 | City Festivals |  |
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Festivals of the Nation.
I.
John Jones of Philadelphia was festively inclined;Possessed obese anatomy and glad gregarious mind;
A man of wealthy bachelorhood; with gracious power and will
Quite happy oft to make himself and others happier still.
And every time a famous Yankee anniversary came,
Arrangements promptly he prepared to celebrate the same:
The January day when first Ben Franklin glanced upon
The Boston which acquired that day her most illustrious son;
The frigid February date when Washington first smiled
Upon the country that was yet to call itself his child;
The raw March day when Quakers made Concession's proclamation,
“Early in the following March (1677), the Quaker proprietors completed and published a body of laws under the singular title of Concessions. But the name was significant, for everything was accorded to the people. The first simple code enacted by the Friends in America rivalled the charter of Connecticut in the liberality and purity of its principles. ... The doctrines of the Concessions were reaffirmed. Men of all races and of all religions were declared to be equal before the law. No superiority was conceded to rank or title, to wealth or royal birth.”—
Ridpath's History of the United States.Thus furnishing a germ and hint for our own Declaration;
The weeping April day when, with a baby voice's aid,
Young Thomas Jefferson his first free utterance loudly made;
The sweet May day on which, amid the tear-drops' fragrant showers,
War-mourners covered first the graves of those they loved with flowers;
The famous seventeenth day of June, when, with new-welded will,
Americans both lost and won The Battle of the Hill;
The sultry summer day when, set by passion's earthquake free,
A new-found nation showed its head above Oppression's sea;
The August day when Fulton first, without a stitch of sail,
Climbed up the Hudson's liquid stair, in Acclamation's gale;
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That made America the gift of valiant La Fayette;
The gold October day in which Columbus bent the knee,
And thanked his God for showing him a refuge for the free;
The bright November day, when, driven by patriot endeavor,
Armed Britons trimmed reluctant sails, and left New York forever;
The bright December day on which the Mayflower's frozen band
Stepped on the famous Pilgrim Rock, and thence to Freedom's land;
And several other days that came into his heart and mind,
On which the western world had served the cause of humankind.
And this is how John Jones observed the thirtieth morn of May:
He gathered thirty veteran braves who loved the mournful day,
And strewed their banquet-hall with flowers; for, as he often said,
He did not like to have them wait for wreaths, till they were dead.
And when the banqueting was done, they held their glasses high,
In silent reverence, while they drank to comrades in the sky;
And then came speeches, songs, and rhymes, that bred the laugh and cheer,
Or called a gentle sadness forth, and many a silent tear;
And once a veteran, who could feel the words upon their way,
Recited this short monologue of Decoration Day:
HEAR THE DRUMS MARCH BY.
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, hear the drums march by!
This is Decoration Day. Hurry, and be spry!
Wheel me to the window, girl; fling it open high!
Crippled of the body, now, and blinded of the eye,
Sarah, let me listen while the drums march by.
This is Decoration Day. Hurry, and be spry!
Wheel me to the window, girl; fling it open high!
Crippled of the body, now, and blinded of the eye,
Sarah, let me listen while the drums march by.
Hear 'em; how they roll! I can feel 'em in my soul.
Hear the beat—beat—o' the boots on the street;
Hear the sweet fife cut the air like a knife;
Hear the tones grand of the words of command;
Hear the walls nigh shout back their reply;
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, hear the drums dance by!
Blind as a bat, I can see 'em for all that;
Old Colonel Ray, stately an' gray,
Riding, slow and solemn, at head of the column;
There's Major Bell, sober now, and well;
Old Lengthy Bragg, still a-bearing of the flag;
There's old Strong, that I tented with so long;
There's the whole crowd, hearty an' proud!
Hey, boys, say! can't you glance up this way?
Here's an old comrade, crippled now, and gray!
This is too much. Girl, throw me my crutch!
I can see—I can walk—I can march—I could fly!
No, I won't sit still an' let the boys march by!
Hear the beat—beat—o' the boots on the street;
Hear the sweet fife cut the air like a knife;
Hear the tones grand of the words of command;
Hear the walls nigh shout back their reply;
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, hear the drums dance by!
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Old Colonel Ray, stately an' gray,
Riding, slow and solemn, at head of the column;
There's Major Bell, sober now, and well;
Old Lengthy Bragg, still a-bearing of the flag;
There's old Strong, that I tented with so long;
There's the whole crowd, hearty an' proud!
Hey, boys, say! can't you glance up this way?
Here's an old comrade, crippled now, and gray!
This is too much. Girl, throw me my crutch!
I can see—I can walk—I can march—I could fly!
No, I won't sit still an' let the boys march by!
Oh! I fall and I flinch; I can't go an inch!
No use to flutter; no use to try.
Where's my strength? Hunt down at the front;
There's where I left it. No need to sigh;
All the milk's spilt; there's no use to cry.
Plague o' these tears, and the moaning in my ears!
Part of a war is to suffer and to die;
I must sit still, and let the drums march by.
No use to flutter; no use to try.
Where's my strength? Hunt down at the front;
There's where I left it. No need to sigh;
All the milk's spilt; there's no use to cry.
Plague o' these tears, and the moaning in my ears!
Part of a war is to suffer and to die;
I must sit still, and let the drums march by.
Part of a war is to suffer and to die—
Suffer and to die—suffer and to—Why!
Of all the crowd I just yelled at so loud,
There's hardly a one but is killed, dead, and gone!
All the old regiment, excepting only I,
Marched out of sight in the country of the night.
That was a spectre band went past so grand.
All the old boys are a-tenting in the sky—
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, hear the drums moan by!
And then a girl arrayed in black, her eyes cast sadly down,Suffer and to die—suffer and to—Why!
Of all the crowd I just yelled at so loud,
There's hardly a one but is killed, dead, and gone!
All the old regiment, excepting only I,
Marched out of sight in the country of the night.
That was a spectre band went past so grand.
All the old boys are a-tenting in the sky—
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, hear the drums moan by!
Rehearsed a veteran soldier's griefs, in words of Private Brown:
PRIVATE BROWN'S REFLECTIONS.
The gathered ranks with muffled drums had grandly marched away—
The hills had caught the sunset gleam of Decoration Day;
The orator had held the throng on sorrow's trembling verge,
The choir had sung their saddest strains—the band had played a dirge;
Some graves that had neglected been through many lonely hours,
Had leaped again to transient fame, and blossomed forth with flowers;
And one old veteran, Private Brown, with gray, uncovered head,
Still wandered 'mongst those small green hills that held his comrades dead.
The hills had caught the sunset gleam of Decoration Day;
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The choir had sung their saddest strains—the band had played a dirge;
Some graves that had neglected been through many lonely hours,
Had leaped again to transient fame, and blossomed forth with flowers;
And one old veteran, Private Brown, with gray, uncovered head,
Still wandered 'mongst those small green hills that held his comrades dead.
He bent and stroked the humble mounds, with kind, old-fashioned word—
He called his comrades all by name, as if he knew they heard;
He said: “Ah, Private Johnny Smith! you lie so cold and still!
This isn't much like that summer day you spent at Malvern Hill!
The bellowing of the mighty guns your voice screamed loud above:
You yelled, ‘Come on and see how men fight for the land they love!’
You furnished heart for fifty fights; and when the war was through,
You vainly hunted round for work a crippled man could do.
They let you die, with want and debt to be your winding sheet;
But this bouquet of flowers they sent, is very nice and sweet.
He called his comrades all by name, as if he knew they heard;
He said: “Ah, Private Johnny Smith! you lie so cold and still!
This isn't much like that summer day you spent at Malvern Hill!
The bellowing of the mighty guns your voice screamed loud above:
You yelled, ‘Come on and see how men fight for the land they love!’
You furnished heart for fifty fights; and when the war was through,
You vainly hunted round for work a crippled man could do.
They let you die, with want and debt to be your winding sheet;
But this bouquet of flowers they sent, is very nice and sweet.
“Ah, Jimmy Jones! I recollect the day they brought you back:
They marched your body through the street, 'neath banners draped in black.
Your funeral sermon glittered well: it told how brave you died;
The tears your poor old mother shed, were partly tears of pride.
None left to-day to lean upon but country and her God,
She crept from yonder poor-house door to kiss that bit of sod.
It's hard, my boy, but nations all are likely to forget;
And God must take His own good time to make them pay a debt.
The sweet forget-me-nots that grow above your faithful breast,
Are types of His good memory, boy, and He knows what is best.
They marched your body through the street, 'neath banners draped in black.
Your funeral sermon glittered well: it told how brave you died;
The tears your poor old mother shed, were partly tears of pride.
None left to-day to lean upon but country and her God,
She crept from yonder poor-house door to kiss that bit of sod.
It's hard, my boy, but nations all are likely to forget;
And God must take His own good time to make them pay a debt.
The sweet forget-me-nots that grow above your faithful breast,
Are types of His good memory, boy, and He knows what is best.
“Philander Johnson, from the plains we left you on as dead,
You carried to the prison-pen a keepsake made of lead;
You starved there for your country's good—at last you broke away.
And got in time to Gettysburg to help them save the day.
You hired a man to ask for you a pension, 'twould appear:
Your papers lost—they put you off from weary year to year.
And when at last you took your less-than-thirty cents a day,
You had to fight to keep the law from taking it away.
Some school-boy doctor every month must probe your aching side,
And thump you like a tenor drum, to find out if you lied.
You cost the Nation little, now—old hero of the fray—
It sent some very pretty flowers to strew you with to-day.
You carried to the prison-pen a keepsake made of lead;
You starved there for your country's good—at last you broke away.
And got in time to Gettysburg to help them save the day.
You hired a man to ask for you a pension, 'twould appear:
Your papers lost—they put you off from weary year to year.
And when at last you took your less-than-thirty cents a day,
You had to fight to keep the law from taking it away.
