Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay revised and illustrated edition |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay | ||
THE STATUE OF OLD ANDREW JACKSON
When the statue of Andrew Jackson before the White House in Washington is removed, America is doomed. The nobler days of America's innocence, in which it was set up, always have a special tang for those who are tasty. But this is not all. It is only the America that has the courage of her complete past that can hold up her head in the world of the artists, priests and sages. It is for us to put the iron
Please read Lorado Taft's History of American Sculpture, pages 123–127, with these matters in mind. I quote a few bits:
“... The maker of the first equestrian statue in the history of American sculpture: Clark Mills. ... Never having seen General Jackson or an equestrian statue, he felt himself incompetent ... the incident, however, made an impression on his mind, and he reflected sufficiently to produce a design which was the very one subsequently executed. ... Congress appropriated the old cannon captured by General Jackson. ... Having no notion, nor even suspicion of a dignified sculptural treatment of a theme, the clever carpenter felt, nevertheless, the need of a feature. ... He built a colossal horse, adroitly balanced on the hind legs, and America gazed with bated breath. Nobody knows or cares whether the rider looks like Jackson or not.
“The extraordinary pose of the horse absorbs all attention, all admiration. There may be some subconscious feeling of respect for a rider who holds on so well. ...”
(Written while America was in the midst of the war with Germany, August, 1918.)His arm was a hickory limb and a maul.
His sword was so long he dragged it on the ground.
Every friend was an equal. Every foe was a hound.
Defying kings in his old cocked hat.
But he sat straight up. He held his course.
Beat them out of their elegant jeans.
He piled the cotton-bales twenty feet high,
And he snorted “freedom,” and it flashed from his eye.
And cheered when he heard the Jackson swear:—
“By the Eternal, let them come.
Sound Yankee Doodle. Let the bullets hum.”
Till the British fops were dead and gone.
To set the sad big world to rights.
He joins the British and the French.
He cheers up the Italian trench.
He's making Democrats of these,
And freedom's sons of Japanese.
His hobby horse will gallop on
Till all the infernal Huns are gone.
Yes,
Yes!
By the Eternal!
Old Andrew Jackson!
Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay | ||