Poems of American Patriotism Part 20

WHEN THE GREAT GRAY s.h.i.+PS COME IN

GUY WETMORE CARRYL

[Sidenote: August 20, 1898]

_A week after the signing of the treaty of peace with Spain, Sampson's fleet came into New York harbor._

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 s.h.i.+eld 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+p to s.h.i.+p and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank G.o.d 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 G.o.d!

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 s.h.i.+p to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:-- But better the golden evening when the s.h.i.+ps 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 G.o.d for peace! Thank G.o.d for peace, when the great gray s.h.i.+ps come in!

AD FINEM FIDELES

GUY WETMORE CARRYL

[Sidenote: 1898]

_This was written just after the end of the war with Spain for the freeing of Cuba._

Far out, far out they lie. Like stricken women weeping, Eternal vigil keeping with slow and silent tread-- Soft-shod as are the fairies, the winds patrol the prairies, The sentinels of G.o.d about the pale and patient dead!

Above them, as they slumber in graves that none may number, Dawns grow to day, days dim to dusk, and dusks in darkness pa.s.s; Unheeded springs are born, unheeded summers brighten, And winters wait to whiten the wilderness of gra.s.s.

Slow stride appointed years across their bivouac places, With stern, devoted faces they lie, as when they lay, In long battalions dreaming, till dawn, to eastward gleaming, Awoke the clarion greeting of the bugles to the day.

The still and stealthy speeding of the pilgrim days unheeding, At rest upon the roadway that their feet unfaltering trod, The faithful unto death abide, with trust unshaken, The morn when they shall waken to the reveille of G.o.d.

The faithful unto death! Their sleeping-places over The torn and trampled clover to braver beauty blows; Of all their grim campaigning no sight or sound remaining, The memory of them mutely to greater glory grows.

Through waning ages winding, new inspiration finding, Their creed of consecration like a silver ribbon runs, Sole relic of the strife that woke the world to wonder With riot and the thunder of a sundered people's guns.

What matters now the cause? As little children resting, No more the battle breasting to the rumble of the drums, Enlinked by duty's tether, the blue and gray together, They wait the great hereafter when the last a.s.sembly comes.

Where'er the summons found them, whate'er the tie that bound them, 'Tis this alone the record of the sleeping army saith:--

They knew no creed but this, in duty not to falter, With strength that naught could alter to be faithful unto death.

GROVER CLEVELAND

JOEL BENTON

[Sidenote: 1837-1908]

_On June 24, 1908, Grover Cleveland, twice President of the United States, died at his home in Princeton, N. J., at the age of seventy-one._

Bring cypress, rosemary and rue For him who kept his rudder true; Who held to right the people's will, And for whose foes we love him still.

A man of Plutarch's marble mould, Of virtues strong and manifold, Who spurned the incense of the hour, And made the nation's weal his dower.

His st.u.r.dy, rugged sense of right Put selfish purpose out of sight; Slowly he thought, but long and well, With temper imperturbable.

Bring cypress, rosemary and rue For him who kept his rudder true; Who went at dawn to that high star Where Was.h.i.+ngton and Lincoln are.

ATOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND

ROBERT BRIDGES

[Sidenote: Paris, July 4, 1900]

Huge and alert, irascible yet strong, We make our fitful way 'mid right and wrong.

One time we pour out millions to be free, Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!

One time we strike the shackles from the slaves, And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.

Often we rudely break restraining bars, And confidently reach out toward the stars.

Yet under all there flows a hidden stream Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream Of Was.h.i.+ngton and Franklin, men of old Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold.

This is the Land we love, our heritage, Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage And full of promise--destined to be great.

Drink to Our Native Land! G.o.d Bless the State!

FIFTY YEARS

JAMES WELDON JOHNSON

[Sidenote: 1863-1913]

_On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emanc.i.p.ation Proclamation._

O Brothers mine, to-day we stand Where half a century sweeps our ken, Since G.o.d, through Lincoln's ready hand, Struck off our bonds and made us men.

Just fifty years--a winter's day-- As runs the history of a race; Yet, as we look back o'er the way, How distant seems our starting place!