Chapter V: The War with Spain (3)

Admiral Pasquale de Cervera, in command of the Spanish fleet,
knew from the first how desperate the venture was. He made it
only because forced to do so by direct orders from Madrid, the
Spanish authorities fearing that Santiago would be taken and
the whole fleet be made captive.

CERVERA

Hail to thee, gallant foe!
Well hast thou struck thy blow--
Hopeless of victory--
Daring unequal strife,
Valuing more than life
Honor and chivalry.

Forth from the harbor's room
Rushing to meet thy doom,
Lit by the day's clear light.
"Out to the waters free!
Out to the open sea!
There should a sailor fight."

Where the red battle's roar
Beats on the rocky shore,
Thunders proclaiming
How the great cannon's breath
Hurls forth a dreadful death,
Smoking and flaming.

While her guns ring and flash,
See each frail vessel dash,
Though our shots rend her,
Swift through the iron rain,
Bearing the flag of Spain,
Scorning surrender.

Hemmed in 'twixt foe and wreck,
Blood soaks each slippery deck,
Still madly racing,
Till their ships burn and reel,
Crushed by our bolts of steel,
Firing and chasing.

Driven to the rocks at last,
Now heels each shattered mast,
Flames the blood drinking,
Each with her load of dead,
Wrapped in that shroud of red,
Silenced and sinking.

Vanquished! but not in vain:
Ancient renown of Spain,
Coming upon her.
Once again lives in thee,
All her old chivalry,
All her old honor.

Ever her past avers,
When wealth and lands were hers,
Though she might love them,
Die for their keeping, yet
Spain, in her pride, has set
Honor above them.

BERTRAND SHADWELL.

Santiago surrendered a few days later and an army of
occupation, under General Nelson A. Miles, landed at Porto
Rico and took possession of the island, after a few sharp
skirmishes. In the Philippines, operations against Manila
were pushed vigorously forward, and on August 13, after sharp
actions at Malate, Singalon, and Ermita, the city was captured.
Among the killed at Malate was Sergeant J. A. McIlrath, Battery
H, Third Artillery Regulars.

McILRATH OF MALATE

[August 13, 1898]

Yes, yes, my boy, there's no mistake,
You put the contract through!
You lads with Shafter, I'll allow,
Were heroes tried and true;

But don't forget the men who fought
About Manila Bay,
And don't forget brave McIlrath
Who died at Malate.

The night was black, save where the forks
Of tropic lightning ran,
When, with a long deep thunder-roar,
The typhoon storm began.

Then, suddenly above the din,
We heard the steady bay
Of volleys from the trenches where
The Pennsylvanias lay.

The Tenth, we thought, could hold their own
Against the feigned attack,
And, if the Spaniards dared advance
Would pay them doubly back.

But soon we marked the volleys sink
Into a scattered fire--
And now we heard the Spanish guns
Boom nigher yet and nigher!

Then, like a ghost, a courier
Seemed past our picket tossed,
With wild hair streaming in his face--
"We're lost--we're lost--we're lost!"

"Front, front--in God's name--front!" he cried:
"Our ammunition's gone!"
He turned a face of dazed dismay--
And through the night sped on!

"Men, follow me!" cried McIlrath,
Our acting sergeant then;
And when he gave the word he knew
He gave the word to men!

Twenty there--not one man more--
But down the sunken road
We dragged the guns of Battery H,
Nor even stopped to load!

Sudden, from the darkness poured
A storm of Mauser hail--
But not a man there thought to pause,
Nor any man to quail!

Ahead, the Pennsylvanias' guns
In scattered firing broke;
The Spanish trenches, red with flame,
In fiercer volleys spoke!

Down with a rush our twenty came--
The open field we passed--
And in among the hard-pressed Tenth
We set our feet at last!

Up, with a leap, sprang McIlrath,
Mud-spattered, worn and wet,
And, in an instant, there he stood
High on the parapet!

