SONGS FOR AMERICA
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 clamor 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 grey;
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 harbor,
While the river flows to meet the sea!
URBS CORONATA
(Song for the City College of New York)
O youngest of the giant brood
Of cities far-renowned;
In wealth and power thou hast passed
Thy rivals at a bound;
And now thou art a queen, New York;
And how wilt thou be crowned?
"Weave me no palace-wreath of pride,"
The royal city said;
"Nor forge an iron fortress-wall
To frown upon my head;
But let me wear a diadem
Of Wisdom's towers instead."
And so upon her island height
She worked her will forsooth,
She set upon her rocky brow
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 they thought for you,
And all the hopes they brought for you,
And be the City's Crown.
AMERICA
I Love thine inland seas,
Thy groves of giant trees,
Thy rolling plains;
Thy rivers' mighty sweep,
Thy mystic canyons deep,
Thy mountains wild and steep,
All thy domains;
Thy silver Eastern strands,
Thy Golden Gate that stands
Wide to the West;
Thy flowery Southland fair,
Thy sweet and crystal air,—
O land beyond compare,
Thee I love best!
Additional verses for the National Hymn, March, 1906.
DOORS OF DARING
The mountains that enfold the vale
With walls of granite, steep and high,
Invite the fearless foot to scale
Their stairway toward the sky.
The restless, deep, dividing sea
That flows and foams from shore to shore,
Calls to its sunburned chivalry,
"Push out, set sail, explore!"
And all the bars at which we fret,
That seem to prison and control,
Are but the doors of daring, set
Ajar before the soul.
Say not, "Too poor," but freely give;
Sigh not, "Too weak," but boldly try.
You never can begin to live
Until you dare to die.
A HOME SONG
I Read within a poet's book
A word that starred the page:
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!"
Yes, that is true; and something more
You'll find, where'er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.
But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.
A NOON SONG
There are songs for the morning and songs
for the night,
For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;
But who will give praise to the fulness of light,
And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
Oh, the high noon, and the clear noon,
The noon with golden crest;
When the sky burns, and the sun turns
With his face to the way of the west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength;
How slowly he crept as the morning wore by;
Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length
To the height of his throne in the blue summer
sky.
Oh, the long toil, and the slow toil,
The toil that may not rest,
Till the sun looks down from his journey's
crown,
To the wonderful way of the west!
AN AMERICAN IN EUROPE
'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 I
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
I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the
rotting sea.
To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the
ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full
of stars.
THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS
Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings
of America,
Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of
royal splendour;
These are the homes that were built by the brave
beginners of a nation,
They are simple enough to be great, and full of
a friendly dignity.
I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New
England valleys,
Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feather-
ing over them:
Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-
fashioned flowers,
A fan-light above the door, and little square panes
in the windows,
The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and
hickory ready for winter,
The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with
household relics,—
All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of
self-reliance.
I love the look of the shingled houses that front
the ocean;
Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides
are weather-beaten;
Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full
of patience and courage.
They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is
something indomitable about them:
Pacing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand
undaunted,
While the thin blue line of smoke from the
square-built chimney rises,
Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth
and a cradle.
I love the stately southern mansions with their
tall white columns,
They look through avenues of trees, over fields
where the cotton is growing;
I can see the flutter of white frocks along their
shady porches,
Music and laughter float from the windows, the
yards are full of hounds and horses.
They have all ridden away, yet the houses have
not forgotten,
They are proud of their name and place, and
their doors are always open,
For the thing they remember best is the pride
of their ancient hospitality.
In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil
Quaker dwellings,
With their demure brick faces and immaculate
white-stone doorsteps;
And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their
high stoops and iron railings,
(I can see their little brass knobs shining in the
morning sunlight);
And the solid houses of the descendants of the
Puritans,
Fronting the street with their narrow doors and
dormer-windows;
And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions
of Charleston,
Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses
and magnolias.
Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my
eyes they are beautiful;
For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts
that have made the nation;
The glory and strength of America came from
her ancestral dwellings.
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 path and place
In this New World: thou hast proclaimed 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 untrammeled and of conscience free?
Stand here, grey stone, and consecrate the sod
Where rests this brave Scotch-Irish man of God!
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,
Immortalized 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
Eternal strength to guard our native land.