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And thump you like a tenor drum, to find out if you lied.
You cost the Nation little, now—old hero of the fray—
It sent some very pretty flowers to strew you with to-day.
“Yes, Lemuel White; this little flag is all that's left to mark
The place where you retired so young, to chambers cold and dark.
The wooden slab I put up here so men your deeds could know,
Was broken down by sundry beasts, not many months ago.
But yonder monument upreared upon the village green,
Is partly yours, although your name is nowhere to be seen;
The country had your body, boy, it gives to God your soul;
It needed not your name except upon the muster roll!
The place where you retired so young, to chambers cold and dark.
The wooden slab I put up here so men your deeds could know,
Was broken down by sundry beasts, not many months ago.
But yonder monument upreared upon the village green,
Is partly yours, although your name is nowhere to be seen;
The country had your body, boy, it gives to God your soul;
It needed not your name except upon the muster roll!
“Forgive me, boys—forgive me, God! if I bad blood display;
But flowers seem cheap to men whose hearts are aching day by day
Forgive me, every woman true, whose tender, thrilling hand
Has lifted up to bless and soothe the saviors of the land.
Forgive me, every manly heart that knows the fearful strain
Of standing 'twixt America and blood and death and pain.
Forgive me, all who know enough to fight the future foe,
By doing justice to the ones who fought so long ago!
It is to those who trample us, that I feel called to say,
That flowers look cheap to those who starve and suffer day by day!
But flowers seem cheap to men whose hearts are aching day by day
Forgive me, every woman true, whose tender, thrilling hand
Has lifted up to bless and soothe the saviors of the land.
Forgive me, every manly heart that knows the fearful strain
Of standing 'twixt America and blood and death and pain.
Forgive me, all who know enough to fight the future foe,
By doing justice to the ones who fought so long ago!
It is to those who trample us, that I feel called to say,
That flowers look cheap to those who starve and suffer day by day!
The sun had fallen out of view; the night came marching down;
The twinkle of the window-lights came creeping from the town.
The band was playing cheerful airs—glad voices decked the scene
And dancing were the youths and maids upon the village green.
The gloomy graves were half forgot, and pleasure ruled the night;
But God has ways to teach us yet, that Private Brown was right.
And last of all for them was read, with martial tone and mien.The twinkle of the window-lights came creeping from the town.
The band was playing cheerful airs—glad voices decked the scene
And dancing were the youths and maids upon the village green.
The gloomy graves were half forgot, and pleasure ruled the night;
But God has ways to teach us yet, that Private Brown was right.
A tribute to the famous dead, and called,
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OUR GUESTS UNSEEN.
Who are the guests in this festal throng?
Many are here that we love and see:
Men who have heard the soprano song
Of flying bullets that death set free;
Men who left a part of their days
Off in the field where the blood stains are;
Men who had dropped the sweet home-ways
Out of their hands, to grasp a star.
Honor to those who are living yet!
Time shall their laurels make more green!
But at this hour we must not forget
Those we may call our guests unseen.
Many are here that we love and see:
Men who have heard the soprano song
Of flying bullets that death set free;
Men who left a part of their days
Off in the field where the blood stains are;
Men who had dropped the sweet home-ways
Out of their hands, to grasp a star.
Honor to those who are living yet!
Time shall their laurels make more green!
But at this hour we must not forget
Those we may call our guests unseen.
One is here whose piercing eyes
Sharpened young for his country's sake;
Craving more than ambition's prize—
Great with the plans that brave men make.
Once he saw the flag of the foe
Mocking a history-hallowed town:
He said, “That banner must be brought low—
I will go myself and haul it down!”
He climbed the dangerous, giddy stair—
He braved the ambushes that he passed;
He did not send, but himself went there,
And stripped the flag from the rebel mast.
His dark eyes flashed in the morning dawn,
But he fell by a foeman's treacherous crime;
His heart stopped there, but his soul went on,
And joined the bravest of every clime.
His body sank to untimely rest—
The glory he sought was snatched away;
But we know that he did his noblest best,
And gallant Ellsworth is here to-day!
Sharpened young for his country's sake;
Craving more than ambition's prize—
Great with the plans that brave men make.
Once he saw the flag of the foe
Mocking a history-hallowed town:
He said, “That banner must be brought low—
I will go myself and haul it down!”
He climbed the dangerous, giddy stair—
He braved the ambushes that he passed;
He did not send, but himself went there,
And stripped the flag from the rebel mast.
His dark eyes flashed in the morning dawn,
But he fell by a foeman's treacherous crime;
His heart stopped there, but his soul went on,
And joined the bravest of every clime.
His body sank to untimely rest—
The glory he sought was snatched away;
But we know that he did his noblest best,
And gallant Ellsworth is here to-day!
Comes another: so bravely rash,
And rashly brave, yet steady still;
Turbulent as the thunder's crash,
But firm as the rocks of an Eastern hill.
And through the valleys and o'er the plain,
The drum of his horsemen's hoof-beats rolled;
Death knew the pull of his bridle rein,
And victory gleamed from his locks of gold.
He fought till the Union sky was bright,
Then flashed his sword in a western sun;
He fell in civilization's fight,
And died ere half of his days were done.
He camps in the broad blue fields above;
He needs no laurels upon his brow;
He comes once more for his comrades' love,
And dashing Custer is with us now!
And rashly brave, yet steady still;
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But firm as the rocks of an Eastern hill.
And through the valleys and o'er the plain,
The drum of his horsemen's hoof-beats rolled;
Death knew the pull of his bridle rein,
And victory gleamed from his locks of gold.
He fought till the Union sky was bright,
Then flashed his sword in a western sun;
He fell in civilization's fight,
And died ere half of his days were done.
He camps in the broad blue fields above;
He needs no laurels upon his brow;
He comes once more for his comrades' love,
And dashing Custer is with us now!
Another: a silent, mighty soul,
Who rose from the plane of common things,
To half of the fighting world's control,
And starred in the list of Triumph's kings.
When humbly toiling for daily bread,
When soothed by Luxury's rich caress,
When measuring acres of hapless dead,
Or flushed with the giddy draught, success;
Striving in blood-red clouds of woe
To lead the land 'neath victory's sun,
Or taking the sword of a fallen foe,
And writing the great words, “War is done;”
Or ruling the marble halls of state,
Thrust far to the statesman's utmost goal,
Or ruined by those he found too late
Were friends of his purse and not his soul;
Or toiling on Mount McGregor's height,
Longing for days that would let him die,
Waging meanwhile a sturdy fight
Whenever the foe Despair came nigh;
From earliest life to latest breath,
Through valleys of woe, o'er hills of pride,
Through glories of life and glooms of death,
His heart and his brain marched side by side.
The Hudson's shore has his death-stilled heart;
His hands in that hermit-tomb may rest;
But heroes and graves dwell far apart,
And Grant to-day is our unseen guest!
Who rose from the plane of common things,
To half of the fighting world's control,
And starred in the list of Triumph's kings.
When humbly toiling for daily bread,
When soothed by Luxury's rich caress,
When measuring acres of hapless dead,
Or flushed with the giddy draught, success;
Striving in blood-red clouds of woe
To lead the land 'neath victory's sun,
Or taking the sword of a fallen foe,
And writing the great words, “War is done;”
Or ruling the marble halls of state,
Thrust far to the statesman's utmost goal,
Or ruined by those he found too late
Were friends of his purse and not his soul;
Or toiling on Mount McGregor's height,
Longing for days that would let him die,
Waging meanwhile a sturdy fight
Whenever the foe Despair came nigh;
From earliest life to latest breath,
Through valleys of woe, o'er hills of pride,
Through glories of life and glooms of death,
His heart and his brain marched side by side.
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His hands in that hermit-tomb may rest;
But heroes and graves dwell far apart,
And Grant to-day is our unseen guest!
Another: a lithe, commanding form,
Kind features, stern with a soldier-gaze:
A cliff of rock in a battle storm,
A garden of smiles in peaceful days.
He burned belligerent cities low,
He planted ruin on every side,
But offered love to a fallen foe,
And wept when his friend McPherson died,
He shaped his army into a sword,
And cut the enemy's land in twain,
Yet gave the conquered their kindest word,
And erred, if ever, to spare them pain.
The office-heroes who fought for place,
Strove hard to fetter him with their pelf;
But he fought for his country and his race,
And not for jewels to crown himself.
In times of peace it was his to be
The foremost gentleman of the land;
Death has no power o'er such as he,
So reach for the brave old Sherman's hand!
Kind features, stern with a soldier-gaze:
A cliff of rock in a battle storm,
A garden of smiles in peaceful days.
He burned belligerent cities low,
He planted ruin on every side,
But offered love to a fallen foe,
And wept when his friend McPherson died,
He shaped his army into a sword,
And cut the enemy's land in twain,
Yet gave the conquered their kindest word,
And erred, if ever, to spare them pain.
The office-heroes who fought for place,
Strove hard to fetter him with their pelf;
But he fought for his country and his race,
And not for jewels to crown himself.
In times of peace it was his to be
The foremost gentleman of the land;
Death has no power o'er such as he,
So reach for the brave old Sherman's hand!
Another: a sturdy Irish heart,
That gave to this land its life-long aid;
The rush of the whirlwind sped his dart,
The flash of the lightning fired his blade.
He swore like a trooper, but what he swore
Was never known to fall or fail;
His oaths in The Book may be blotted o'er,
For he sinned that God's cause might prevail.
Once freedom's ranks were melting away;
He moulded panics to victory, then,
Rode down disaster and saved the day;—
He was good as a hundred thousand men!
His iron heart lies 'neath sods of green,
His shoulder-stars have been hung away;
But he rides on lofty roads unseen,
And Sheridan's soul is here to-day!