"Steady, boys! we've got 'em now--
Only a minute late!
It's all right, lads--we've got 'em whipped--
Just give 'em volleys straight!"

Then, up and down the parapet
With head erect he went,
As cool as when he sat with us
Beside our evening tent!

Not one of us, close sheltered there
Down in the trench's pen,
But felt that we would rather die
Than shame or grieve him then!

The fire so close to being quenched
In panic and defeat,
Leaped forth, by rapid volleys sped,
In one long deadly sheet!

A cheer went up along the line
As breaks the thunder-call--
But, as it rose, great God, we saw
Our gallant sergeant fall!

He sank into our outstretched arms
Dead--but immortal grown;
And Glory brightened where he fell,
And valor claimed her own!

JOHN JEROME ROONEY.

Spain had had enough. She recognized the folly of struggling
further, and made overtures for peace. On August 12 a protocol
was signed and hostilities ceased. Eight days later, the
American squadron steamed into New York harbor.

WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN[17]

NEW YORK HARBOR, August 20, 1898

To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea,
On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free,
And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill,
Breaker and beach cry each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls! Be
still!"
Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm,
Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm,
Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam,
Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time
Home!

And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest,
The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west
Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars,
And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars!
Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade,
Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade,
And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release,
From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace."

Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show
The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go,--
How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear,
South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered,
"Here!"
For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song
Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong,
Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they
trod,
Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's
God!

Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,
To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea,
To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait,
To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:--
But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home,
And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam,
And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win!
Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come
in!

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.

[17] Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothers.

FULL CYCLE

Spain drew us proudly from the womb of night,
A lusty man-child of the Western wave,--
Who now, full-grown, smites the old midwife down,
And thrusts her deep in a dishonored grave.

JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.

Peace commissioners from the two countries met at Paris in
October, and a treaty of peace was signed on December 10, 1898.
Spain relinquished all sovereignty over Cuba, and ceded Porto
Rico, Guam, and the Philippine Islands to the United States,
receiving in payment for the latter the sum of twenty million
dollars.

BREATH ON THE OAT

Free are the Muses, and where freedom is
They follow, as the thrushes follow spring,
Leaving the old lands songless there behind;
Parnassus disenchanted suns its woods,
Empty of every nymph; wide have they flown;
And now on new sierras think to set
Their wandering court, and thrill the world anew,
Where the Republic babbling waits its speech;
For but the prelude of its mighty song
As yet has sounded. Therefore, would I woo
Apollo to the land I love, 'tis vain;
Unknown he spies on us; and if my verse
Ring not the empyrean round and round,
'Tis that the feeble oat is few of stops.
The noble theme awaits the nobler bard.
Then how all air will quire to it, and all
The great dead listen, America!--For lo,
Diana of the nations hath she lived
Remote, and hoarding her own happiness
In her own land, the land that seemed her first
An exile, where her bark was cast away,
Till maiden grew the backward-hearted child,
And on that sea whose waves were memories
Turned her young shoulder, looked with steadfast eyes
Upon her wilderness, her woods, her streams;
Inland she ran, and gathering virgin joy
Followed her shafts afar from humankind.
And if sometimes her isolation drooped
And yearning woke in her, she put it forth
With a high boast and with a sick disdain;
Actæons fleeing, into antlers branched
The floating tresses of her fancy, and far
Her arrows smote them with a bleeding laugh.
O vain and virgin, O the fool of love!
Now children not her own are at her knee.
For stricken by her path lay one that vexed
Her maiden calm; she reached a petulant hand;
And the old nations drew sharp breath and looked.
The two-edged sword, how came it in her hand?
The sword that slays the holder if he withhold,
That none can take, or having taken drop,
The sword is in thy hand, America!
The wrath of God, that fillets thee with lightnings,
America! Strike then; the sword departs.
Ah God, once more may men crown drowsy days
With glorious death, upholding a great cause!
I deemed it fable; not of them am I.
Yet if they loved thee on the loud May-day
Who with unexultant thunder wreathed the flag,
With thunder and with victory, if they
Who on the third most famous of our Fourths
Along the seaboard mountains swept, a storm
Unleashed, whose tread spurned not the wrecks of Spain,
If these thy sons have loved thee, and have set
Santiago and Manila like new stars
Crowding thy field of blue, new terror perched
Like eagles on thy banners, oh, not less
I love thee, who but prattle in the prime
Of birds of passage over river and wood
Thine also, piping little charms to lure,
Uncaptured and unflying, the wings of song.

