Yet even as we in our pride rejoice,
Hark to the prophet’s warning voice:
“The Pilgrim’s thrift is vanished
And the Pilgrim’s faith is dead,
And the Pilgrim’s God is banished,
And Mammon reigns in his stead;
And work is damned as an evil,
And men and women cry,
In their restless haste, ‘Let us spend and waste,
And live; for to-morrow we die.’
“And law is trampled under;
And the nations stand aghast,
As they hear the distant thunder
Of the storm that marches fast;
And we,—whose ocean borders
Shut off the sound and the sight,
We will wait for marching orders;
The world has seen us fight;
We have earned our days of revel;
‘On with the dance’! we cry.
It is pain to think; we will eat and drink!
And live; for to-morrow we die.”
“We have laughed in the eyes of danger;
We have given our bravest and best;
We have succored the starving stranger;
Others shall heed the rest.’
And the revel never ceases;
And the nations hold their breath;
And our laughter peals, and the mad world reels,
To a carnival of death.
“Slaves of sloth and the senses,
Clippers of Freedom’s wings,
Come back to the Pilgrim’s Army
And fight for the King of Kings;
Come back to the Pilgrim’s conscience;
Be born in the nation’s birth;
And strive again as simple men
For the freedom of the earth.
Freedom a free-born nation still shall cherish,
Be this our covenant, unchanging, sure:
Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish;
Freedom and Truth immortal shall endure.”
Land of our fathers, when the tempest rages,
When the wide earth is racked with war and crime,
Founded forever on the Rock of Ages,
Beaten in vain by surging seas of time,
Even as the shallop on the breakers riding,
Even as the Pilgrim kneeling on the shore,
Firm in thy faith and fortitude abiding,
Hold thou thy children free forever more.
And when we sail as Pilgrims’ sons and daughters
The spirit’s Mayflower into seas unknown,
Driving across the waste of wintry waters
The voyage every soul shall make alone,
The Pilgrim’s faith, the Pilgrim’s courage grant us;
Still shines the truth that for the Pilgrim shone.
We are his seed; nor life nor death shall daunt us.
The port is Freedom! Pilgrim heart, sail on!
LE BARON RUSSELL BRIGGS
THE CROSS-CURRENT
Through twelve stout generations
New England blood I boast;
The stubborn pastures bred them,
The grim, uncordial coast,
Sedate and proud old cities,—
Loved well enough by me,
Then how should I be yearning
To scour the earth and sea.
Each of my Yankee forbears
Wed a New England mate:
They dwelt and did and died here,
Nor glimpsed a rosier fate.
My clan endured their kindred;
But foreigners they loathed,
And wandering folk, and minstrels,
And gypsies motley-clothed.
Then why do patches please me,
Fantastic, wild array?
Why have I vagrant fancies
For lads from far away.
My folk were godly Churchmen,—
Or paced in Elders’ weeds;
But all were grave and pious
And hated heathen creeds.
Then why are Thor and Wotan
To dread forces still?
Why does my heart go questing
For Pan beyond the hill?
My people clutched at freedom.—
Though others’ wills they chained,—
But made the Law and kept it,—
And Beauty, they restrained.
Then why am I a rebel
To laws of rule and square?
Why would I dream and dally,
Or, reckless, do and dare?
O righteous, solemn Grandsires,
O dames, correct and mild,
Who bred me of your virtues!
Whence comes this changing child?—
The thirteenth generation,—
Unlucky number this!—
My grandma loved a Pirate,
And all my faults are his!
A gallant, ruffled rover,
With beauty-loving eye,
He swept Colonial waters
Of coarser, bloodier fry.
He waved his hat to danger,
At Law he shook his fist.
Ah, merrily he plundered,
He sang and fought and kissed!
Though none have found his treasure,
And none his part would take,—
I bless that thirteenth lady
Who chose him for my sake!
ABBIE FARWELL BROWN