That gave to this land its life-long aid;
The rush of the whirlwind sped his dart,
The flash of the lightning fired his blade.
He swore like a trooper, but what he swore
Was never known to fall or fail;
His oaths in The Book may be blotted o'er,
For he sinned that God's cause might prevail.
Once freedom's ranks were melting away;
He moulded panics to victory, then,
Rode down disaster and saved the day;—
He was good as a hundred thousand men!
His iron heart lies 'neath sods of green,
His shoulder-stars have been hung away;
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And Sheridan's soul is here to-day!
Another: a tall and sinewy form,
A face marked deep with the lines of care;
A will of iron, but a heart as warm
As fiery breeze of the tropic air.
He was born a prince, but in hovels cast—
He made the cabin a palace, then;
He grew to be more than a king, at last;
For monarchs, you know, are not always men.
His fight for the crown was hard and grim,
But his march to the front was firm and true;
He fought for the stars, and the stars for him,
And God had miracles he must do.
At last he came to his lofty place,
But wild rebellion was knocking there;
Hot anger frowned at his honest face,
And desolation was in the air.
He swore that treason should be met
By every pain that could lay it low,
He rallied ruin against it; yet
His heart beat warm for every foe.
So on he toiled, till lo! in view
Swept sacred Emancipation's plan!
He did the deed he was sent to do;
For God was there, and God knew His man.
Guiding the nation in rocks and shoals,
He climbed the eternal mast of fame,
And, graced with the thanks of all true souls,
Wrote Liberator before his name.
His eyes flashed triumph, then swift grew dim—
A murderer tore that life apart;
But those he loved are still loving him,
And Lincoln is here in every heart!
A face marked deep with the lines of care;
A will of iron, but a heart as warm
As fiery breeze of the tropic air.
He was born a prince, but in hovels cast—
He made the cabin a palace, then;
He grew to be more than a king, at last;
For monarchs, you know, are not always men.
His fight for the crown was hard and grim,
But his march to the front was firm and true;
He fought for the stars, and the stars for him,
And God had miracles he must do.
At last he came to his lofty place,
But wild rebellion was knocking there;
Hot anger frowned at his honest face,
And desolation was in the air.
He swore that treason should be met
By every pain that could lay it low,
He rallied ruin against it; yet
His heart beat warm for every foe.
So on he toiled, till lo! in view
Swept sacred Emancipation's plan!
He did the deed he was sent to do;
For God was there, and God knew His man.
Guiding the nation in rocks and shoals,
He climbed the eternal mast of fame,
And, graced with the thanks of all true souls,
Wrote Liberator before his name.
His eyes flashed triumph, then swift grew dim—
A murderer tore that life apart;
But those he loved are still loving him,
And Lincoln is here in every heart!
But why should I call the muster-roll
Of those who are here in our hearts to-day?
They need no naming; each true, grand soul
Has heard your summons and marched this way.
Why call to Hancock, worthy all praise,
Superb in stature and mental might,
Who helped save Gettysburg's ominous days,
And left brave blood at that glorious fight?
Why call to Sedgwick—modest man—
Who longed but to do his duty well;
Who died in the battle's deadly van,
With no obeisance to shot or shell?
Why call McClellan, whose last life view
Traced over these hills its eager track,
Whose soldiers called him their comrade true,
And spoke of him ever as “Little Mac?”
The Kearneys, the Wadsworths, the Burnsides, the Meades,
Charge to the front of our memory; they
Endorse their commissions with noble deeds,
And star in this festal throng to-day.
A mighty and brilliant band is here,
That none with the eye of flesh may see;
They come from their graves both far and near,
Their bodies prisoned, their souls set free.
Year after year this unseen throng,
By death recruited, counts more and more;
And louder and louder the battle-song
Of heroes that camp on the unseen shore.
If they could speak to us all to-day,
These words with their greetings would be twined:
“Remember us with what love you may,
But care for our loved ones left behind.
You give us monuments grand and high,
You sing to our bravery o'er and o'er,
But let us know that we did not die
That those we cherished might suffer more!”
Of those who are here in our hearts to-day?
They need no naming; each true, grand soul
Has heard your summons and marched this way.
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Superb in stature and mental might,
Who helped save Gettysburg's ominous days,
And left brave blood at that glorious fight?
Why call to Sedgwick—modest man—
Who longed but to do his duty well;
Who died in the battle's deadly van,
With no obeisance to shot or shell?
Why call McClellan, whose last life view
Traced over these hills its eager track,
Whose soldiers called him their comrade true,
And spoke of him ever as “Little Mac?”
The Kearneys, the Wadsworths, the Burnsides, the Meades,
Charge to the front of our memory; they
Endorse their commissions with noble deeds,
And star in this festal throng to-day.
A mighty and brilliant band is here,
That none with the eye of flesh may see;
They come from their graves both far and near,
Their bodies prisoned, their souls set free.
Year after year this unseen throng,
By death recruited, counts more and more;
And louder and louder the battle-song
Of heroes that camp on the unseen shore.
If they could speak to us all to-day,
These words with their greetings would be twined:
“Remember us with what love you may,
But care for our loved ones left behind.
You give us monuments grand and high,
You sing to our bravery o'er and o'er,
But let us know that we did not die
That those we cherished might suffer more!”
And where are the thousands who bravely waged
A losing strife? Whose hearts were true,
Though false their cause? Whose souls engaged
Their all in the work they had to do?
The warrior cruelest in the fight,
Is tenderest to the fallen foe;
The hand that stabs with deadliest might,
Would stanch forever the crimson flow.
If all of the noblest Southern dead
Could march together into this place,
With Lee's tall form at the column's head,
And Stonewall Jackson's calm, kind face,
And each should bear the smile of a friend,
As many of those who live have done,
No man that is here, but would straight extend
The hand of friendship to every one.
The war is over; the strife has fled;
Love lingers the living ones between;
Let all of the brave Confederate dead
Be welcomed here as our guests unseen!
A losing strife? Whose hearts were true,
Though false their cause? Whose souls engaged
Their all in the work they had to do?
The warrior cruelest in the fight,
Is tenderest to the fallen foe;
29
Would stanch forever the crimson flow.
If all of the noblest Southern dead
Could march together into this place,
With Lee's tall form at the column's head,
And Stonewall Jackson's calm, kind face,
And each should bear the smile of a friend,
As many of those who live have done,
No man that is here, but would straight extend
The hand of friendship to every one.
The war is over; the strife has fled;
Love lingers the living ones between;
Let all of the brave Confederate dead
Be welcomed here as our guests unseen!
The smoke of our cannon has sailed away;
The clouds are gone and the sky is clear.
Heaven looks from eternal heights to-day,
And finds that the nation still is here.
The North and the South, the East and West,
The dead, the living, all agree
That this shall be the grandest—best—
Of all the nations that time can see;
Shall laugh at centuries as they sweep
In clouds and sunbeams above its head;
Shall all of our stars in safety keep,
Shall hold the hands of our patriot dead.
But how? By lying in sloth serene?
By letting the soldier-spirit cease,
While foreign king and foreign queen
Still marshal their troops in time of peace?
While hosts of the East march to and fro
With muskets flashing and bugles that ring,
Ready to grapple with any foe
With all that discipline's strength can bring?
While navies wander from sea to sea,
Ready to shell the resistless town,
Able, if conflict with them should be,
To storm our cities and crush them down?
Rally, O men of the Western land!
You hold this country by heaven's own right!
Strive hard and remember, hand in hand,
How best to struggle and how to fight!
God loves sweet peace; but when the laws
Of peace are broken by lawless ones,
I notice He loves to have His cause
Hedged round with the best of men and guns.
So let us learn in the time of peace
The many hardships war may mean,
And never upon our hearts shall cease
To glitter the smiles of our guests unseen!
The clouds are gone and the sky is clear.
Heaven looks from eternal heights to-day,
And finds that the nation still is here.
The North and the South, the East and West,
The dead, the living, all agree
That this shall be the grandest—best—
Of all the nations that time can see;
Shall laugh at centuries as they sweep
In clouds and sunbeams above its head;
Shall all of our stars in safety keep,
Shall hold the hands of our patriot dead.
But how? By lying in sloth serene?
By letting the soldier-spirit cease,
While foreign king and foreign queen
Still marshal their troops in time of peace?
While hosts of the East march to and fro
With muskets flashing and bugles that ring,
Ready to grapple with any foe
With all that discipline's strength can bring?
While navies wander from sea to sea,
Ready to shell the resistless town,
Able, if conflict with them should be,
To storm our cities and crush them down?
30
You hold this country by heaven's own right!
Strive hard and remember, hand in hand,
How best to struggle and how to fight!
God loves sweet peace; but when the laws
Of peace are broken by lawless ones,
I notice He loves to have His cause
Hedged round with the best of men and guns.
So let us learn in the time of peace
The many hardships war may mean,
And never upon our hearts shall cease
To glitter the smiles of our guests unseen!
II.
John Jones, of course, made large the day America was born;
He fired a hundred signal-guns to greet the opening morn;
From his cool summer home, a small quaint city 'mongst the isles
That wreathe the broad St. Lawrence' face into its sweetest smiles.
All 'mongst the near Canadian lands the echoes forced their way,
Which sent them back, thus helping much to celebrate the day.
He fired a hundred signal-guns to greet the opening morn;
From his cool summer home, a small quaint city 'mongst the isles
That wreathe the broad St. Lawrence' face into its sweetest smiles.
All 'mongst the near Canadian lands the echoes forced their way,
Which sent them back, thus helping much to celebrate the day.