JOSEPH RUSSELL TAYLOR.

But the United States was still involved in a struggle
altogether unforeseen and repugnant to many of her citizens.
The Philippines had been bought from Spain, and with them the
United States had taken over just such an insurrection as Spain
had encountered in Cuba.

THE ISLANDS OF THE SEA

God is shaping the great future of the Islands of the Sea;
He has sown the blood of martyrs and the fruit is liberty;
In thick clouds and in darkness He has sent abroad His word;
He has given a haughty nation to the cannon and the sword.

He has seen a people moaning in the thousand deaths they die;
He has heard from child and woman a terrible dark cry;
He has given the wasted talent of the steward faithless found
To the youngest of the nations with His abundance crowned.

He called her to do justice where none but she had power;
He called her to do mercy to her neighbor at the door;
He called her to do vengeance for her own sons foully dead;
Thrice did He call unto her ere she inclined her head.

She has gathered the vast Midland, she has searched her borders round;
There has been a mighty hosting of her children on the ground;
Her search-lights lie along the sea, her guns are loud on land;
To do her will upon the earth her armies round her stand.

The fleet, at her commandment, to either ocean turns;
Belted around the mighty world her line of battle burns;
She has loosed the hot volcanoes of the ships of flaming hell;
With fire and smoke and earthquake shock her heavy vengeance fell.

O joyfullest May morning when before our guns went down
The Inquisition priesthood and the dungeon-making crown,
While through red lights of battle our starry dawn burst out,
Swift as the tropic sunrise that doth with glory shout!

Be jubilant, free Cuba, our feet are on thy soil;
Up mountain road, through jungle growth, our bravest for thee toil;
There is no blood so precious as their wounds pour forth for thee;
Sweet be thy joys, free Cuba,--sorrows have made thee free.

Nor Thou, O noble Nation, who wast so slow to wrath,
With grief too heavy-laden follow in duty's path;
Not for ourselves our lives are; not for Thyself art Thou;
The Star of Christian Ages is shining on Thy brow.

Rejoice, O mighty Mother, that God hath chosen Thee
To be the western warder of the Islands of the Sea;
He lifteth up, He casteth down, He is the King of Kings,
Whose dread commands o'er awe-struck lands are borne on eagle's wings.

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.

The people of the Philippines had fought against Spanish
sovereignty much as the people of Cuba had. A band of them,
under Emilio Aguinaldo, had assisted at the capture of Manila,
in the fond hope that the defeat of the Spaniards would mean
Philippine independence. Instead, they found that they had
merely traded masters. At once they took up arms against the
Americans.

BALLADE OF EXPANSION

1899

Time was he sang the British Brute,
The ruthless lion's grasping greed,
The European Law of Loot,
The despot's devastating deed;
But now he sings the heavenly creed
Of saintly sword and friendly fist,
He loves you, though he makes you bleed--
The Ethical Expansionist!

He loves you, Heathen! Though his foot
May kick you like a worthless weed
From that wild field where you have root,
And scatter to the winds your seed;
He's just the government you need;
If you object, why, he'll insist,
And, on your protest, "draw a bead"--
The Ethical Expansionist!

