The Poems of Henry Van Dyke

SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN So point her up, John King, nor'west by north We'll keep the honour of a certain aim Amid the peril of uncertain ways, And sail ahead, and leave the rest to God. July, 1909. SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN Children of the elemental mother, Born upon some lonely island shore Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper, Where the crested billows plunge and roar; Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers, Fearless breasters of the wind and sea, In the far-off solitary places I have seen you floating wild and free! Here the high-built cities rise around you; Here the cliffs that tower east and west, Honeycombed with human habitations, Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest: Here the river flows begrimed and troubled; Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume, Restless, up and down the watery highway, While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom. Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion, Clank and clamour of the vast machine Human hands have built for human bondage— Yet amid it all you float serene; Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly Down to glean your harvest from the wave; In your heritage of air and water, You have kept the freedom Nature gave. Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan Saw your wheeling flocks of white and gray; Even so you fluttered, followed, floated, Round the Half-Moon creeping up the bay; Even so your voices creaked and chattered. Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips, While your black and beady eyes were glistening Round the sullen British prison-ships. Children of the elemental mother, Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue, From the crowded boats that cross the ferries Many a longing heart goes out to you. Though the cities climb and close around us, Something tells us that our souls are free, While the sea-gulls fly above the harbour, While the river flows to meet the sea! December, 1905. A BALLAD OF CLAREMONT HILL The roar of the city is low, Muffled by new-fallen snow, And the sign of the wintry moon is small and round and still. Will you come with me to-night, To see a pleasant sight Away on the river-side, at the edge of Claremont Hill? “And what shall we see there, But streets that are new and bare, And many a desolate place that the city is coming to fill; And a soldier's tomb of stone, And a few trees standing alone— Will you walk for that through the cold, to the edge of Claremont Hill?” But there's more than that for me, In the place that I fain would see: There's a glimpse of the grace that helps us all to bear life's ill, A touch of the vital breath That keeps the world from death, A flower that never fades, on the edge of Claremont Hill. For just where the road swings round, In a narrow strip of ground, Where a group of forest trees are lingering fondly still, There's a grave of the olden time, When the garden bloomed in its prime, And the children laughed and sang on the edge of Claremont Hill. The marble is pure and white, And even in this dim light, You may read the simple words that are written there if you will; You may hear a father tell Of the child he loved so well, A hundred years ago, on the edge of Claremont Hill. The tide of the city has rolled Across that bower of old, And blotted out the beds of the rose and the daffodil; But the little playmate sleeps, And the shrine of love still keeps A record of happy days, on the edge of Claremont Hill. The river is pouring down To the crowded, careless town, Where the intricate wheels of trade are grinding on like a mill; But the clamorous noise and strife Of the hurrying waves of life Flow soft by this haven of peace on the edge of Claremont Hill. And after all, my friend, When the tale of our years shall end, Be it long or short, or lowly or great, as God may will, What better praise could we hear, Than this of the child so dear: You have made my life more sweet, on the edge of Claremont Hill? December, 1896. URBS CORONATA (Song for the City College of New York) O youngest of the giant brood Of cities far-renowned; In wealth and glory thou hast passed Thy rivals at a bound; Thou art a mighty queen, New York; And how wilt thou be crowned? “Weave me no palace-wreath of Pride,” The royal city said; “Nor forge of frowning fortress-walls A helmet for my head; But let me wear a diadem Of Wisdom's towers instead.” She bowed herself, she spent herself, She wrought her will forsooth, And set upon her island height A citadel of Truth, A house of Light, a home of Thought, A shrine of noble Youth. Stand here, ye City College towers, And look both up and down; Remember all who wrought for you Within the toiling town; Remember all their hopes for you, And be the City's Crown. June, 1908. MERCY FOR ARMENIA I THE TURK'S WAY Stand back, ye messengers of mercy! Stand Far off, for I will save my troubled folk In my own way. So the false Sultan spoke; And Europe, hearkening to his base command, Stood still to see him heal his wounded land. Through blinding snows of winter and through smoke Of burning towns, she saw him deal the stroke Of cruel mercy that his hate had planned. Unto the prisoners and the sick he gave New tortures, horrible, without a name; Unto the thirsty, blood to drink; a sword Unto the hungry; with a robe of shame He clad the naked, making life abhorred; He saved by slaughter, and denied a grave. II AMERICA'S WAY But thou, my country, though no fault be thine For that red horror far across the sea; Though not a tortured wretch can point to thee, And curse thee for the selfishness supine Of those great Powers that cowardly combine To shield the Turk in his iniquity; Yet, since thy hand is innocent and free, Arise, and show the world the way divine! Thou canst not break the oppressor's iron rod, But thou canst help and comfort the oppressed; Thou canst not loose the captive's heavy chain, But thou canst bind his wounds and soothe his pain. Armenia calls thee, Sovereign of the West, To play the Good Samaritan for God. 1896. SICILY, DECEMBER, 1908 O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, Whose bluest billows kiss thy curving bays, Whose light infolds thy hills with golden rays, Filling with fruit each dark-leaved orange-tree, What hidden hatred hath the Earth for thee, That once again, in these dark, dreadful days, Breaks forth in trembling rage, and swiftly lays Thy beauty waste in wreck and agony! Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers, And man the plaything of unconscious fate? Not so, my troubled heart! God reigns above, And man is greatest in his darkest hours. Walking amid the cities desolate, Behold the Son of God in human love! Tertius and Henry van Dyke. “COME BACK AGAIN, JEANNE D'ARC” The land was broken in despair, The princes quarrelled in the dark, When clear and tranquil, through the troubled air Of selfish minds and wills that did not dare, Your star arose, Jeanne d'Arc. O virgin breast with lilies white, O sun-burned hand that bore the lance, You taught the prayer that helps men to unite, You brought the courage equal to the fight, You gave a heart to France! Your king was crowned, your country free, At Rheims you had your soul's desire: And then, at Rouen, maid of Domrémy, The black-robed judges gave your victory The martyr's crown of fire. And now again the times are ill, And doubtful leaders miss the mark; The people lack the single faith and will To make them one,—your country needs you still,— Come back again, Jeanne d'Arc! O woman-star, arise once more And shine to bid your land advance: The old heroic trust in God restore, Renew the brave, unselfish hopes of yore, And give a heart to France! Paris, July, 1909. NATIONAL MONUMENTS Count not the cost of honour to the dead! The tribute that a mighty nation pays To those who loved her well in former days Means more than gratitude for glories fled; For every noble man that she hath bred, Lives in the bronze and marble that we raise, Immortalised by art's immortal praise, To lead our sons as he our fathers led. These monuments of manhood strong and high Do more than forts or battle-ships to keep Our dear-bought liberty. They fortify The heart of youth with valour wise and deep; They build eternal bulwarks, and command Immortal hosts to guard our native land. February, 1905. THE MONUMENT OF FRANCIS MAKEMIE (Presbyter of Christ in America, 1683-1708) To thee, plain hero of a rugged race, We bring the meed of praise too long delayed! Thy fearless word and faithful work have made For God's Republic firmer resting-place In this New World: for thou hast preached the grace And power of Christ in many a forest glade, Teaching the truth that leaves men unafraid Of frowning tyranny or death's dark face. Oh, who can tell how much we owe to thee, Makemie, and to labour such as thine, For all that makes America the shrine Of faith untrammelled and of conscience free? Stand here, gray stone, and consecrate the sod Where rests this brave Scotch-Irish man of God! April, 1908. THE STATUE OF SHERMAN BY ST. GAUDENS This is the soldier brave enough to tell The glory-dazzled world that ‘war is hell’: Lover of peace, he looks beyond the strife, And rides through hell to save his country's life. April, 1904. “AMERICA FOR ME” 'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the kings,— But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things. So it's home again, and home again, America for me! My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be, In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars. Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome; But when it comes to living there is no place like home. I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled; I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled; But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way! I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack: The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back. But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free,— We love our land for what she is and what she is to be. Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me! I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling sea, To the blesséd Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars. June, 1909. THE BUILDERS ODE FOR THE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF PRINCETON COLLEGE October 21, 1896 I Into the dust of the making of man Spirit was breathed when his life began, Lifting him up from his low estate, With masterful passion, the wish to create. Out of the dust of his making, man Fashioned his works as the ages ran; Fortress, and palace, and temple, and tower, Filling the world with the proof of his power. Over the dust that awaits him, man, Building the walls that his pride doth plan, Dreams they will stand in the light of the sun Bearing his name till Time is done. II The monuments of mortals Are as the glory of the grass; Through Time's dim portals A voiceless, viewless wind doth pass, The blossoms fall before it in a day, The forest monarchs year by year decay, And man's great buildings slowly fade away. One after one, They pay to that dumb breath The tribute of their death, And are undone. The towers incline to dust, The massive girders rust, The domes dissolve in air, The pillars that upbear The lofty arches crumble, stone by stone, While man the builder looks about him in despair, For all his works of pride and power are overthrown. III A Voice came from the sky: “Set thy desires more high. Thy buildings fade away Because thou buildest clay. Now make the fabric sure With stones that will endure! Hewn from the spiritual rock, The immortal towers of the soul At Death's dissolving touch shall mock, And stand secure while æons roll.” IV Well did the wise in heart rejoice To hear the summons of that Voice, And patiently begin The builder's work within, Houses not made with hands, Nor founded on the sands. And thou, Reverèd Mother, at whose call We come to keep thy joyous festival, And celebrate thy labours on the walls of Truth Through sevenscore years and ten of thine eternal youth— A master builder thou, And on thy shining brow, Like Cybele, in fadeless light dost wear A diadem of turrets strong and fair. V I see thee standing in a lonely land, But late and hardly won from solitude, Unpopulous and rude,— On that far western shore I see thee stand, Like some young goddess from a brighter strand, While in thine eyes a radiant thought is born, Enkindling all thy beauty like the morn. Sea-like the forest rolled, in waves of green, And few the lights that glimmered, leagues between. High in the north, for fourscore years alone Fair Harvard's earliest beacon-tower had shone When Yale was lighted, and an answering ray Flashed from the meadows by New Haven Bay. But deeper spread the forest, and more dark, Where first Neshaminy received the spark Of sacred learning to a woodland camp, And Old Log College glowed with Tennant's lamp. Thine, Alma Mater, was the larger sight, That saw the future of that trembling light, And thine the courage, thine the stronger will, That built its loftier home on Princeton Hill. “New light!” men cried, and murmured that it came From an unsanctioned source with lawless flame; It shone too free, for still the church and school Must only shine according to their rule. But Princeton answered, in her nobler mood, “God made the light, and all the light is good. There is no war between the old and new; The conflict lies between the false and true. The stars, that high in heaven their courses run, In glory differ, but their light is one. The beacons, gleaming o'er the sea of life, Are rivals but in radiance, not in strife. Shine on, ye sister-towers, across the night! I too will build a lasting house of light.” VI Brave was that word of faith and bravely was it kept: With never-wearying zeal that faltered not, nor slept, Our Alma Mater toiled, and while she firmly laid The deep foundation-walls, at all her toil she prayed. And men who loved the truth because it made them free, And clearly saw the twofold Word of God agree, Reading from Nature's book and from the Bible's page By the same inward ray that grows from age to age, Were built like living stones that beacon to uplift, And drawing light from heaven gave to the world the gift. Nor ever, while they searched the secrets of the earth, Or traced the stream of life through mystery to its birth, Nor ever, while they taught the lightning-flash to bear The messages of man in silence through the air, Fell from their home of light one false, perfidious ray To blind the trusting heart, or lead the life astray. But still, while