And as the morn with Freedom's sun grew radiant more and more,
A hundred neighbor-islanders came sailing to his shore;
Their tiny frigates decked with flags of patriotic hue,
And faces full of joy and tan, made eloquent the view;
And in a grove where freedom's air was whispering overhead,
When dinners and orations ceased, the following lines were read:
A hundred neighbor-islanders came sailing to his shore;
Their tiny frigates decked with flags of patriotic hue,
And faces full of joy and tan, made eloquent the view;
And in a grove where freedom's air was whispering overhead,
When dinners and orations ceased, the following lines were read:
RHYMES TO THE DAY.
Oh, the Fourth of July!
When fire-crackers fly,
And urchins in petticoats tyrants defy!
When all the still air
Creeps away in despair,
And Clamor is king, be the day dark or fair!
When Freedom's red flowers
Fall in star-spangled showers,
And Liberty capers for twenty-four hours!
When the morn's ushered in
By a sleep-crushing din,
That tempts us to use philological sin!
When the forenoon advances
With large circumstances
Subjecting our lives to debatable chances!
When the soldiers of peace
Their attractions increase,
By marching, protected with clubs of police!
When the little toy-gun
Has its share of the fun,
By teaching short-hand to the favorite son!
When maids do not scream
At the gun's noise and gleam,
Being chock-full of patriotism, gum, and ice-cream!
When horses, hard-bittish,
Get nervous and skittish,
Not knowing their ancestors helped whip the British!
When the family flag,
Full of stars, stripes, and brag,
From the window pops out like a cat from a bag!
When picnic crowds go forth,
Their freedom to throw forth,
Coming back full of patriotism, glory, and so forth!
When long-trained excursions,
With various diversions,
Go out and make work for the doctors and surgeons!
When Uncle Jim Brown
Drives his wagon to town,
Full of gingerbread, children, and thirst—for renown!
When good dear sister Jones
Hears the tumult with groans,
And prays that her children come off with whole bones!
When all fancies and joys
That can compass a noise,
The country in one day of glory employs!
'Tis a glorious time
For a song or a rhyme,
Or a grand cannonade, or an orchestra's chime,
If one can live through it,
And not come to rue it—
The day that our forefathers said they would do it!
When fire-crackers fly,
And urchins in petticoats tyrants defy!
When all the still air
Creeps away in despair,
And Clamor is king, be the day dark or fair!
When Freedom's red flowers
Fall in star-spangled showers,
And Liberty capers for twenty-four hours!
31
By a sleep-crushing din,
That tempts us to use philological sin!
When the forenoon advances
With large circumstances
Subjecting our lives to debatable chances!
When the soldiers of peace
Their attractions increase,
By marching, protected with clubs of police!
When the little toy-gun
Has its share of the fun,
By teaching short-hand to the favorite son!
When maids do not scream
At the gun's noise and gleam,
Being chock-full of patriotism, gum, and ice-cream!
When horses, hard-bittish,
Get nervous and skittish,
Not knowing their ancestors helped whip the British!
When the family flag,
Full of stars, stripes, and brag,
From the window pops out like a cat from a bag!
When picnic crowds go forth,
Their freedom to throw forth,
Coming back full of patriotism, glory, and so forth!
When long-trained excursions,
With various diversions,
Go out and make work for the doctors and surgeons!
When Uncle Jim Brown
Drives his wagon to town,
Full of gingerbread, children, and thirst—for renown!
When good dear sister Jones
Hears the tumult with groans,
And prays that her children come off with whole bones!
When all fancies and joys
That can compass a noise,
The country in one day of glory employs!
'Tis a glorious time
For a song or a rhyme,
Or a grand cannonade, or an orchestra's chime,
32
And not come to rue it—
The day that our forefathers said they would do it!
Oh, the Fourth of July!
When grand souls hover nigh,
When Washington bends from the honest blue sky!
When Jefferson stands—
Famous scribe of all lands—
The charter of Heaven in his glorified hands!
When his comrade—strong, high
John Adams, comes nigh—
For both went to their rest the same Fourth of July!
When Franklin—grand—droll—
That could lightnings control—
Comes here with his sturdy, progressive old soul!
When Freedom's strong staff,
Hancock—with a laugh—
Writes in Memory's Album his huge autograph!
When old Putnam is met:
Who—they'll never forget—
Showed the foe that a God was in Israel yet!
When Mad Anthony Wayne
Rides up with loose rein,
And receives our encomiums for being insane!
When George the Third, flounced
From this country, well trounced,
Wishes now that his madness had been less pronounced!
When comes Hamilton, fain
To neglect to explain
How so little a form could support such a brain!
When the brave Lafayette,
Our preserver and pet,
Comes again to collect of us Gratitude's debt!
When Marion advances,
(His Christian-name Francis)
Who played for the British in several dances!
When all the souls grand
That made mighty our land,
Around us in hopefulness silently stand,
And wish, beyond doubt,
That they also could shout,
And help ring the anthem of Liberty out!
When the peals of our mirth,
And our claims of true worth,
Are heard to the uttermost ends of the earth;
To the low and the high,
Who the tyrants defy,
A glorious old day is the Fourth of July!
When grand souls hover nigh,
When Washington bends from the honest blue sky!
When Jefferson stands—
Famous scribe of all lands—
The charter of Heaven in his glorified hands!
When his comrade—strong, high
John Adams, comes nigh—
For both went to their rest the same Fourth of July!
When Franklin—grand—droll—
That could lightnings control—
Comes here with his sturdy, progressive old soul!
When Freedom's strong staff,
Hancock—with a laugh—
Writes in Memory's Album his huge autograph!
When old Putnam is met:
Who—they'll never forget—
Showed the foe that a God was in Israel yet!
When Mad Anthony Wayne
Rides up with loose rein,
And receives our encomiums for being insane!
When George the Third, flounced
From this country, well trounced,
Wishes now that his madness had been less pronounced!
When comes Hamilton, fain
To neglect to explain
How so little a form could support such a brain!
When the brave Lafayette,
Our preserver and pet,
Comes again to collect of us Gratitude's debt!
When Marion advances,
(His Christian-name Francis)
Who played for the British in several dances!
When all the souls grand
That made mighty our land,
Around us in hopefulness silently stand,
33
That they also could shout,
And help ring the anthem of Liberty out!
When the peals of our mirth,
And our claims of true worth,
Are heard to the uttermost ends of the earth;
To the low and the high,
Who the tyrants defy,
A glorious old day is the Fourth of July!
But let thought have its way,
And give memory sway:
Do we think of the cost of this glorified day?
Do we think of the pain
Of the body, heart, brain—
The toils of the living, the blood of the slain?
Should we ever forget
What a deep-mortgaged debt
Has been placed on this date, and exists even yet?
What to our minds saith
The icy cold breath
Of Valley Forge—freezing our soldiers to death?
Can our hearts find a tongue
For those men, old and young,
Who fought while a rope o'er their heads grimly hung?
Of the toils o'er and o'er
That brave Unionists bore,
That our country might not go to pieces once more?
Do we think, while overt
Patriotism we assert,
How a sword-blade will sting—how a bullet can hurt?
Do we feel the fierce strain
Of the edge-belinked chain
That drags through the body—a wounded man's pain?
Do we know, by-the-way,
What it might be to stay
In the wards of a hospital, day after day,
While our life-blood was shed
On a pain-mattressed bed,
And no one we loved to stand near us when dead?
What it may be to lie
'Neath a smoke-blotted sky,
With horse-hoofs to trample us e'en as we die?
Do we think of that boy,
Full of hope, love, and joy,
Who died lest strong men should his country destroy?
Of that husband who fell
In the blood-streaming dell,
Leaving only the memory of battles fought well?
While the harvest field waves,
Do we think of those braves
In the farms quickly planted with thousands of graves?
How the great flag up there,
Clean and pure as the air,
Has been drabbled with blood-drops, and trailed in despair?
Do we know what a land
God hath placed in our hand,
To be made into star-gems, or crushed into sand?
Let us feel that our race,
Doomed to no second place,
Must glitter with triumph or die in disgrace;
That millions unborn,
At night, noon, and morn,
Will thank us with blessings or curse us with scorn,
For raising more high
Freedom's flag to the sky,
Or losing forever the Fourth of July!
And give memory sway:
Do we think of the cost of this glorified day?
Do we think of the pain
Of the body, heart, brain—
The toils of the living, the blood of the slain?
Should we ever forget
What a deep-mortgaged debt
Has been placed on this date, and exists even yet?
What to our minds saith
The icy cold breath
Of Valley Forge—freezing our soldiers to death?
Can our hearts find a tongue
For those men, old and young,
Who fought while a rope o'er their heads grimly hung?
Of the toils o'er and o'er
That brave Unionists bore,
That our country might not go to pieces once more?
Do we think, while overt
Patriotism we assert,
How a sword-blade will sting—how a bullet can hurt?
Do we feel the fierce strain
Of the edge-belinked chain
That drags through the body—a wounded man's pain?
Do we know, by-the-way,
What it might be to stay
In the wards of a hospital, day after day,
While our life-blood was shed
On a pain-mattressed bed,
And no one we loved to stand near us when dead?
34
'Neath a smoke-blotted sky,
With horse-hoofs to trample us e'en as we die?
Do we think of that boy,
Full of hope, love, and joy,
Who died lest strong men should his country destroy?
Of that husband who fell
In the blood-streaming dell,
Leaving only the memory of battles fought well?
While the harvest field waves,
Do we think of those braves
In the farms quickly planted with thousands of graves?
How the great flag up there,
Clean and pure as the air,
Has been drabbled with blood-drops, and trailed in despair?
Do we know what a land
God hath placed in our hand,
To be made into star-gems, or crushed into sand?
Let us feel that our race,
Doomed to no second place,
Must glitter with triumph or die in disgrace;
That millions unborn,
At night, noon, and morn,
Will thank us with blessings or curse us with scorn,
For raising more high
Freedom's flag to the sky,
Or losing forever the Fourth of July!
III.