He'll take you to him _coûte que coûte_!
He'll win you, though you fight and plead.
His guns shall urge his ardent suit,
Relentless fire his cause shall speed.
In time you'll learn to write and read
(That is, if you should then exist!),
You won't, if you his course impede--
The Ethical Expansionist!

ENVOI

Heathen, you must, you shall be freed!
It's really useless to resist;
To save your life, you'd better heed
The Ethical Expansionist!

HILDA JOHNSON.

Misguided they no doubt were, and the warfare they waged was
of the cruelest kind; but to employ against them the troops of
a Republic, to shoot them down as "rebels," occasioned in the
United States a great outburst of indignation.

"REBELS"

Shoot down the rebels--men who dare
To claim their native land!
Why should the white invader spare
A dusky heathen band?

You bought them from the Spanish King,
You bought the men he stole;
You bought perchance a ghastlier thing--
The Duke of Alva's soul!

"Freedom!" you cry, and train your gun
On men who would be freed,
And in the name of Washington
Achieve a Weyler's deed.

Boast of the benefits you spread,
The faith of Christ you hold;
Then seize the very soil you tread
And fill your arms with gold.

Go, prostitute your mother-tongue,
And give the "rebel" name
To those who to their country clung,
Preferring death to shame.

And call him "loyal," him who brags
Of countrymen betrayed--
The patriot of the money-bags,
The loyalist of trade.

Oh, for the good old Roman days
Of robbers bold and true,
Who scorned to oil with pious phrase
The deeds they dared to do--

The days before degenerate thieves
Devised the coward lie
Of blessings that the enslaved receives
Whose rights their arms deny!

I hate the oppressor's iron rod,
I hate his murderous ships,
But most of all I hate, O God,
The lie upon his lips!

Nay, if they still demand recruits
To curse Manila Bay,
Be men; refuse to act like brutes
And massacre and slay.

Or if you will persist to fight
With all a soldier's pride,
Why, then be rebels for the right
By Aguinaldo's side!

ERNEST CROSBY.

But the administration felt that it had gone too far to draw
back; spellbinders raised the shout that wherever the flag
was raised it must remain; new regiments were shipped to the
Philippines and the war against the natives pushed vigorously.

ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES

Streets of the roaring town,
Hush for him, hush, be still!
He comes, who was stricken down
Doing the word of our will.
Hush! Let him have his state.
Give him his soldier's crown.
The grists of trade can wait
Their grinding at the mill,
But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown.
Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone.

Toll! Let the great bells toll
Till the clashing air is dim,
Did we wrong this parted soul?
We will make it up to him.
Toll! Let him never guess
What work we set him to.
Laurel, laurel, yes;
He did what we bade him do.
Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good;
Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's
blood.

A flag for the soldier's bier
Who dies that his land may live;
Oh, banners, banners here,
That he doubt not nor misgive!
That he heed not from the tomb
The evil days draw near
When the nation, robed in gloom,
With its faithless past shall strive.
Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island
mark,
Home to the heart of his sinning land where she stumbled and sinned in
the dark.

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY.

On February 5, 1899, General Ricarti's division of the Filipino
army was encountered near Santa Ana, and completely routed. It
was at this battle that Lieutenant Charles E. Kilbourne, Jr.,
and Lieutenant W. G. Miles performed the exploits described in
the following poems.

THE BALLAD OF PACO TOWN

[February 5, 1899]

In Paco town and in Paco tower,
At the height of the tropic noonday hour,
Some Tagal riflemen, half a score,
Watched the length of the highway o'er,
And when to the front the troopers spurred,
Whiz-z! whiz-z! how the Mausers whirred!

From the opposite walls, through crevice and crack,
Volley on volley went ringing back
Where a band of regulars tried to drive
The stinging rebels out of their hive;
"Wait, till our cannon come, and then,"
Cried a captain, striding among his men,
"We'll settle that bothersome buzz and drone
With a merry little tune of our own!"

