Dreams and Days: Poems

POEMS BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP To ROSL
Strike hands, young men! We know not when Death or disaster comes, Mightier than battle-drums To summon us away. Death bids us say farewell To all we love, nor stay For tears;—and who can tell How soon misfortune's hand May smite us where we stand, Dragging us down, aloof, Under the swift world's hoof?
Strike hands for faith, and power To gladden the passing hour; To wield the sword, or raise a song;— To press the grape; or crush out wrong. And strengthen right. Give me the man of sturdy palm And vigorous brain; Hearty, companionable, sane, 'Mid all commotions calm, Yet filled with quick, enthusiastic fire;— Give me the man Whose impulses aspire, And all his features seem to say, I can!
Strike hands, young men! 'Tis yours to help rebuild the State, And keep the Nation great. With act and speech and pen 'Tis yours to spread The morning-red That ushers in a grander day: To scatter prejudice that blinds, And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds; To overthrow bland tyrannies That cheat the people, and with slow disease Change the Republic to a mockery. Your words can teach that liberty Means more than just to cry We're free While bending to some new-found yoke. So shall each unjust bond be broke, Each toiler gain his meet reward, And life sound forth a truer chord.
Ah, if we so have striven, And mutually the grasp have given Of brotherhood, To work each other and the whole race good; What matter if the dream Come only partly true, And all the things accomplished seem Feeble and few? At least, when summer's flame burns low And on our heads the drifting snow Settles and stays, We shall rejoice that in our earlier days We boldly then Struck hands, young men!
O jay— Blue-jay! What are you trying to say? I remember, in the spring You pretended you could sing; But your voice is now still queerer, And as yet you've come no nearer To a song. In fact, to sum the matter, I never heard a flatter Failure than your doleful clatter. Don't you think it's wrong? It was sweet to hear your note, I'll not deny, When April set pale clouds afloat O'er the blue tides of sky, And 'mid the wind's triumphant drums You, in your white and azure coat, A herald proud, came forth to cry, The royal summer comes!