But John Jones's hospitality made wide and full display,
Upon that pious carnival yclept Thanksgiving Day;
Which gives more scope to appetite than any other one,
And makes us thankful when at last the feeding all is done.
Upon that pious carnival yclept Thanksgiving Day;
Which gives more scope to appetite than any other one,
And makes us thankful when at last the feeding all is done.
John Jones, of Philadelphia, on one Thanksgiving tide,
Sent word to every Jones he knew, to hasten to his side;
If rich as Vanderbilt or Gould, or poor as that absurd
Slim biped of the proverb—dear old Job's Thanksgiving bird;
Sent word to every Jones he knew, to hasten to his side;
If rich as Vanderbilt or Gould, or poor as that absurd
Slim biped of the proverb—dear old Job's Thanksgiving bird;
35
And seated them in padded chairs, wherein they might recline,
When they had dined and dined until they could no longer dine;
And when food's drowsiness began across their nerves to creep,
He read to them the following lines, and put them all to sleep:
When they had dined and dined until they could no longer dine;
And when food's drowsiness began across their nerves to creep,
He read to them the following lines, and put them all to sleep:
THE THURSDAY SABBATH DAY.
It is with us, it is with us, be the weather dark or fair;
See the joy upon the faces, feel the blessings in the air!
Get the dining-chamber ready, let the kitchen fire be filled,
Into gold-leaf slice the pumpkins, have the fatted turkey killed!
Hunt the barn, with hay upholstered, for the ivory-prisoned eggs;
Tie the chickens in a bundle by their strong and yellow legs!
It was eagerly expected, and a year upon its way;
We've a royal welcome ready for the Thursday Sabbath Day!
See the joy upon the faces, feel the blessings in the air!
Get the dining-chamber ready, let the kitchen fire be filled,
Into gold-leaf slice the pumpkins, have the fatted turkey killed!
Hunt the barn, with hay upholstered, for the ivory-prisoned eggs;
Tie the chickens in a bundle by their strong and yellow legs!
It was eagerly expected, and a year upon its way;
We've a royal welcome ready for the Thursday Sabbath Day!
And we first will go to meeting: where the parson one may hear
Pack in gilded words the blessings that have gathered round the year;
And the choir will sing an anthem full of unincumbered might,
That their stomachs would not let them, if they waited until night;
Older people will sit musing of Thanksgiving mornings fled—
Younger people will sit thinking of Thanksgiving Days ahead;
But they'll join in silent concert when the parson comes to pray,
For the world is all religious on the Thursday Sabbath Day!
Pack in gilded words the blessings that have gathered round the year;
And the choir will sing an anthem full of unincumbered might,
That their stomachs would not let them, if they waited until night;
Older people will sit musing of Thanksgiving mornings fled—
Younger people will sit thinking of Thanksgiving Days ahead;
But they'll join in silent concert when the parson comes to pray,
For the world is all religious on the Thursday Sabbath Day!
Then I hear the kindly racket, and the traffic of old news,
Of a meeting after meeting, 'mid the porches and the pews;
They will tell each other blessings that are fondled o'er and prized—
They will tell each other blessings by Affliction's hand disguised.
For the health that is a fortune, and the harvest full of gold,
Side by side with influenza and rheumatics will be told;
Here we'll hope that many foemen to each other's side may stray:
For the world should all be friendly on the Thursday Sabbath Day!
Of a meeting after meeting, 'mid the porches and the pews;
They will tell each other blessings that are fondled o'er and prized—
They will tell each other blessings by Affliction's hand disguised.
For the health that is a fortune, and the harvest full of gold,
Side by side with influenza and rheumatics will be told;
Here we'll hope that many foemen to each other's side may stray:
For the world should all be friendly on the Thursday Sabbath Day!
“Come to dinner!” We are coming, we are coming, fat and spare!
Smell the sweet and savory music of the odors in the air!
Hear the dishes pet each other with their soft and mellow clash!
Feel the snow of loaflets broken, see the table-sabres flash!
Let our palates climb the gamut of delight-producing taste,
Our interiors feel the presence of provisions neatly placed;
Full of thanks and full of praises, full of conversation gay,
Full of everything congenial, on the Thursday Sabbath Day!
Smell the sweet and savory music of the odors in the air!
Hear the dishes pet each other with their soft and mellow clash!
Feel the snow of loaflets broken, see the table-sabres flash!
36
Our interiors feel the presence of provisions neatly placed;
Full of thanks and full of praises, full of conversation gay,
Full of everything congenial, on the Thursday Sabbath Day!
Ah, the poor and sick and suffering! To our glad hearts be it known
That God never gave a blessing to be clenched and held alone;
They are brothers, they are sisters, and entitled to their share;
We shall always have them with us—He has put them in our care.
You who clutch at every mercy and devote it to yourselves,
You are putting mammoth treasures on the weakest kind of shelves.
You who take the wares of Heaven and divide them while you may,
Will behold their value doubled, on some other Sabbath Day!
That God never gave a blessing to be clenched and held alone;
They are brothers, they are sisters, and entitled to their share;
We shall always have them with us—He has put them in our care.
You who clutch at every mercy and devote it to yourselves,
You are putting mammoth treasures on the weakest kind of shelves.
You who take the wares of Heaven and divide them while you may,
Will behold their value doubled, on some other Sabbath Day!
They are coming, they are coming! Let the breezes lisp the tale,
Let the mountains look and see them on the centuries' upward trail;
Let the valleys smile their sweetest, let the lakes their parents greet,
As the river seeks the ocean with its silver-slippered feet.
Let all pleasures be more pleasant, let all griefs with help be nerved;
Let all blessings seek their sources with the thanks that are deserved.
Every spirit must look heavenward, every heart must tribute pay
To the Soul of souls that led us to the Thursday Sabbath Day!
Let the mountains look and see them on the centuries' upward trail;
Let the valleys smile their sweetest, let the lakes their parents greet,
As the river seeks the ocean with its silver-slippered feet.
Let all pleasures be more pleasant, let all griefs with help be nerved;
Let all blessings seek their sources with the thanks that are deserved.
Every spirit must look heavenward, every heart must tribute pay
To the Soul of souls that led us to the Thursday Sabbath Day!
IV.
Jones also celebrated, in a gastronomic way,
That lucky date for humankind he called “Discovery Day;”
He furnished every novel dish that money could command,
Each new discovery how to spoil the works of Nature's hand;
He sent his minions marching through the whole preceding year,
For any new development of cooking quaint and queer.
Each course a revelation was—loud greeted with surprise,
And palatal expectancy, and interested eyes.
That lucky date for humankind he called “Discovery Day;”
He furnished every novel dish that money could command,
Each new discovery how to spoil the works of Nature's hand;
He sent his minions marching through the whole preceding year,
For any new development of cooking quaint and queer.
Each course a revelation was—loud greeted with surprise,
And palatal expectancy, and interested eyes.
And once he turned unto their view a histrionic page:
Annexed unto his dining-room some scenery and a stage;
And when the rich unique dessert its place no longer knew,
The curtain rose, exhibiting a Spanish convent view;
With actors ready to begin a short historic play,
Full of material more or less appropriate to the day.
“These players are new aspirants, whom please do not condemn,”
He murmured to his smiling guests: “'fact, I discovered them.”
Annexed unto his dining-room some scenery and a stage;
And when the rich unique dessert its place no longer knew,
The curtain rose, exhibiting a Spanish convent view;
37
Full of material more or less appropriate to the day.
“These players are new aspirants, whom please do not condemn,”
He murmured to his smiling guests: “'fact, I discovered them.”
THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF COLUMBUS.
The Council at Salamanca, in 1486, to decide whether it was best to furnish Columbus with a few ships and men for the possible discovery of land in the Far West, was, all things considered, one of the most interesting to be found in history. The idea of this obscure and poverty-stricken mariner seems to have struck most of these wise men of Spain about as favorably as would a proposed colonization of the moon. Nearly all of them were at first piously but bitterly against him. Fernando de Talavera, who presided, was prior of the monastery of Prado, Confessor to Queen Isabella, and considered one of the best educated men of the time. He was prejudiced against the new enterprise. Diego de Deza, who appears in the Council as Columbus' friend, was at that time a professor of theology in the Convent of St. Stephen, and afterwards Archbishop of Seville. He was also a man of liberal education for those days, but had not permitted his common-sense and liberality of mind to become impaired in the process. As Irving says, with his combination of truth and elegance, he “was a man whose mind was above the narrow bigotry of bookish lore; one who could appreciate the value of wisdom, even when uttered by unlearned lips.” He assisted Columbus with his purse during days of poverty, and contributed toward the enterprise the jewels of his mind as lavishly as Isabella did those of her caskets. Had it not been for his help it is very doubtful whether the schemes of Columbus could have been pushed forward to success. The remainder of this Council, “professors of astronomy, geography, mathematics, and other branches of science, together with various dignitaries of the church and learned friars,” were most of them deeply prejudiced against the needy Italian adventurer.
The Council at Salamanca, in 1486, to decide whether it was best to furnish Columbus with a few ships and men for the possible discovery of land in the Far West, was, all things considered, one of the most interesting to be found in history. The idea of this obscure and poverty-stricken mariner seems to have struck most of these wise men of Spain about as favorably as would a proposed colonization of the moon. Nearly all of them were at first piously but bitterly against him. Fernando de Talavera, who presided, was prior of the monastery of Prado, Confessor to Queen Isabella, and considered one of the best educated men of the time. He was prejudiced against the new enterprise. Diego de Deza, who appears in the Council as Columbus' friend, was at that time a professor of theology in the Convent of St. Stephen, and afterwards Archbishop of Seville. He was also a man of liberal education for those days, but had not permitted his common-sense and liberality of mind to become impaired in the process. As Irving says, with his combination of truth and elegance, he “was a man whose mind was above the narrow bigotry of bookish lore; one who could appreciate the value of wisdom, even when uttered by unlearned lips.” He assisted Columbus with his purse during days of poverty, and contributed toward the enterprise the jewels of his mind as lavishly as Isabella did those of her caskets. Had it not been for his help it is very doubtful whether the schemes of Columbus could have been pushed forward to success. The remainder of this Council, “professors of astronomy, geography, mathematics, and other branches of science, together with various dignitaries of the church and learned friars,” were most of them deeply prejudiced against the needy Italian adventurer.