The sweltering breezes seemed to swoon,
And down the _calle_ the thickening flames
Licked the roofs in the tropic noon.
Then through the crackle and glare and heat,
And the smoke and the answering acclaims
Of the rifles, far up the village street
Was heard the clatter of horses' feet,
And a band of signalmen swung in sight,
Hasting back from the ebbing fight
That had swept away to the left and right.

"Ride!" yelled the regulars, all aghast,
And over the heads of the signalmen,
As they whirled in desperate gallop past,
The bullets a vicious music made,
Like the whistle and whine of the midnight blast
On the weltering wastes of the ocean when
The breast of the deep is scourged and flayed.

It chanced in the line of the fiercest fire
A rebel bullet had clipped the wire
That led, from the front and the fighting, down
To those that stayed in Manila town;
This gap arrested the watchful eye
Of one of the signalmen galloping by,
And straightway, out of the plunge and press,
He reined his horse with a swift caress

And a word in the ear of the rushing steed;
Then back with never a halt nor heed
Of the swarming bullets he rode, his goal
The parted wire and the slender pole
That stood where the deadly tower looked down
On the rack and ruin of Paco town.

Out of his saddle he sprang as gay
As a schoolboy taking a holiday;
Wire in hand up the pole he went
With never a glance at the tower, intent
Only on that which he saw appear
As the line of his duty plain and clear.
To the very crest he climbed, and there,
While the bullets buzzed in the scorching air
Clipped his clothing, and scored and stung
The slender pole-top to which he clung,
Made the wire that was severed sound,
Slipped in his careless way to the ground,
Sprang to the back of his horse, and then
Was off, this bravest of signalmen.

Cheers for the hero! While such as he,
Heedless alike of wounds and scars,
Fight for the dear old Stripes and Stars,
Down through the years to us shall be
Ever and ever the victory!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

THE DEED OF LIEUTENANT MILES

[February 5, 1899]

When you speak of dauntless deeds,
When you tell of stirring scenes,
Tell this story of the isles
Where the endless summer smiles,--
Tell of young Lieutenant Miles
In the far-off Philippines!

'Twas the Santa Ana fight!--
All along the Tagal line
From the thickets dense and dire
Gushed the fountains of their fire;
You could mark their rifles' ire,
You could hear their bullets whine.

Little wonder there was pause!
Some were wounded, some were dead
"Call Lieutenant Miles!" He came,
In his eyes a fearless flame.
"Yonder blockhouse is our aim!"
The battalion leader said.

"You must take it--how you will;
You must break this damnèd spell!"
"Volunteers!" cried Miles. 'Twas vain,
For that narrow tropic lane
'Twixt the bamboo and the cane
Was a very lane of hell.

There were five stood forth at last;
God above, but they were men!
"Come!" exultantly he saith!--
Did they falter? Not a breath!
Down the path of hurtling death
The Lieutenant led them then.

Two have fallen--now a third!
Forward dash the other three;
In the onrush of that race
Ne'er a swerve or stay of pace.
And the Tagals--dare they face
Such a desperate company?

Panic gripped them by the throat,--
Every Tagal rifleman;
And as though they seemed to see
In those charging foemen three
An avenging destiny,
Fierce and fast and far they ran.

So a salvo for the six!
So a round of ringing cheers!
Heroes of the distant isles
Where the endless summer smiles,--
Gallant young Lieutenant Miles
And his valiant volunteers!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

So the war went on, with massacre, ambush, and lonely murder.
The conquest of the islands was proving a costly one, but
the administration held that it must be carried through, at
whatever sacrifice. It was a war in which victory and defeat
alike brought only sorrow and disgust.

AGUINALDO

(PATRIOT AND EMPIRE)

When arms and numbers both have failed
To make the hunted patriot yield,
Nor proffered riches have prevailed
To tempt him to forsake the field,
By spite and baffled rage beguiled,
Strike at his mother and his child.

