America First Part 19

Thomas Paine

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE RISING IN 1776.[3]

Out of the North the wild news came, Far flas.h.i.+ng on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies At midnight through the startled skies.

And there was tumult in the air, The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And through the wide land everywhere The answering tread of hurrying feet; While the first oath of Freedom's gun, Came on the blast from Lexington; And Concord, roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swelled the discord of the hour.

Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkeley Manor stood; There Sunday found the rural folk, And some esteemed of gentle blood.

In vain their feet with loitering tread Pa.s.sed 'mid the graves where rank is naught; All could not read the lesson taught In that republic of the dead.

How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk, The vale with peace and suns.h.i.+ne full Where all the happy people walk, Decked in their homespun flax and wool!

Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom; And every maid with simple art, Wears on her breast, like her own heart, A bud whose depths are all perfume; While every garment's gentle stir Is breathing rose and lavender.

The pastor came; his snowy locks Hallowed his brow of thought and care; And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks, He led into the house of prayer.

The pastor rose; the prayer was strong; The psalm was warrior David's song; The text, a few short words of might-- "The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"

He spoke of wrongs too long endured, Of sacred rights to be secured; Then from his patriot tongue of flame The startling words for Freedom came.

The stirring sentences he spake Compelled the heart to glow or quake, And, rising on his theme's broad wing, And grasping in his nervous hand The imaginary battle brand, In face of death he dared to fling Defiance to a tyrant king.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed In eloquence of att.i.tude, Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside, And, lo! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise.

A moment there was awful pause-- When Berkeley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!

G.o.d's temple is the house of peace!"

The other shouted, "Nay, not so, When G.o.d is with our righteous cause; His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers.

That frown upon the tyrant foe; In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, There is a time to fight and pray!"

And now before the open door-- The warrior priest had ordered so-- The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, Its long reverberating blow, So loud and clear, it seemed the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear.

And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life; While overhead, with wild increase, Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, The great bell swung as ne'er before; It seemed as it would never cease; And every word its ardor flung From off its jubilant iron tongue Was, "War! War! War!"

"Who dares?"--this was the patriot's cry, As striding from the desk he came-- "Come out with me, in Freedom's name, For her to live, for her to die?"

A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices answered, "I!"

Thomas Buchanan Read

AMERICA[4]

Foreseen in the vision of sages, Foretold when martyrs bled, She was born of the longing of ages, By the truth of the n.o.ble 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 gathers 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 s.h.i.+ne; 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 fort.i.tude As e'er went worldward from the island-wall!

Fused in her candid light, To one strong race all races here unite; 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!

Bayard Taylor

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave gra.s.s quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue, Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor The morning sun rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue, Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done, In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead!

Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray.

Francis Miles Finch

ABRAHAM LINCOLN[5]

Life may be given in many ways, And loyalty to Truth be sealed As bravely in the closet as the field, So bountiful is Fate; But then to stand beside her, When craven churls deride her, To front a lie in arms and not to yield, This shows, methinks, G.o.d's plan And measure of a stalwart man, Limbed like the old heroic breeds, Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid earth, Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, Fed from within with all the strength he needs.

Such was he, our martyr chief, Whom late the Nation he had led, With ashes on her head, Wept with the pa.s.sion of an angry grief: Forgive me, if from present things I turn To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn.

Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote: For him her Old-World molds aside she threw, And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Of the unexhausted West, With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Wise, steadfast in the strength of G.o.d, and true.

How beautiful to see Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Not lured by any cheat of birth, But by his clear-grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity!

They knew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.

His was no lonely mountain peak of mind, Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, A sea mark now, now lost in vapor's blind; Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, Yet also nigh to Heaven and loved of loftiest stars.

Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Ere any names of serf and peer Could Nature's equal scheme deface And thwart her genial will; Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.

I praise him not; it were too late; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, Safe in himself as in a fate.

So always firmly he: He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide.

Great captains, with their guns and drums, Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes!

These all are gone, and standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame, The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American.