knowledge grew more luminous and broad It lit the path of faith and showed the way to God. VII Yet not for peace alone Labour the builders. Work that in peace has grown Swiftly is overthrown, When in the darkening skies Storm-clouds of wrath arise, And through the cannon's crash, War's deadly lightning-flash Smites and bewilders. Ramparts of strength must frown Round every placid town And city splendid; All that our fathers wrought With true prophetic thought, Must be defended! VIII But who could raise protecting walls for thee, Thou young, defenceless land of liberty? Or who could build a fortress strong enough, Or stretch a mighty bulwark long enough To hold thy far-extended coast Against the overweening host That took the open path across the sea, And like a tempest poured Their desolating horde, To quench thy dawning light in gloom of tyranny? Yet not unguarded thou wert found When on thy shore with sullen sound The blaring trumpets of an unjust king Proclaimed invasion. From the ground, In freedom's darkest hour, there seemed to spring Unconquerable walls for her defence; Not trembling, like those battlements of stone That fell when Joshua's horns were blown; But firm and stark the living rampart rose, To meet the onset of imperious foes With a long line of brave, unyielding men. This was thy fortress, well-defended land, And on these walls, the patient, building hand Of Princeton laboured with the force of ten. Her sons were foremost in the furious fight; Her sons were firmest to uphold the right In council-chambers of the new-born State, And prove that he who would be free must first be great In heart, and high in thought, and strong In purpose not to do or suffer wrong. Such were the men, impregnable to fear, Whose souls were framed and fashioned here; And when war shook the land with threatening shock, The men of Princeton stood like muniments of rock. Nor has the breath of Time Dissolved that proud array Of never-broken strength: For though the rocks decay, And all the iron bands Of earthly strongholds are unloosed at length, And buried deep in gray oblivion's sands; The work that heroes' hands Wrought in the light of freedom's natal day Shall never fade away, But lifts itself, sublime Into a lucid sphere, For ever calm and clear, Preserving in the memory of the fathers' deed, A never-failing fortress for their children's need. There we confirm our hearts to-day, and read On many a stone the signature of fame, The builder's mark, our Alma Mater's name. IX Bear with us then a moment, while we turn From all the present splendours of this place— The lofty towers that like a dream have grown Where once old Nassau Hall stood all alone— Back to that ancient time, with hearts that burn In filial gratitude, to trace The glory of our mother's best degree, In that “high son of Liberty,” Who like a granite block, Riven from Scotland's rock, Stood loyal here to keep Columbia free. Born far away beyond the ocean's tide, He found his fatherland upon this side; And every drop of ardent blood that ran Through his great heart, was true American. He held no fealty to a distant throne, But made his new-found country's cause his own. In peril and distress, In toil and weariness, When darkness overcast her With shadows of disaster, And voices of confusion Proclaimed her hope delusion, Robed in his preacher's gown, He dared the danger down; Like some old prophet chanting an inspired rune In freedom's councils rang the voice of Witherspoon. And thou, my country, write it on thy heart: Thy sons are they who nobly take thy part; Who dedicates his manhood at thy shrine, Wherever born, is born a son of thine. Foreign in name, but not in soul, they come To find in thee their long desired home; Lovers of liberty and haters of disorder, They shall be built in strength along thy border. Dream not thy future foes Will all be foreign-born! Turn thy clear look of scorn Upon thy children who oppose Their passions wild and policies of shame To wreck the righteous splendour of thy name. Untaught and overconfident they rise, With folly on their lips, and envy in their eyes: Strong to destroy, but powerless to create, And ignorant of all that made our fathers great, Their hands would take away thy golden crown, And shake the pillars of thy freedom down In Anarchy's ocean, dark and desolate. O should that storm descend, What fortress shall defend The land our fathers wrought for, The liberties they fought for? What bulwark shall secure Her shrines of law, and keep her founts of justice pure? Then, ah then, As in the olden days, The builders must upraise A rampart of indomitable men. And once again, Dear Mother, if thy heart and hand be true, There will be building work for thee to do; Yea, more than once again, Thou shalt win lasting praise, And never-dying honour shall be thine, For setting many stones in that illustrious line, To stand unshaken in the swirling strife, And guard their