O land where freedom loved to dwell,
Which shook'st the despot on his throne,
And o'er the beating floods of hell
Hope's beacon to the world hast shown,
How art thou fallen from thy place!
O thing of shame!--O foul disgrace!

Thy home was built upon the height
Above the murky clouds beneath,
In the blue heaven's freest light,
Thy sword flashed ever from its sheath,
The weak and the oppressed to save--
To smite the tyrant--free the slave.

Thy place was glorious--sublime.
What devil tempts thee to descend
To conquest, robbery and crime?
O shameful fate! Is this the end?
Thy hands have now the damning stain
Of human blood--for love of gain.

With weak hypocrisy's thin veil,
Seek not in vain to blind thine eyes;
Nor shall deceitful prayers prevail.
Pray not--for fear the dead should rise
From 'neath their conquered country's sod
And cry against thee unto God.

BERTRAND SHADWELL.

The capture of Aguinaldo, March 23, 1901, put a virtual end to
organized resistance; though sporadic outbreaks continued for
several years. As late as March, 1906, such an affair occurred,
a band of Moros, men, women, and children, being surrounded and
killed on the summit of a crater at Dajo, no prisoners being
taken.

THE FIGHT AT DAJO

[March 7, 1906]

There are twenty dead who're sleeping near the slopes of Bud Dajo,
'Neath the shadow of the crater where the bolos laid them low,
And their comrades feel it bitter, and their cheeks grow hot with shame,
When they read the sneering comments which have held them up to blame.

They were told to scale the mountain and they stormed its beetling crest,
Spite of all the frantic Moros, though they did their level best,
Though the bullets whistled thickly, and the cliff was lined with foes,
Though the campilans were flashing and the kriss gave deadly blows.

There was little time for judging ere they met in deadly strife
What the sex might be that rushing waved aloft the blood-stained knife;
For the foe was drunk with frenzy and the women in the horde
Thought that paradise was certain could they kill first with the sword.

They'd been freely offered mercy, but they'd scorned the proffered gift,
For their priests had told them Allah promised victory sure and swift.
They were foolish and their folly cost the lives of wife and son,
But they fought their fight like heroes; there were none that turned to
run.

Though they'd robbed and slain and ravaged, though their crimes had
mounted high,
Though 'tis true that naught became them like the death they chose to
die,
One would think to read the papers that the troops who scaled their fort
Were a lot of brutal ruffians shooting girls and babes for sport.

More than one who's sleeping soundly 'neath the shade of Bud Dajo
Lost his life while giving succor to the one who dealt the blow,
Yet his comrades feel more bitter and they give a far worse name
To the men who dubbed them "butchers" and have smirched the army's fame.

ALFRED E. WOOD.

The Philippines, meanwhile, had been placed under a civil
government; but no promise was given them of ultimate
independence. Their commerce was crippled by the high tariff
party in control of Congress; and while their condition was
vastly better than it had been under Spanish rule, it was not
such as a Republic, working for their good, might have made
it. The acquisition and conquest of the islands is believed by
many intelligent and patriotic persons to be one of the darkest
blots upon American history.

AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION

(WRITTEN AFTER SEEING AT BOSTON THE STATUE OF ROBERT GOULD
SHAW, KILLED WHILE STORMING FORT WAGNER, JULY 18, 1863, AT THE
HEAD OF THE FIRST ENLISTED NEGRO REGIMENT, THE FIFTY-FOURTH
MASSACHUSETTS)

I

Before the living bronze Saint-Gaudens made
Most fit to thrill the passer's heart with awe,
And set here in the city's talk and trade
To the good memory of Robert Shaw,
This bright March morn I stand
And hear the distant spring come up the land;
Knowing that what I hear is not unheard
Of this boy soldier and his negro band,
For all their gaze is fixed so stern ahead,
For all the fatal rhythm of their tread.
The land they died to save from death and shame
Trembles and waits, hearing the spring's great name,
And by her pangs these resolute ghosts are stirred.

