Some find thee foul and rank and fetid, Walt,
Who cannot tell Arabia from a sty.
Thou followeth Truth, nor feareth, nor doth halt;
Truth: and the sole uncleanness is a lie.
—William Watson
Presage of strength yet to be, voice of the youngest of Time,
Singer of the golden dawn,
From thy great message must come light for the bettering days,
Joy to the hands that toil,
Might to the hopes that droop,
Power to the Nation reborn,
Poet and master and seer, helper and friend unto men,
Truth that shall pass into the life of us all!
—Louis J. Block
Send but a song oversea for us,
Heart of their hearts who are free,
Heart of their singer to be for us
More than our singing can be;
Ours, in the tempest at error,
With no light but the twilight of terror;
Send us a song oversea!
Sweet-smelling of pine-leaves and grasses,
And blown as a tree through and through
With the winds of the keen mountain passes,
And tender as sun-smitten dew;
Sharp-tongued as the winter that shakes
The wastes of your limitless lakes,
Wide-eyed as the sea-line’s blue.
O strong-winged soul with prophetic
Lips hot with the bloodbeats of song,
With tremor of heartstrings magnetic,
With thoughts as thunders in throng,
With consonant ardours of chords
That pierce men’s souls as with swords
And hale them hearing along.
—Algernon Swinburne
Serene, vast head, with silver cloud of hair,
Lined on the purple dusk of death
A stern medallion, velvet set—
Old Norseman throned, not chained upon thy chair:
Thy grasp of hand, thy hearty breath
Of welcome thrills me yet
As when I faced thee there.
Loving my plain as thou thy sea,
Facing the east as thou the west,
I bring a handful of grass to thee,
The prairie grasses I know the best—
Type of the wealth and width of the plain,
Strong of the strength of the wind and sleet,
Fragrant with sunlight and cool with rain—
I bring it, and lay it low at thy feet,
Here by the eastern sea.