Scene I.
a hall in the Dominican Convent of Salamanca. Council of learned men assembled to pass judgment on the proposed enterprise of Columbus. Enter Talavera, who calls the Council to order.Talavera.
Best educated men of all this realm,
Best educated men of all this earth,
Accountants of the past, appraisers of
The present; you who have the trade
Of digging knowledge-nuggets from all times,
And carving them in jewels fit to wear,
Who know what's best and what's best not to know,
Whose learned breath upon thought-harvests thrown,
Whips chaff away and leaves the grain of truth:
You have been called together by the King,
Most potent Ferdinand, and by the Queen,
Most pious Isabel, to judge the claims
Of one Columbus; an Italian born,
Who asks of Spain her countenance and help
Through the great Western wilderness of waves,
While he discovers lands to you unknown.
First Scientist.
We need no foreigner to mend our maps.
Deza.
Soft, learnèd man, let learning teach you patience;
Pass not the judgment till the cause appears.
Let the man speak before you answer him.
Talavera.
'Tis well enough. Columbus, state your case;
Unroll your wares; exhibit us a wish.
38
(raising himself proudly).
I would complete the world!
First Scientist.
Irreverent clown!
Pity God did not rest another day,
And let you try your hand!
Deza.
Rest you instead.
Let him enlarge his daring epigram.
Columbus.
So with due modesty and sense I will.
[Unfolding a chart.
This world hath leagues that Europe knows not of;
Hath waves that Eastern ship did never cleave;
Hath rivers, forests, islands, continents,
Minds, hearts, and treasures now by distance hidden.
I would sail westward till I find those lands
Where the sun lifts to eastward-gazing eyes;
Would journey still unto the drooping sun,
Through regions of bewildering opulence,
And harvest all for God's own glory—He
Who planted it! I'd give the nation wealth
Greater by far than she has ever wished.
All this I guarantee, if only lent
Strong sails to spread, and crews to man my ships.
Talavera.
Here is a Grecian bearing gifts indeed!
Or rather an Italian, offering
To fetch them at our cost. These smooth designs
Brush us with velvet that may cover claws.
Question him, men of learning! Read his mind!
First Scientist.
What university may you be of,
Learnèd philosopher? What your degree?
39
The ocean is my university;
My sole degree is that of Mariner,
Well tried and always true. Lectures I've heard,
Wherever sailing—'mid the ocean day,
And the dark, treacherous night. The travelled winds
Thundered their lessons at me. I have seen
Many discussions of the deep-voiced waves.
Each star that sees our whole world from the skies
Is a professor to me. I have learned
Much from my own long meditations; whence
A light flames up at last, by which I read
My Heaven-signed commission.
Talavera.
Well, well, well!
Here is a dreamer!
Deza.
Dreams ofttimes come true.
Second Scientist.
Nature of course hath schools; men all may read
From alphabets around them; but we hold
All observation naught, until confirmed
By others' words. Tell, then; what hast thou gleaned
From learnèd pens or voices?
Columbus.
I've conversed
Many a day and night with sea-taught men—
Old sages of the ocean—whose weird tales
Are full of half-hid meaning; they who teach
The classics of the ocean. All the flowers
And weeds of their romances root in truth,
However hidden far may be the soil.
Their tongues have graven these words upon my soul:
There's land to westward!
Third Scientist
(laughing).
Give him a degree!
Taught by illiterate sailors! Learned man!
40
Still, better than a college-branded fool.
Talavera.
Whence is your family, searcher after power?
Columbus.
Though not essential to this argument,
Yet I will answer; it is quickly said:
My father carded wool in Genoa.
Fourth Scientist.
A prince of sheep-pelts hath come here to pull
The wool across our eyes!
Deza.
Why bring to fore
Questions of birth? 'Tis not so many years,
Your father, herding asses in Castile,
Begot the longest-eared of all his flock.
Talavera.
Enough of breeds. Proceed, adventurer.
Columbus.
Call me adventurer then; and so I am,
And so were all accomplishers. No prize
Is won without adventuring. As for birth,
The time will come, when titled families
Will angle for my name, and fight to spread
The lie that I sprang from their mouldy roots.
My deeds be my escutcheon!
Talavera.
Cease your boasts,
And give performances—at least, in words.
Columbus.
From all that I have learned—seen—meditated—
All I have viewed with Inspiration's help,
41
I swear that on the farther side o' the earth,
Balancing that which we now know and walk,
Is land!—great continents of unknown land!
Which I can reach, with westward-pointed prow,
And through it Asia, with her wealth-crammed mines,
All to be thus for God's own glory gained.
Deza.
Bravo!—thrice bravo!—'tis a mingled voice
Of Heaven and Earth, that brings these words to us!
Fifth Scientist.
All hail to this discoverer of new lands—
This king of topsy-turvey, whose domains
Cling unto earth as do the barnacles
Sometimes upon the bottom of a ship!
Stand him upon his head and crown his heels!
Despatch him for his realms in ships capsized!
He shall send word of matters in his land,
In characters inverted; he shall tell
How rain falls upward; how the forest trees
Tower downward in the cellarage of space;
His subjects, taking lessons from the flies,
Shall creep along earth's ceiling dextrously,
Lest they might fall and strike against a star;
He shall write, “Have you any medicines
For rush of blood to th' head? If so, please send
Them quickly as you can!”
Deza.
If so there be
Medicaments that maybe might induce
A rush of brains to th' head, send you for them.
Columbus.
This world's a miracle, made by our God—
Himself Great Miracle of Miracles.
All things are relative; and it may be
42
Look downward as do we.
Sixth Scientist.
His head is turned.
But, mystic mariner, suppose you reach
Those far-off countries: how will you bring back
The ships and treasures that you took from us,
To say nought of the riches that you find?
How would you contract for a western gale
So strong that it will push you up the hill
That you have glided o'er so easily?
Seventh Scientist.
More miracles The whole thing shall be done
By miracle!
Eighth Scientist.
Since God's hand is besought
To help this project, it perchance were well
To ask Him His opinion of the same.
I have here fifty texts from sacred books,
Proving this scheme to be illusory,
Which, so it please the Council, I will read.
Deza.
Block not this pious project with the Bible!
Do you not know that in its mystery-depths
Are pearls whose gleam our weak eyes cannot see?
Columbus.
Little by little, as God gives us light,
We read the sacred cipher of His word;
Not only of His word, but of His works,
Doth He reveal Himself. He would have us
To know and do and conquer for ourselves.
43
And flout each other coldly—neither one
The other understanding—time may be
When they can dwell together. Then will come
Their wedding-day, and the world shall rejoice.
Talavera.
You should be pious—you who prophesy
So glibly of heaven-work. But what hear I
Of various indiscretions your wild soul
Has not escaped? Inform us fully, seer.
Columbus
(hanging his head).
I am not perfect. I have borne grave sins
That plague me sore. The very monk is here
To whom I have confessed.
Deza.
This Council, then,
Is a confessional, which seeks perfection?
Perfection then should rule it. Let him rise,
Whose morals have no flaw—who in his heart
(Which, we are told, can nothing hide from God)
Hath ne'er committed sin. If any one
Who'll stand my cross-examination for an hour
Be here, pray let him rise and quiz this man,
And summon Heaven to witness what he says.
[A strange and sudden interval of silence.
First Scientist.
I have friends that I must meet,
Waiting me in yonder street.
[Exit.
Second Scientist.
I must go and con a book
In yon cloister's quiet nook.
[Exit.
Third Scientist.
Leaving quickly I must be,
As my dinner waits for me.
[Exit.
44
I a map must finish soon,
Of the mountains of the moon.
[Exit.
Fifth Scientist.
I must teach a class of youth
First-class cosmographic truth.
[Exit.
[The Council breaks up in confusion.
Strange as it may now appear, these, and many other equally brilliant arguments, were advanced against Columbus' scheme by the so-called learned men of the time.
Scene II.
Court of Barcelona. Columbus, having returned from his successful and triumphant voyage, is enjoying a grand reception by the delighted monarchs, Isabella and Ferdinand. They seat him beside them.Ferdinand.
Grandest sailor of the zones,
Piercer of the storm-cloud's breast,
Finder of the lost unknowns,
Joiner of the East and West,
Julius Cæsar sent from Spain,
Conqueror of the setting sun,
Alexander of the main,
All the heroes fused in one,
Thou perchance hast made our lot
Regions such as Rome had not;
Thou wilt bring us splendors grand,
Such as Spain has never seen;
Thou wilt make our twofold land
Of this earth the treasurer-queen.
Thou, the king of storm and tide,
Now art welcome at our side;
Thou art worthy in the gleam
Of our jewelled crowns to beam;
Welcome to these hearts and hands,
Admiral of the Western lands!
[Te Deum Laudamus
Isabella.
Music not on earth is met,
Word hath not been written yet,
47
Worthy of God's praise to-day!
Nothing mind or heart can raise
Are sufficient for his praise.
He hath led our messenger,
Unappalled by mortal fear,
Through the forests of the waves,
Over luckless seamen's graves;
Climbing, on his mission strange,
Many an ocean mountain range,
Till he touched th' uncharted strand
Of a wealth-strewn pagan land.
'Mong new millions, that ne'er heard
Preaching of the Sacred Word,
He hath given us the glory
First to bear the Sacred Story;
Richest honors now confer
On this brave-souled messenger!
