In war’s grand agony were sanctified;
A holy standard, pure and free,
To light the home of peace, or blaze in victory.

Father, whose mighty power
Shields us through life’s short hour,
To Thee we pray: Bless us and keep us free;
All that is past forgive;
Teach us, henceforth, to live
That, through our country, we may honor Thee;
And, when this mortal life shall cease,
Take Thou, at last, our souls to Thine eternal peace.

VII

FICTION

JIM’S AUNT

BY FRANCES BENT DILLINGHAM

“I wish you could take him in,” the minister said, almost entreatingly. “He isn’t a bad boy, you know; his family is quite respectable; but when his aunt said she couldn’t afford to take him into the country with her children, it seemed too bad for him to stay in the city.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Miss Lucinda assented hastily. “If only he wasn’t a boy!”

The minister sighed. “I want you to do what you think best.”

It was Miss Lucinda’s turn to sigh now—a long-drawn breath of surrender. “Well, I’ll take him,” she said.

The minister rose to go. “It’s very kind of you, Miss Tarbox; be sure I appreciate your self-sacrifice;” and then he added, in a hesitating sort of way, “You are always full of good works.”

The color flamed up in Miss Lucinda’s face. “Oh!” she exclaimed, lifting her proud head still higher, “I don’t do anything!” and the minister felt the usual sense of defeat he experienced in Miss Tarbox’s presence.

He was quite dejected as he went down the garden walk. “So excellent a woman,” he murmured to himself, and he mournfully contrasted her uncompromising manner with the flattering air of other single ladies of his parish as he glanced back furtively toward her parlor window.

But Miss Tarbox would have considered it unpardonable coquetry to peep after the minister, since he was an unmarried man, and she an eligible if not youthful spinster, so she went at once into the kitchen to prepare her supper. But the color did not at once fade from her cheeks as she moved about in her rapid, methodical manner, and she thought not so much of the boy who was to come, as of the man who had just gone. If the minister felt overcome in Miss Lucinda’s presence, she, too, had a similar feeling after he had left her with some unspoken word on his lips.

“It seems as though he was going to say something sometimes, but I kill it out of him. I wonder what is the matter with me, anyway?” Miss Lucinda had acquired a habit of talking to herself, and now nodded gravely to her reflection in the little mirror over the kitchen shelf. “I’m not bad-looking and I mean to be pleasant, but, somehow most folks seem kind of afraid of me. I s’pose I have an up-and-coming way with me that scares most of them. I don’t seem to be the sort they take to; though I must say it’s forlorn to be that way,” and the image in the mirror sighed audibly.

When Miss Lucinda had seated herself at her lonely tea-table, her thoughts took another channel. “What in the world am I to do with a boy? He’ll upset things on the table-cloth, and let flies in the house and rub his fingers on the window-pane, and holler. Well, there’s one thing about it, he’s got to mind every word I say to him!” But here Miss Lucinda drew herself up with a jerk. “There you go, Lucinda, complaining of your loneliness, and then finding fault when someone comes to see you; thinking you’re too fond of running things, and then saying you’re going to make this boy do just as you want him to.”

It was only a few days later when the boy came, in company with the minister. He was not so large a boy as Miss Lucinda had expected from his age, and he was rather thin and pale.

“I’ll give him enough to eat, that’s one thing,” she told the minister. “And I’ve been thinking there’s one comfort in a boy: he doesn’t talk so much as a girl—that is, he isn’t likely to.”

“No, he isn’t likely to,” the minister assented, a little doubtfully.

After the minister had gone, Miss Lucinda began to wonder what she should do with the boy the rest of the morning. She found him in the kitchen, his short legs stretched to their utmost, trying to capture two flies buzzing on the window-pane. He paused in his exertions, and turned on her with a beaming smile.

“Hullo! Is dinner ready?” he asked.

Miss Lucinda drew herself up. “We don’t have dinner till twelve o’clock,” she said frigidly.

“Oh, that’s all right; you needn’t hurry,” the boy said pleasantly. “I’m kinder grub-struck, but I guess I kin wait.”

Miss Lucinda stared at him in rebuke. “Perhaps you’d better go out and play,” she suggested, “while I get dinner;” and off he went.

When the dinner-table was laid, Miss Lucinda rang her seldom-used bell out of the back door, and the boy came in promptly, with quite a color in his cheeks.

“My!” he exclaimed, staring at the neat, plentiful table, “ain’t this a feed!”

“You’d better go and wash your hands,” Miss Lucinda suggested, and the boy went cheerily to the sink, scrubbing himself vigorously and then wiping his hands on the spick-and-span roller. Miss Lucinda groaned at the great black marks on the towel, and went out into the kitchen to turn it about so that she might not have to look at them through the dining-room doorway.

“Mercy on us!” she cried in distress as she came out into the kitchen, “you’ve left the door open. The house’ll be full of flies!”

“Now, don’t you trouble,” the boy said soothingly. “I’ll catch every single fly that’s got in. I’m a great flycatcher, I am. I’m used to flies.”

At the table, conversation did not at all flourish. Miss Lucinda had heard of a boy’s appetite, but she had never dreamed of such awful capacity as this young person displayed. After he had taken the first keen edge from his hunger he laid down his knife and fork and looked at her inquiringly.

“Should you mind if I was to call you aunt?” he asked smilingly. “You know I useter live with my aunt, and I’m kinder useter sayin’ it.”

“I think it would be better if you called me Miss Tarbox,” Miss Lucinda said, surprised, but not thrown off her guard.

“That’s rather long,” the boy said meditatively; “but I guess if I say it often enough I kin git it Miss Tarbox, Misstarbox, Misstubox, Misstibox, Miss—”

“Don’t say that over again, for goodness’ sake,” Miss Lucinda said irritably. “What is your name?”

“Well, the whole of it is James Wilson, but I guess you’d better call me Jim. I’m useter that.”

“What did you do this morning?” Miss Tarbox felt called upon to sustain and direct further conversation.

“I went over to see the boy ’cross the street and we’re goin’ to play Indian this afternoon. Did you ever play Indian?”

Miss Tarbox shook her head.