Part 11 (1/2)
Oh People, all--Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, English, Irish, German, Jew, and Greek-- What see you, as you climb the Future's Peak?
Oh! no illusion. What looms there, shall wrench From life, all monsters out from h.e.l.l, to seek Dead consciences and plague earth with their stench.
II
Ascend, O Land of every Creed and Race!
Not thy full image, in New England's brook, Nor in the South's lagoon; though there, a look Delights us with thy chubby, infant face.
'Tis seas of joy, that sh.o.r.elessly replace The Ocean which, in time of old, forsook The prairies for the cloud, or spring in nook,-- That show thee, Grown, through G.o.d's abundant grace.
From East to West, how joy's high seas expand, Reflecting, not a foolish, mundane pride That, thinking it does all, sets G.o.d aside-- But Virtue which, with heart and head and hand, Works out G.o.d's purpose, with dear Christ for guide, And holy spirits Light to understand!
III
All Virtues from the longing of the soul; From wisdom, gained by sorrow through long ages; From inspiration of the bards, in rages That inter-marrying maniacs control A people's life, and drain its sea to shoal, And from the vision of sky-topping sages, Gasping for breath from rot in all its stages,-- Aye, these and new-born Genius loom there Whole.
Look, People! Little less than G.o.d's own size, Your virtues merge and, with speed G.o.d-ward, burn, An unconsuming sun, that at no turn In spiral flight, for still a grander rise, Lets night advance where human Rights still yearn, Except with great, new stars and dawning skys!
THE INEVITABLE
I
Behold two fleets, the one with woe for trail, The other, rapture. As they sight the strait, Through which but one can pa.s.s, Greed, urged by Hate, Drives Thraldom's crafts with help of steam and gale.
They feel their way. The guns, with which they hale, Raise jets, that look tall elms from Hope, the gate, To Peace, the Palace; then, their speed is great, Manoeuvering fast to head off, or a.s.sail.
Drawing the sea up for his driving steam, Greed breaks all mirrors in his grand state room, That show him dark inevitable doom, Close hovering, and exults: ”I am Supreme.
When seas lack water for my funnel fume, I bid life send its every crimson stream.”
II
What! in the darkness lowers boat after boat From Freedom's fleet, and each with lightening oars?
Treasons to G.o.d and country are the rowers.
They are the Gold and Hireling Brain, that gloat On conscience body with face down, afloat.
Why hail they Greed, to run on menial ch.o.r.es From deck to deck, or to and from all sh.o.r.es?
Why? To ensure the payment of a note.
Meanwhile, brisk Freedom's fleets with justice manned, And cosmic full momentum for their speed, Confront the crafts, fired up by fiendish Greed.
A clash and--lo! they pa.s.s the strait and land, Leaving in smoldering heaps, like autumn's weed, The hulks of thrall along time's vultured strand.