country's honour as her life. X Softly, my harp, and let me lay the touch Of silence on these rudely clanging strings; For he who sings Even of noble conflicts overmuch, Loses the inward sense of better things; And he who makes a boast Of knowledge, darkens that which counts the most,— The insight of a wise humility That reverently adores what none can see. The glory of our life below Comes not from what we do, or what we know, But dwells forevermore in what we are. There is an architecture grander far Than all the fortresses of war, More inextinguishably bright Than learning's lonely towers of light. Framing its walls of faith and hope and love In souls of men, it lifts above The frailty of our earthly home An everlasting dome; The sanctuary of the human host, The living temple of the Holy Ghost. XI If music led the builders long ago, When Arthur planned the halls of Camelot, And made the royal city grow, Fair as a flower in that forsaken spot; What sweeter music shall we bring, To weave a harmony divine Of prayer and holy thought Into the labours of this loftier shrine, This consecrated hill, Where through so many a year Our Alma Mater's hand hath wrought, With toil serene and still, And heavenly hope, to rear Eternal dwellings for the Only King? Here let no martial trumpets blow, Nor instruments of pride proclaim The loud exultant notes of fame! But let the chords be clear and low, And let the anthem deeper grow, And let it move more solemnly and slow; For only such an ode Can seal the harmony Of that deep masonry Wherein the soul of man is framed for God's abode. XII O Thou whose boundless love bestows The joy of earth, the hope of Heaven, And whose unchartered mercy flows O'er all the blessings Thou hast given; Thou by whose light alone we see; And by whose truth our souls set free Are made imperishably strong; Hear Thou the solemn music of our song. Grant us the knowledge that we need To solve the questions of the mind, And light our candle while we read, To keep our hearts from going blind; Enlarge our vision to behold The wonders Thou hast wrought of old; Reveal thyself in every law, And gild the towers of truth with holy awe. Be Thou our strength if war's wild gust Shall rage around us, loud and fierce; Confirm our souls and let our trust Be like a shield that none can pierce; Renew the courage that prevails, The steady faith that never fails, And make us stand in every fight Firm as a fortress to defend the right. O God, control us as Thou wilt, And guide the labour of our hand; Let all our work be surely built As Thou, the architect, hast planned; But whatso'er thy power shall make Of these frail lives, do not forsake Thy dwelling: let thy presence rest For ever in the temple of our breast. SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY ODE FOR THE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF LAWRENCEVILLE SCHOOL June 11, 1910 I The British bard who looked on Eton's walls, Endeared by distance in the pearly gray And soft aerial blue that ever falls On English landscape with the dying day, Beheld in thought his boyhood far away, Its random raptures and its festivals Of noisy mirth, The brief illusion of its idle joys, And mourned that none of these can stay With men, whom life inexorably calls To face the grim realities of earth. His pensive fancy pictured there at play From year to year the careless bands of boys, Unconscious victims kept in golden state, While haply they await The dark approach of disenchanting Fate, To hale them to the sacrifice Of Pain and Penury and Grief and Care, Slow-withering Age, or Failure's swift despair. Half-pity and half-envy dimmed the eyes Of that old poet, gazing on the scene Where long ago his youth had flowed serene, And all the burden of his ode was this: “Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.” II But not for us, O plaintive elegist, Thine epicedial tone of sad farewell To joy in wisdom and to thought in youth! Our western Muse would keep her tryst With sunrise, not with sunset, and foretell In boyhood's bliss the dawn of manhood's truth. III O spirit of the everlasting boy, Alert, elate, And confident that life is good, Thou knockest boldly at the gate, In hopeful hardihood, Eager to enter and enjoy Thy new estate. Through the old house thou runnest everywhere, Bringing a breath of folly and fresh air. Ready to make a treasure of each toy, Or break them all in discontented mood; Fearless of Fate, Yet strangely fearful of a comrade's laugh; Reckless and timid, hard and sensitive; In talk a rebel, full of mocking chaff, At heart devout conservative; In love with love, yet hating to be kissed; Inveterate optimist, And judge severe, In reason cloudy but in feeling clear; Keen critic, ardent hero-worshipper, Impatient of restraint in little ways, Yet ever ready to confer On chosen leaders boundless power and praise; Adventurous spirit burning to explore Untrodden paths where hidden danger lies, And homesick heart looking with wistful eyes Through every twilight to a mother's door; Thou daring, darling, inconsistent boy, How dull the world would be Without thy presence, dear barbarian, And happy lord of high futurity! Be what thou art, our trouble and our joy, Our hardest problem and our brightest hope! And while thine elders lead thee up the slope Of knowledge, let them learn from teaching thee That vital joy is part of nature's plan, And he who keeps the spirit of the boy Shall gladly grow to be a happy man. IV What constitutes a school? Not ancient halls and ivy-mantled towers, Where dull traditions rule With heavy hand youth's lightly springing powers; Not spacious pleasure courts, And lofty temples of athletic fame, Where devotees of sports Mistake a pastime for life's highest aim; Not fashion, nor renown Of wealthy patronage and rich estate; No, none of these can crown A school with light and make it truly great. But masters, strong and wise, Who teach because they love the teacher's task, And find their richest prize In eyes that open and in minds that ask; And boys, with heart aglow To try their youthful vigour on their work, Eager to learn and grow, And quick to hate a coward or a shirk: These constitute a school,— A vital forge of weapons keen and bright, Where living sword and tool Are tempered for true toil or noble fight! But let not wisdom scorn The hours of pleasure in the playing fields: There also strength is born, And every manly game a virtue yields. Fairness and self-control, Good-humour, pluck, and patience in the race, Will make a lad heart-whole To win with honour, lose without disgrace. Ah, well for him who gains In such a school apprenticeship to life: With him the joy of youth remains In later lessons and in larger strife! V On Jersey's rolling plain, where Washington, In midnight marching at the head Of ragged regiments, his army led To Princeton's victory of the rising sun; Here in this liberal land, by battle won For Freedom and the rule Of equal rights for every child of man, Arose a democratic school, To train a virile race of sons to bear With thoughtful joy the name American, And serve the God who heard their father's prayer. No cloister, dreaming in a world remote From that real world wherein alone we live; No mimic court, where titled names denote A dignity that only worth can give; But here a friendly house of learning stood, With open door beside the broad highway, And welcomed lads to study and to play In generous rivalry of brotherhood. A hundred years have passed, and Lawrenceville, In beauty and in strength renewed, Stands with her open portal still, And neither time nor fortune brings To her deep spirit any change of mood, Or faltering from the faith she held of old. Still to the democratic creed she clings: That manhood needs nor rank nor gold To make it noble in our eyes; That every boy is born with royal right, From blissful ignorance to rise To joy more lasting and more bright, In mastery of body and of mind, King of himself and servant of mankind. VI Old Lawrenceville, Thy happy bell Shall ring to-day, O'er vale and hill, O'er mead and dell, While far away, With silent thrill, The echoes roll Through many a soul, That knew thee well, In boyhood's day, And loves thee still. Ah, who can tell How far away, Some sentinel Of God's good will, In forest cool, Or desert gray, By lonely pool, Or barren hill, Shall faintly hear, With inward ear, The chiming bell, Of his old school, Through darkness pealing; And lowly kneeling, Shall feel the spell Of grateful tears His eyelids fill; And softly pray To Him who hears: God bless old Lawrenceville! TEXAS A DEMOCRATIC ODE * I THE WILD-BEES All along the Brazos river, All along the Colorado, In the valleys and the lowlands Where the trees were tall and stately, In the rich and rolling meadows Where the grass was full of wild-flowers, Came a humming and a buzzing, Came the murmur of a going To and fro among the tree-tops, Far and wide across the meadows. And the red-men in their tepees Smoked their pipes of clay and listened. “What is this?” they asked in wonder; “Who can give the sound a meaning? Who can understand the language Of this going in the tree-tops?” Then the wisest of the Tejas Laid his pipe aside and answered: “O my brothers, these are people, Very little, winged people, Countless, busy, banded people, Coming humming through the timber. These are tribes of bees, united By a single aim and purpose, To possess the Tejas' country, Gather harvest from the prairies, Store their wealth among the timber. These are hive and honey makers, Sent by Manito to warn us That the white men now are coming, With their women and their children. Not the fiery filibusters Passing wildly in a moment, Like a flame across the prairies, Like a whirlwind through the forest, Leaving empty lands behind them! Not the Mexicans and Spaniards, Indolent and proud hidalgos, Dwelling in