Columbus.
Sovereigns of the twofold reign,
Rulers of my heart and brain—
Insane Woman
(rushing into presence of sovereigns).
Give me my husband back! Give him to me, I say!
What do I care for his worlds? He took my world away!
What is your praise to Heaven, while Heaven your cruelty grieves?
I want my husband back! Give him to me, you thieves!
Oh, shake your diamond robes, dazzle my eyes as you may!
Crown this foreigner-villain that takes our husbands away!
Yes, he has brought you gold, robbed from good men's lives;
Yes, he has brought you Indians, stolen from others' wives;
Ingrate! where is the woman who loved and cherished you?
Why do you keep to yourself the part that is her due?
[She is dragged away by the guards, still struggling and screaming.
Columbus.
Sovereigns of the twofold reign,
Rulers of my heart and brain,
48
Sweeter, for the toil and danger,
Than I found—unwelcome stranger—
On the wide, mysterious sea.
Mariners of royal life,
You who sailed the waves of strife;
You who pressed the camp's rough pillows,
You who breasted war's red billows,
For the meed of sacred fame,
And Christ's holy sacred name,
Now in heathen lands His wraith
In that sepulchre still lies,
'Mid those hordes of pagan faith.
Sad and suffering are His eyes,
Drooping are His nail-scarred hands;
Can you hear His mild commands?
Can you hear His sacred moans?
“I am not among my own;
They received me not when living,
They protect me not when dead.
Must I suffer—still forgiving—
In a foeman-guarded bed?”
Sovereigns, I the vow have made
That this Western march of mine
Shall be first of a crusade
To that Eastern tomb divine.
When, through walls of darkest night,
First I saw that signal-light,
When, at far approach of day,
Ere the starlight sailed away,
There amid the twilight grand
Loomed the longed-for prize of land—
[Enter Rodrigo de Triana, a mariner, struggling through the guards.
Rodrigo.
Give me my velvet doublet, and my pension!
Columbus offered to whomever of his crew might first discover land a doublet of velvet. There had also been offered a pension by Ferdinand and Isabella. About ten o'clock one evening Columbus thought he saw a light in the distance which might proceed from some torch or lantern upon the land. He called a witness to view it with him, but they saw only occasional flashes of it afterwards. They were not considered at the time as indicating land by any one except Columbus, who evidently exhibited, at this time as at others, the superiority of his judgement over those who associated with him. At two the next morning land was discovered by Roger de Triana, a common sailor, who claimed the doublet and the pension; but the rewards were given to Columbus, on account of his having perceived the lights. The historical enemies of Columbus, of whom there are many, have loudly denounced the action of Columbus in thus taking away the pension from a poor sailor, some of them asserting that he did it “to increase his revenue;” but it is likely that he cared more for the honor of the achievement than for any financial benefit to be derived from it. The poor mariner Triana is said to have been so disgusted at the decision against him that he renounced his country and his religious faith, went to Africa, and became a Mohammedan.
Ferdinand.
Hush, mariner! your tongue makes scars within
Our solemn festival.
49
No wonder, king!
This Christ you fight for, did not He denounce
Injustice? Shall this Christless Christian, then,
Pose in His name? 'Twas I who first found land!
He saw a light, he says, in the black west.
Is fire, then, land? Or, “'twas a fisherman,
Whose torch arose and fell upon the waves!”
Is a boat land? Boats are for lack of land.
If boats are land, we carried land with us.
Or who can tell what boat the light was of?
Perchance some other member of our fleet.
Why should, then, this white-polled Italian rogue—
Laden from hold to deck with honors—try
To steal a sailor's hammock? Say I still,
Give me my velvet doublet and my pension!
Ferdinand.
How's this, Columbus?
Columbus.
Nothing care I, King,
For doublet or for pension; only still
To hold the honor first t' have sighted land.
Isabella.
But one admitted, they must go together.
Columbus
(firmly).
Then I claim all.—
Rodrigo.
And lose your lie-gashed soul.—
Forger of log-books—swindler of your crews—
Wear on your crest an honest sailor's curse!
May all your glory rust to iron chains
That drag you through disgrace! I pray to God
That when I found those isles, I found your grave!
May others steal your credit and your fame!
May e'en your name be blotted from that land
You claim you have discovered!
50
Guards, he raves;
Tear him away.
Rodrigo
(struggling as he is borne along).
I'll to another land,
And try Mahomet's justice. Farewell, thief!
Columbus.
Perchance he knows where still are other worlds,
And can lead other sailors there, as I
Led him to that.
Isabella.
Mind not these summer clouds
That flit before your glory. You shall now
Give us in detail all that you have seen
In yonder land of wonders. Who comes here?
[Enter First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Scientists.
The term “Scientist” is employed in this poem as with no idea of reproach toward the scientists of the present day, who, it is needless to say, are of an entirely different class from those of the time of Columbus, and generally at the lead of all discovery and progress.
First Scientist.
Grand Confirmer of my views,
Welcome, with thy dazzling news!
Second Scientist.
Learning's true and valiant knight,
Well I knew that thou wast right!
Third Scientist.
All opposing voice be stilled!
My predictions are fulfilled!
Fourth Scientist.
Heaven in mercy hath devised
That my hopes be realized!
Fifth Scientist.
Brother of our learnèd band,
Let me shake thy hardy hand!
51
What can courage not display,
When we scholars lead the way?
Seventh Scientist.
Tracer of our well-mapped sea,
We must give you a degree!
Deza.
Scholars, call him, if you please,
Brave Bewilderer of Degrees,
Grand Extinguisher of Schools.
Taught by educated fools;
Give Columbus this degree:
Famous Foe of Pedantry.
Scene III.
a humble room in the city of Valladolid. Columbus dying. He speaks to his servant.
Lift me down softly—softly!—this crushed form
Is dying old—old even beyond its years.
Is this my prayer-book? I have grown half-blind.
Hunting for worlds. Now once more must I search
And find my future home, where, maybe, I
Can serve beneath a king who will be just.
My breath drags anchor.—Ah! and so the Queen
Has abdicated for a higher throne,
And sleeps on beds of marble. I would fain
Have kissed once more that warm and shapely hand,
And drank again her blue eyes' sympathy,
And felt the heart-help of her soft, sweet voice.
Christ grant we heav'n together! Paradise
Would be a lonely port without my Queen.
Ah, Pain! Pain! Pain! how you are mocking me!
Is 't what I have done brings these agonies,
Or good left undone? Yes, I've much of both
T' account for; but my steps meant to be true.
Ah! 'twas a glorious dream—that grand crusade
Westward—to win Christ's Empire in the East!
Th' accomplishing of it might have been enough
T' have saved me now from dying poor—alone—
Nor son nor brother near me. 'Tis my fate;
Whatever Christ ordains—that be my fate;
It may be 'tis for needful discipline:
All purgatories are not after death.
Is dying old—old even beyond its years.
Is this my prayer-book? I have grown half-blind.
Hunting for worlds. Now once more must I search
And find my future home, where, maybe, I
Can serve beneath a king who will be just.
My breath drags anchor.—Ah! and so the Queen
Has abdicated for a higher throne,
And sleeps on beds of marble. I would fain
Have kissed once more that warm and shapely hand,
And drank again her blue eyes' sympathy,
And felt the heart-help of her soft, sweet voice.
Christ grant we heav'n together! Paradise
Would be a lonely port without my Queen.
Ah, Pain! Pain! Pain! how you are mocking me!
Is 't what I have done brings these agonies,
Or good left undone? Yes, I've much of both
T' account for; but my steps meant to be true.
52
Westward—to win Christ's Empire in the East!
Th' accomplishing of it might have been enough
T' have saved me now from dying poor—alone—
Nor son nor brother near me. 'Tis my fate;
Whatever Christ ordains—that be my fate;
It may be 'tis for needful discipline:
All purgatories are not after death.
Ah, that October morning! 'Twas a life—
'Twas twenty—fifty—nay, a thousand lives
Of days and nights eventless—when, behold,
My first land smiled upon me from the West!
It was a fairy dream come over-true;
It was a score of prostrate, plodding years
Turned upright toward the skies! It was my word
Shown to be gold 'mong the black dust of scorn
That covered it for tedious nights and days!
“Land! Land! Land! Land!” the happy sailors cried:
“You are a god!” they shouted: “You tore down
The key to Heaven's far secret! You are blessed
By all the saints!” They crawled and kissed my feet;
They begged for favors in my new domains;
They prayed for pardons of past mutinies;
But all that was as nothing. Came a voice,
Out of some unknown regions of my soul:
“You have found fame that ne'er can be forgot!
You are the greatest conqueror history knows!
A new, grand kind of conqueror—one who finds
The lands he subjugates!”—My God! my God!
Will nothing still this pain? It murders me!
'Twas twenty—fifty—nay, a thousand lives
Of days and nights eventless—when, behold,
My first land smiled upon me from the West!
It was a fairy dream come over-true;
It was a score of prostrate, plodding years
Turned upright toward the skies! It was my word
Shown to be gold 'mong the black dust of scorn
That covered it for tedious nights and days!
“Land! Land! Land! Land!” the happy sailors cried:
“You are a god!” they shouted: “You tore down
The key to Heaven's far secret! You are blessed
By all the saints!” They crawled and kissed my feet;
They begged for favors in my new domains;
They prayed for pardons of past mutinies;
But all that was as nothing. Came a voice,
Out of some unknown regions of my soul:
“You have found fame that ne'er can be forgot!
You are the greatest conqueror history knows!
A new, grand kind of conqueror—one who finds
The lands he subjugates!”—My God! my God!
Will nothing still this pain? It murders me!
Then my return! That bright land-voyage from
Seville to Barcelona! Surging waves
Of loud applause broke swiftly o'er my bark,
And gales of acclamation swept me on.
