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WASHINGTON
WHEN dreaming kings, at odds with swift paced time, |
| Would strike that banner down, |
| A nobler knight than ever writ or rhyme |
| With fame’s bright wreath did crown |
| Through armed hosts bore it till it floated high |
| Beyond the clouds, a light that cannot die! |
| Ah, hero of our younger race! |
| Great builder of a temple new! |
| Ruler, who sought no lordly place! |
| Warrior, who sheathed the sword he drew! |
| Lover of men, who saw afar |
| A world unmarred by want or war, |
| Who knew the path, and yet forbore |
| To tread, till all men should implore; |
| Who saw the light, and led the way |
| Where the gray would might greet the day; |
| Father and leader, prophet sure, |
| Whose will in vast works shall endure, |
| How shall we praise him on this day of days, |
| Great son of fame who has no need of praise? |
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| How shall we praise him? Open wide the doors |
| Of the fair temple whose broad base he laid. |
| Through its white halls a shadowy cavalcade |
| Of heroes moves o’er unresounding floors— |
| Men whose brawned arms upraised these columns high, |
| And reared the towers that vanish in the sky,— |
| The strong who, having wrought, can never die. |
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LINCOLN
AND, lo! leading a blessed host comes one |
| Who held a warring nation in his heart; |
| Who knew love’s agony, but had no part |
| In love’s delight; whose mightly task was done |
| Through blood and tears that we might walk in joy, |
| And this day’s rapture own no sad alloy. |
| Around him heirs of bliss, whose bright brows wear |
| Palm-leaves amid their laurels ever fair. |
| Gaily they come, as though the drum |
| Beat out the call their glad hearts knew so well: |
| Brothers once more, dear as of yore, |
| Who in a noble conflict nobly fell. |
| Their blood washed pure you banner in the sky, |
| And quenched the brands laid ’neath these arches high— |
| The brave who, having fought, can never die. |
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| Then surging through the vastness rise once more |
| The aureoled heirs of light, who onward bore |
| Through darksome times and trackless realms of ruth |
| The flag of beauty and the torch of truth. |
| They tore the mask from the foul face of wrong; |
| Even to God’s mysteries they dared aspire; |
| High in the choir they built yon altar-fire, |
| And filled these aisles with color and with song: |
| The ever-young, the unfallen, wreathing for time |
| Fresh garlands of the seeming-vanished years; |
| Faces long luminous, remote, sublime, |
| And shining brows still dewy with our tears. |
| Back with the old glad smile comes one we knew— |
| We bade him rear our house of joy today. |
| But Beauty opened wide her starry way, |
| And he passed on. Bright champions of the true, |
| Soldiers of peace, seers, singers ever blest,— |
| From the wide ether of a loftier quest |
| Their winged souls throng our rites to glorify,— |
| The wise who, having known, can never die. |
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DEMOCRACY
FOR, lo! the living God doth bare his arm. |
| No more he makes his house of clouds and gloom. |
| Lightly the shuttles move within his loom; |
| Unveiled his thunder leaps to meet the storm. |
| From God’s right hand man takes the powers that sway |
| A universe of stars. |
| He bows them down; he bids them go or stay; |
| He tames them for his wars. |
| He scans the burning paces of the sun, |
| And names the invisible orbs whose courses run |
| Through the dim deeps of space. |
| He sees in dew upon a rose impearled |
| The swarming legions of a monad world |
| Begin life’s upward race. |
| Voices of hope he hears |
| Long dumb to his despair, |
| And dreams of golden years |
| Meet for a world so fair. |
| For now Democracy doth wake and rise |
| From the sweet sloth of youth. |
| By storms made strong, by many dreams made wise, |
| He clasps the hand of Truth. |
| Through the armed nations lies his path of peace, |
| The open book of knowledge in his hand. |
| Food to the starving, to the oppressed release, |
| And love to all he bears from land to land. |
| Before his march the barriers fall, |
| The laws grow gentle at his call. |
| His glowing breath blows far away |
| The fogs that veil the coming day,— |
| That wondrous day |
| When earth shall sing as through the blue she rolls |
| Laden with joy for all her thronging souls. |
| Then shall want’s call to sin resound no more |
| Across her teeming fields. And pain shall sleep, |
| Soothed by brave science with her magic lore; |
| And war no more shall bid the nations weep. |
| Then the worn chains shall slip from man’s desire, |
| And ever higher and higher |
| His swift foot shall aspire; |
| Still deeper and more deep |
| His soul its watch shall keep, |
| Till love shall make the world a holy place, |
| Where knowledge dare unveil God’s very face. |
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| Not yet the angels hear life’s last sweet song. |
| Music unutterably pure and strong |
| From earth shall rise to haunt the peopled skies, |
| When the long march of time, |
| Patient in birth and death, in growth and blight, |
| Shall lead man up through happy realms of light |
| Unto his goal sublime. |
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