their haciendas, Dreaming, talking of tomorrow, While their cattle graze around them, And their fickle revolutions Change the rulers, not the people! Other folk are these who follow When the wild-bees come to warn us; These are hive and honey makers, These are busy, banded people, Roaming far to swarm and settle, Working every day for harvest, Fighting hard for peace and order, Worshipping as queens their women, Making homes and building cities Full of riches and of trouble. All our hunting-grounds must vanish, All our lodges fall before them, All our customs and traditions, All our happy life of freedom, Fade away like smoke before them. Come, my brothers, strike your tepees, Call your women, load your ponies! Let us take the trail to westward, Where the plains are wide and open, Where the bison-herds are gathered Waiting for our feathered arrows. We will live as lived our fathers, Gleaners of the gifts of nature, Hunters of the unkept cattle, Men whose women run to serve them. If the toiling bees pursue us, If the white men seek to tame us, We will fight them off and flee them, Break their hives and take their honey, Moving westward, ever westward, There to live as lived our fathers.” So the red-men drove their ponies, With the tent-poles trailing after, Out along the path to sunset, While along the river valleys Swarmed the wild-bees, the forerunners; And the white men, close behind them, Men of mark from old Missouri, Men of daring from Kentucky, Tennessee, Louisiana, Men of many States and races, Bringing wives and children with them, Followed up the wooded valleys, Spread across the rolling prairies, Raising homes and reaping harvests. Rude the toil that tried their patience, Fierce the fights that proved their courage, Rough the stone and tough the timber Out of which they built their order! Yet they never failed nor faltered, And the instinct of their swarming Made them one and kept them working, Till their toil was crowned with triumph, And the country of the Tejas Was the fertile land of Texas. II THE LONE STAR Behold a star appearing in the South, A star that shines apart from other stars, Ruddy and fierce like Mars! Out of the reeking smoke of cannon's mouth That veils the slaughter of the Alamo, Where heroes face the foe, One man against a score, with blood-choked breath Shouting the watchword, “Victory or Death—” Out of the dreadful cloud that settles low On Goliad's plain, Where thrice a hundred prisoners lie slain Beneath the broken word of Mexico— Out of the fog of factions and of feuds That ever drifts and broods Above the bloody path of border war, Leaps the Lone Star! What light is this that does not dread the dark? What star is this that fights a stormy way To San Jacinto's field of victory? It is the fiery spark That burns within the breast Of Anglo-Saxon men, who can not rest Under a tyrant's sway; The upward-leading ray That guides the brave who give their lives away Rather than not be free! O question not, but honour every name, Travis and Crockett, Bowie, Bonham, Ward, Fannin and King, and all who drew the sword And dared to die for Texan liberty! Yea, write them all upon the roll of fame, But no less love and equal honour give To those who paid the longer sacrifice— Austin and Houston, Burnet, Rusk, Lamar And all the stalwart men who dared to live Long years of service to the lonely star. Great is the worth of such heroic souls: Amid the strenuous turmoil of their deeds, They clearly speak of something that controls The higher breeds of men by higher needs Than bees, content with honey in their hives! Ah, not enough the narrow lives On profitable toil intent! And not enough the guerdons of success Garnered in homes of affluent selfishness! A noble discontent Cries for a wider scope To use the wider wings of human hope; A vision of the common good Opens the prison-door of solitude; And, once beyond the wall, Breathing the ampler air, The heart becomes aware That life without a country is not life at all. A country worthy of a freeman's love; A country worthy of a good man's prayer; A country strong, and just, and brave, and fair,— A woman's form of beauty throned above The shrine where noble aspirations meet— To live for her is great, to die is sweet! Heirs of the rugged pioneers Who dreamed this dream and made it true, Remember that they dreamed for you. They did not fear their fate In those tempestuous years, But put their trust in God, and with keen eyes, Trained in the open air for looking far, They saw the many-million-acred land Won from the desert by their hand, Swiftly among the nations rise,— Texas a sovereign State, And on her brow a star! III THE CONSTELLATION How strange that the nature of light is a thing beyond our ken, And the flame of the tiniest candle flows from a fountain sealed! How strange that the meaning of life, in the little lives of men, So often baffles our search with a mystery unrevealed! But the larger