No more I tossed in Poverty's canoe;
My land-cruise was a fleet of brigantines,
With Victory's flag far flowing from the mast!
Ah, that rich April day, when the brave Queen
At Barcelona drew me to her throne!
When the wool-comber's tardily-honored son
Rode, king-like, through the flag-trimmed, shouting streets,
Escorted by Spain's grandest cavaliers,
Wherein proud generations stored their blood—
Whereon a thousand victory-jewels gleamed!
That was a life—a thousand lives in one!
My painted Indians walked along the street,
Like prisoners in a Roman triumph. Though
Some tears they shed, brewed by their home-sick hearts,
Some sighs they wafted toward the dreamy West,
Some pangs they suffered for their absent loves;
'Twas but required to heap my glory full;
My triumph's throne must needs foundation find
On some one's woe (all earthly honors crush
Beneath their feet the hopes of some who fail);
Women raved at me for their husbands, dead;
(All victories flaunt their banners over graves!)
Old Rodrigo deemed he discovered first
The land I brought him to:—well, every prize
Is grudged by those who lose it. 'Twas too sad
To see the poor, sour, disappointed man
Dive to the depths of infidelity!
Better, perhaps, t' have given him the boon,
Than see him lose that greatest boon—his soul!
Seville to Barcelona! Surging waves
Of loud applause broke swiftly o'er my bark,
And gales of acclamation swept me on.
No more I tossed in Poverty's canoe;
My land-cruise was a fleet of brigantines,
With Victory's flag far flowing from the mast!
53
At Barcelona drew me to her throne!
When the wool-comber's tardily-honored son
Rode, king-like, through the flag-trimmed, shouting streets,
Escorted by Spain's grandest cavaliers,
Wherein proud generations stored their blood—
Whereon a thousand victory-jewels gleamed!
That was a life—a thousand lives in one!
My painted Indians walked along the street,
Like prisoners in a Roman triumph. Though
Some tears they shed, brewed by their home-sick hearts,
Some sighs they wafted toward the dreamy West,
Some pangs they suffered for their absent loves;
'Twas but required to heap my glory full;
My triumph's throne must needs foundation find
On some one's woe (all earthly honors crush
Beneath their feet the hopes of some who fail);
Women raved at me for their husbands, dead;
(All victories flaunt their banners over graves!)
Old Rodrigo deemed he discovered first
The land I brought him to:—well, every prize
Is grudged by those who lose it. 'Twas too sad
To see the poor, sour, disappointed man
Dive to the depths of infidelity!
Better, perhaps, t' have given him the boon,
Than see him lose that greatest boon—his soul!
My second voyage! That September morn
I sailed from Cadiz! No more humbleness!
How they all fawned upon me! “Here he comes!”
The great Columbus! Ah, no one like me!
I was an angel! (One, be't understood,
That could endure all hardships for their sakes,
An angel with earth-favors he could grant.)
I walked among the cringing, common clay,
An Alexander without stature's lack,
For I towered head and shoulders 'bove them all!
How like a sailor-king I looked and felt!
'Twas a great day! And even then there came
(As always may—a cloud to every sky)
A bent and withered crone close to my side,
And whispered shrilly upward in my ear:
“Give credit to the pilot and his crew
Who lent you log and charts at Terceras;
Then died within your house and told no tales!”
I pushed the hag away, but not the lie:
It clung to me, and formed a dingy stain
On my renown, and always will be told.
Heaven rest the poor old pilot; I even had
To lend him charts with which to seek for heaven!
How little did he think to mar my fame!
I sailed from Cadiz! No more humbleness!
How they all fawned upon me! “Here he comes!”
The great Columbus! Ah, no one like me!
I was an angel! (One, be't understood,
That could endure all hardships for their sakes,
An angel with earth-favors he could grant.)
I walked among the cringing, common clay,
An Alexander without stature's lack,
For I towered head and shoulders 'bove them all!
How like a sailor-king I looked and felt!
'Twas a great day! And even then there came
54
A bent and withered crone close to my side,
And whispered shrilly upward in my ear:
“Give credit to the pilot and his crew
Who lent you log and charts at Terceras;
Then died within your house and told no tales!”
Alluding to the story that Columbus received his first ideas of land to westward from an old pilot who, in 1484, eight years previous to the voyage from Palos, had died in his house at Terceras, and left him all his charts and log-books, containing an account of his having been driven westward upon a recent voyage until he found an island (claimed to have been the present San Domingo). This story has been exploded again and again, but is still brought up to the discredit of Columbus, and will probably always be, according to the (fictitious) hag's prophecy.
I pushed the hag away, but not the lie:
It clung to me, and formed a dingy stain
On my renown, and always will be told.
Heaven rest the poor old pilot; I even had
To lend him charts with which to seek for heaven!
How little did he think to mar my fame!
Ah, that sad voyage homeward, decked in chains!
When Bobadilla—proud, religious knave—
Judge and attorney both—condemning me
From his ship's deck—before he reached my land!
Then, Espinosa—menial, scullion, slave—
A creature I had lifted from sad depths—
Hammered the fetters on my storm-scarred wrists.
So, with such jewels, I re-entered Spain;
So different from the glory-spangled day
When I brought back an empire in my hands!
The golden age of my career!—and this—
The grim iron age; yet no less proud was I,
Bearing sore envy's heavy metal gibes,
Than its unwilling plaudits.
Then those years
Through which I tarried to have justice done;
Nor lingered in the anteroom of sloth
(Waiting, with idleness, breeds agony),
But sailed for other crowns to give my Queen.
Even my old age toiled for this land of Spain
(Adopted by me—rich-brained foreigner—
And left a legacy of priceless worth)
As faithful as my prime. Oh, how they surge
And dash against my memory's dreary shore—
Those days and nights of age-resisted toil!
Days that I should have passed in glorious ease,
Nights that I should have slept on silken beds,
Surrounded by the splendors I had earned.
When Bobadilla—proud, religious knave—
Judge and attorney both—condemning me
From his ship's deck—before he reached my land!
Then, Espinosa—menial, scullion, slave—
A creature I had lifted from sad depths—
Hammered the fetters on my storm-scarred wrists.
So, with such jewels, I re-entered Spain;
So different from the glory-spangled day
When I brought back an empire in my hands!
The golden age of my career!—and this—
The grim iron age; yet no less proud was I,
Bearing sore envy's heavy metal gibes,
Than its unwilling plaudits.
Then those years
Through which I tarried to have justice done;
Nor lingered in the anteroom of sloth
(Waiting, with idleness, breeds agony),
But sailed for other crowns to give my Queen.
Even my old age toiled for this land of Spain
(Adopted by me—rich-brained foreigner—
And left a legacy of priceless worth)
As faithful as my prime. Oh, how they surge
And dash against my memory's dreary shore—
Those days and nights of age-resisted toil!
Days that I should have passed in glorious ease,
55
Surrounded by the splendors I had earned.
And here I die, attended by no crowd
Of waiting messengers, to tell the world
That it has lost a hero. Well, 'tis well!
I perish here as poor as I was born;
But so do all. The grave is Death's frontier,
Impassable; and even if 'twere not,
The living seize the wealth of th' dying ones.
A worthless, poor old mariner I die;
And so do all; launching on unknown seas,
And landing where—they can but only hope.
With all earth's living heroes far from me,
I die; and still cannot forego to think
That great discoveries may make glad this voyage,
Of such as each soul must make for itself;
That all the sailors of that farther shore
Will meet me when I land, and hail me chief.
Of waiting messengers, to tell the world
That it has lost a hero. Well, 'tis well!
I perish here as poor as I was born;
But so do all. The grave is Death's frontier,
Impassable; and even if 'twere not,
The living seize the wealth of th' dying ones.
A worthless, poor old mariner I die;
And so do all; launching on unknown seas,
And landing where—they can but only hope.
With all earth's living heroes far from me,
I die; and still cannot forego to think
That great discoveries may make glad this voyage,
Of such as each soul must make for itself;
That all the sailors of that farther shore
Will meet me when I land, and hail me chief.
[He dies.
[Enter the spirits of Freedom and Progress.
Spirit of Freedom.
Thou who foundst the free-born West,
Enter, strong, free soul, to rest.
Thou hast opened wide the door
Into refuge evermore,
Of those who, with longings high,
Cringe beneath an eastern sky.
Thou shalt always honored be,
By the Empire of the Free:
By that land across the main,
Which will far out-dazzle Spain;
Which, within the centuries bright,
That shall follow these of night,
Will disperse its beams afar,
As sometimes the morning-star
Sheds an earth-detected ray
In the glaring Summer day.
Rest, thou search-light of the sea,
Homeward thou didst guide the free!
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Hero, rest, but not for long:
All the brave and true and strong
Who possess the Hidden Land,
Soon will come to press thy hand.
Thou hadst flaws: thy gleaming brain
Bore some rust from Error's chain;
Thy fault-flecked but generous heart
From earth-passions could not part;
But if ever pain and grief
Out of glory snatched relief,
If the quarried gold can shine
When uncovered in the mine,
If the darkness can take flight
When appears the morning light,
All thy woes shall be redressed,
Patient Finder of the West;
All thy earth-born faults condoned,
Though by cavillers bemoaned;
Thy wrongs shall be made a theme
Of the true historian's choice,
And the poet's waking dream,
And the marble's silent voice.
When that late-born western land
Shall be rich and great and grand,
It will show its treasures vast—
It will celebrate its fame—
With a pageant unsurpassed—
Bearing thy illustrious name.
Long as Humankind believe
That 'tis duty to achieve;
Long as Faith can struggle free
For what she cannot yet see;
Long as Toil aspires to gain
Glory from fatigue and pain;
Long as Earth keeps on its way,
Marching, marching every day,
The Columbus still shall not
Be neglected or forgot.
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