And hath not doubts been harassing my soul,
And had I shunned to give a heed to fears,
But followed—like thyself—the Spirit’s call,
How different had been the lapsing years;
Perhaps I then with glory now could meet
The growth and life, I see on every hand,
But now I sit in sorrow at thy feet,
And find my name was written in the sand.
GJOA
Capt. Amundsen’s Ship in San Francisco
Within the sound of the Pacific’s roar
Stands Gjoa amid palms and myrtle trees,
Her prow is lifted toward the rocky shore,
As if impatient for the stormy seas,
The sturdy little ship of Arctic fame,
Which bears from storms and ice full many a mark,
Now like a lion in a cage, grown tame,
Stands here—a relic only—in a park.
A precious relic to Norwegian hearts,
With pride and gratitude they look on thee;
Proud that thou sailed, where man had made no charts,
The first explorer of a strait and sea,
And grateful that the land of Vikings still
Has sons of courage and adventure bold;
For Roald Amundsen forever will
Remain a man of true heroic mold.
And thou art here incaged to sniff the brine,
Forsaken by the captain and his crew,
A monument the great throngs to remind,
What talent mixed with manliness can do,
And that a nation may be small, yet great,
Be poor and still excel in noblest ken,
A silent witness at the Golden Gate;
A nation’s glory is her greatest men.
THE GRAVE IN THE DESERT
Amid the plains of yellow sand and cactus,
Encircled by the distant barren hills,
Amid the awful desert of Nevada,
Beneath the glaring sun which burns and kills,
There is a lonely grave, where the San Padro
Fast speeds from palm-groves of Los Angeles,
A lonely grave just by the road-side,
Which kindly hands unselfishly did bless.
A wooden cross is standing at its head,
On which no name nor date they did inscribe,
Still, half in ruin, it stands there to bless
An unknown sleeper of the wandering tribe.
And at the foot the symbol of his life,
No fitter epitaph on any grave—
For man is but a restless sojourner,
So there they placed the pilgrim’s handworn stave.
Who was he? None can tell, some say a tramp,
Who stole a ride and crushed was ’neath the wheels;
But tramps are also men, and sometimes more
Of worth than their unhappy plight reveals;
But this I know: He was a mother’s son,
Who still may wonder how her boy does fare,
Who still, perchance, is praying for this one,
The chiefest object of her loving care.
May be some other hearts are looking for
His coming home, though after many years,
Who think of him as he was in his youth,
And seldom speak his name, except with tears,
Who know not of this solitary grave,
Where death and weird oblivion do reign,
Where all seems hopeless, save the crumbling cross,
Which shall at last life’s mystery explain.