II

Through street and mall the tides of people go
Heedless; the trees upon the Common show
No hint of green; but to my listening heart
The still earth doth impart
Assurance of her jubilant emprise,
And it is clear to my long-searching eyes
That love at last has might upon the skies.
The ice is runnelled on the little pond;
A telltale patter drips from off the trees;
The air is touched with southland spiceries,
As if but yesterday it tossed the frond
Of pendent mosses where the live oaks grow
Beyond Virginia and the Carolines,
Or had its will among the fruits and vines
Of aromatic isles asleep beyond
Florida and the Gulf of Mexico.

III

Soon shall the Cape Ann children laugh in glee,
Spying the arbutus, spring's dear recluse;
Hill lads at dawn shall hearken the wild goose
Go honking northward over Tennessee;
West from Oswego to Sault Saint-Marie,
And on to where the Pictured Rocks are hung,
And yonder where, gigantic, wilful, young,
Chicago sitteth at the northwest gates,
With restless violent hands and casual tongue
Moulding her mighty fates,
The Lakes shall robe them in ethereal sheen;
And like a larger sea, the vital green
Of springing wheat shall vastly be outflung
Over Dakota and the prairie states.
By desert people immemorial
On Arizonan mesas shall be done
Dim rites unto the thunder and the sun;
Nor shall the primal gods lack sacrifice
More splendid, when the white Sierras call
Unto the Rockies straightway to arise
And dance before the unveiled ark of the year,
Clashing their windy cedars as for shawms,
Unrolling rivers clear
For flutter of broad phylacteries;
While Shasta signals to Alaskan seas
That watch old sluggish glaciers downward creep
To fling their icebergs thundering from the steep,
And Mariposa through the purple calms
Gazes at far Hawaii crowned with palms
Where East and West are met,--
A rich seal on the ocean's bosom set
To say that East and West are twain,
With different loss and gain:
The Lord hath sundered them; let them be sundered yet.

IV

Alas! what sounds are these that come
Sullenly over the Pacific seas,--
Sounds of ignoble battle, striking dumb
The season's half-awakened ecstasies?
Must I be humble, then,
Now when my heart hath need of pride?
Wild love falls on me from these sculptured men;
By loving much the land for which they died
I would be justified.
My spirit was away on pinions wide
To soothe in praise of her its passionate mood
And ease it of its ache of gratitude.
Too sorely heavy is the debt they lay
On me and the companions of my day.
I would remember now
My country's goodliness, make sweet her name.
Alas! what shade art thou
Of sorrow or of blame
Liftest the lyric leafage from her brow,
And pointest a slow finger at her shame?

V

Lies! lies! It cannot be! The wars we wage
Are noble, and our battles still are won
By justice for us, ere we lift the gage.
We have not sold our loftiest heritage.
The proud republic hath not stooped to cheat
And scramble in the market-place of war;
Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star.
Here is her witness: this, her perfect son,
This delicate and proud New England soul
Who leads despisèd men, with just-unshackled feet,
Up the large ways where death and glory meet,
To show all peoples that our shame is done,
That once more we are clean and spirit-whole.

VI

Crouched in the sea fog on the moaning sand
All night he lay, speaking some simple word
From hour to hour to the slow minds that heard,
Holding each poor life gently in his hand
And breathing on the base rejected clay
Till each dark face shone mystical and grand
Against the breaking day;
And lo, the shard the potter cast away
Was grown a fiery chalice, crystal-fine,
Fulfilled of the divine
Great wine of battle wrath by God's ring-finger stirred.
Then upward, where the shadowy bastion loomed
Huge on the mountain in the wet sea light,
Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage bloomed,
Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its deadly seed,--
They swept, and died like freemen on the height,
Like freemen, and like men of noble breed;
And when the battle fell away at night
By hasty and contemptuous hands were thrust
Obscurely in a common grave with him
The fair-haired keeper of their love and trust.
Now limb doth mingle with dissolvèd limb
In nature's busy old democracy
To flush the mountain laurel when she blows
Sweet by the southern sea,
And heart with crumbled heart climbs in the rose:--
The untaught hearts with the high heart that knew
This mountain fortress for no earthly hold
Of temporal quarrel, but the bastion old
Of spiritual wrong,
Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong,
Expugnable but by a nation's rue
And bowing down before that equal shrine
By all men held divine,
Whereof his band and he were the most holy sign.

