And we saw—not the familiar, fine features of our soldier hero, so strikingly portrayed by a famed artist and molded into exact, lifelike resemblance, but instead we beheld an unknown visage—a type, merely the semblance of a "Rough Rider," its rigid gaze riveted on the Idol-mountain, forever enthralled by the Sphinx.
In nineteen hundred seven, on the third day of July
With shining mien and naming sword earthward St. Michael came
To save—ever auspicious be the blessed day—
From blighting heathen guile a Christian hero's fame
The while, breathless with awe, solemn the people gazed
And rhetoric's inspired flame on Aztlan's altar blazed.
Adore the Saints, behold a miracle Divine!
Hallowed, our Saviour, be Thy Name
And Heaven's glory thine!
Of idol-worship now has vanished every trace
In deepest crevice and highest place
On mesa, butte and mountain-face;
From the Grand Canyon's somber shade
The sun-scorched desert, the dripping glade
And sunken crater of Stoneman's Lake.
The "Casa Grande," a home of ancient race—
A ruin now—is haunted by Montezuma's wraith.
In Montezuma's castle, crumbling from roof to base
The winds and rain of heaven ghosts of the past now chase.
Where erstwhile the Great Spirit's children dwelt
Forever hushed is the papoose's wail, and stilled the squaw's low-crooning lilt.
No longer shimmers starlight from eyes of savage maids
Worshippers of the fire and sun, poor dwellers of the caves—
The sisters of the deer and lo, shy startled fawns of Aztec race
Or coy ancestral dams of moon-eyed Toltec doe.
Now Verde witches bathe in Montezuma's well
And over its crystal waters the tourists cast their spell.
Rejoice! To Arizona has the Saviour vouchsafed His Grace
For our Salvation Army lass teaches true Gospel faith:
"Be saved this night, poor sinner, repent, the hour is late!
Salvation is in store for thee, brother do not delay
As fleeting time and sudden death for no man ever wait!"
"Praise God!" the lassie's war-cry is, the keynote of her song.
To the tune of "Annie Roonie" and kindred fervid lay
With mandolin and banjo, marching in bold array
The devil's strongholds storming, battling to victory—
With banners flying, the tambourine and drum
Forever has she silenced the shamans vile tom-tom.
All Fetish Spirit-medicine she has tabooed, banished away
Except bourbon and rye, sour-mash, hand-made
And copper-distilled, licensed, taxed and gauged,
Then stored in bond to ripen, mellow, age.
God bless the Army, rank and file who fight our souls to save!
Modern disciples of the Son of Man, true followers of Christ,
They work by day, then preach and pray and pound their drum at night.
L'ENVOY.
Farewell, this ends my rhyming, submitted at its worth.
Lest I forget—pride goes before the fall, on earth
And exceeding fine if slowly, grind the mills of angry gods—
The muses' steed, a versifying bronco had I caught
And recklessly I rode; but fast as thought
Fate overtook me when Pegasus bucked me off.
Sorely distressed I hear a satyr's mocking laugh
As on my laurels resting, on my seat of honor cast
And thanking you for kind attention now your indulgent censure ask.