life of man, as it moves in its secular sweep, Is the working out of a Sovereign Will whose ways appear; And the course of the journeying stars on the dark blue boundless deep, Is the place where our science rests in the reign of law most clear. I would read the story of Texas as if it were written on high; I would look from afar to follow her path through the calms and storms; With a faith in the worldwide sway of the Reason that rules in the sky, And gathers and guides the starry host in clusters and swarms. When she rose in the pride of her youth, she seemed to be moving apart, As a single star in the South, self-limited, self-possessed; But the law of the constellation was written deep in her heart, And she heard when her sisters called, from the North and the East and the West. They were drawn together and moved by a common hope and aim— The dream of a sign that should rule a third of the heavenly arch; The soul of a people spoke in their call, and Texas came To enter the splendid circle of States in their onward march. So the glory gathered and grew and spread from sea to sea, And the stars of the great republic lent each other light; For all were bound together in strength, and each was free— Suddenly broke the tempest out of the ancient night! It came as a clash of the force that drives and the force that draws; And the stars were riven asunder, the heavens were desolate, While brother fought with brother, each for his country's cause: But the country of one was the Nation, the country of other the State. Oh, who shall measure the praise or blame in a strife so vast? And who shall speak of traitors or tyrants when all were true? We lift our eyes to the sky, and rejoice that the storm is past, And we thank the God of all that the Union shines in the blue. Yea, it glows with the glory of peace and the hope of a mighty race, High over the grave of broken chains and buried hates; And the great, big star of Texas is shining clear in its place In the constellate symbol and sign of the free United States. IV AFTER THE PIONEERS After the pioneers— Big-hearted, big-handed lords of the axe and the plow and the rifle, Tan-faced tamers of horses and lands, themselves remaining tameless, Full of fighting, labour and romance, lovers of rude adventure— After the pioneers have cleared the way to their homes and graves on the prairies: After the State-builders— Zealous and jealous men, dreamers, debaters, often at odds with each other, All of them sure it is well to toil and to die, if need be, Just for the sake of founding a country to leave to their children— After the builders have done their work and written their names upon it: After the civil war— Wildest of all storms, cruel and dark and seemingly wasteful, Tearing up by the root the vines that were splitting the old foundations, Washing away with a rain of blood and tears the dust of slavery, After the cyclone has passed and the sky is fair to the far horizon; After the era of plenty and peace has come with full hands to Texas, Then—what then? Is it to be the life of an indolent heir, fat-witted and self-contented, Dwelling at ease in the house that others have builded, Boasting about the country for which he has done nothing? Is it to be an age of corpulent, deadly-dull prosperity, Richer and richer crops to nourish a race of Philistines, Bigger and bigger cities full of the same confusion and sorrow, The people increasing mightily but no increase of the joy? Is this what the forerunners wished and toiled to win for you, This the reward of war and the fruitage of high endeavor, This the goal of your hopes and the vision that satisfies you? Nay, stand up and answer—I can read what is in your hearts— You, the children of those who followed the wild-bees, You, the children of those who served the Lone Star, Now that the hives are full and the star is fixed in the constellation, I know that the best of you still are lovers of sweetness and light! You hunger for honey that comes from invisible gardens; Pure, translucent, golden thoughts and feelings and inspirations, Sweetness of all the best that has bloomed in the mind of man. You rejoice in the light that is breaking along the borders of science; The hidden rays that enable a man to look through a wall of stone; The unseen, fire-filled wings that carry his words across the ocean; The splendid gift of flight that shines, half-captured, above him; The gleam of a thousand half-guessed secrets, just ready to be discovered! You dream and devise great things for the coming race— Children of yours who shall people and rule the domain of Texas; They shall know, they shall comprehend more than their fathers, They shall grow in the vigour of well-rounded manhood and womanhood, Riper minds, richer hearts, finer souls, the only true wealth of a nation— The league-long fields of the State are pledged to ensure this harvest!

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