VII

O bitter, bitter shade!
Wilt thou not put the scorn
And instant tragic question from thine eyes?
Do thy dark brows yet crave
That swift and angry stave--
Unmeet for this desirous morn--
That I have striven, striven to evade?
Gazing on him, must I not deem they err
Whose careless lips in street and shop aver
As common tidings, deeds to make his cheek
Flush from the bronze, and his dead throat to speak?
Surely some elder singer would arise,
Whose harp hath leave to threaten and to mourn
Above this people when they go astray.
Is Whitman, the strong spirit, overworn?
Has Whittier put his yearning wrath away?
I will not and I dare not yet believe!
Though furtively the sunlight seems to grieve,
And the spring-laden breeze
Out of the gladdening west is sinister
With sounds of nameless battle overseas;
Though when we turn and question in suspense
If these things be indeed after these ways,
And what things are to follow after these,
Our fluent men of place and consequence
Fumble and fill their mouths with hollow phrase,
Or for the end-all of deep arguments
Intone their dull commercial liturgies--
I dare not yet believe! My ears are shut!
I will not hear the thin satiric praise
And muffled laughter of our enemies,
Bidding us never sheathe our valiant sword
Till we have changed our birthright for a gourd
Of wild pulse stolen from a barbarian's hut;
Showing how wise it is to cast away
The symbols of our spiritual sway,
That so our hands with better ease
May wield the driver's whip and grasp the jailer's keys.

VIII

Was it for this our fathers kept the law?
This crown shall crown their struggle and their ruth?
Are we the eagle nation Milton saw
Mewing its mighty youth,
Soon to possess the mountain winds of truth,
And be a swift familiar of the sun
Where aye before God's face His trumpets run?
Or have we but the talons and the maw,
And for the abject likeness of our heart
Shall some less lordly bird be set apart?--
Some gross-billed wader where the swamps are fat?
Some gorger in the sun? Some prowler with the bat?

IX

Ah no!
We have not fallen so.
We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know!
'Twas only yesterday sick Cuba's cry
Came up the tropic wind, "Now help us, for we die!"
Then Alabama heard,
And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho
Shouted a burning word;
Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred,
And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth,
East, west, and south, and north,
Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and young
Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan,
By the unforgotten names of eager boys
Who might have tasted girls' love and been stung
With the old mystic joys
And starry griefs, now the spring nights come on,
But that the heart of youth is generous,--
We charge you, ye who lead us,
Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain!
Turn not their new-world victories to gain!
One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the bays
Of their dear praise,
One jot of their pure conquest put to hire,
The implacable republic will require;
With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon,
Or subtly, coming as a thief at night,
But surely, very surely, slow or soon
That insult deep we deeply will requite.
Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity!
For save we let the island men go free,
Those baffled and dislaurelled ghosts
Will curse us from the lamentable coasts
Where walk the frustrate dead.
The cup of trembling shall be drainèd quite,
Eaten the sour bread of astonishment,
With ashes of the hearth shall be made white
Our hair, and wailing shall be in the tent:
Then on your guiltier head
Shall our intolerable self-disdain
Wreak suddenly its anger and its pain;
For manifest in that disastrous light
We shall discern the right
And do it, tardily.--O ye who lead,
Take heed!
Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite.

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY.