Part 23 (1/2)

Den up t'ro de gloomerin' meadows, T'ro de col' night rain an' win', An' up t'ro de gloomerin' rain-paf Whar de sleet fa' piercin' thin -- De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol'

Dey all comes gadderin' in.

De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', Dey all comes gadderin' in!

Black Sheep. [Richard Burton]

From their folded mates they wander far, Their ways seem harsh and wild; They follow the beck of a baleful star, Their paths are dream-beguiled.

Yet haply they sought but a wider range, Some loftier mountain-slope, And little recked of the country strange Beyond the gates of hope.

And haply a bell with a luring call Summoned their feet to tread Midst the cruel rocks, where the deep pitfall And the lurking snare are spread.

Maybe, in spite of their tameless days Of outcast liberty, They're sick at heart for the homely ways Where their gathered brothers be.

And oft at night, when the plains fall dark And the hills loom large and dim, For the Shepherd's voice they mutely hark, And their souls go out to him.

Meanwhile, ”Black sheep! Black sheep!” we cry, Safe in the inner fold; And maybe they hear, and wonder why, And marvel, out in the cold.

Let me no more a Mendicant. [Arthur Colton]

Let me no more a mendicant Without the gate Of the world's kingly palace wait; Morning is spent, The sentinels change and challenge in the tower, Now slant the shadows eastward hour by hour.

Open the door, O Seneschal! Within I see them sit, The feasters, daring destiny with wit, Casting to win Or lose their utmost, and men hurry by At offices of confluent energy.

Let me not here a mendicant Without the gate Linger from dayspring till the night is late, And there are sent All homeless stars to loiter in the sky, And beggared midnight winds to wander by.

Lincoln, the Man of the People. [Edwin Markham]

When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need.

She took the tried clay of the common road -- Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.

Into the shape she breathed a flame to light That tender, tragic, ever-changing face.

Here was a man to hold against the world, A man to match the mountains and the sea.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The smack and tang of elemental things; The rect.i.tude and patience of the cliff; The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; The friendly welcome of the wayside well; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The secrecy of streams that make their way Beneath the mountain to the rifted rock; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking flower As to the great oak flaring to the wind -- To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky.

Sprung from the West, The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, The hush of s.p.a.cious prairies stilled his soul.

Up from log cabin to the Capitol, One fire was on his spirit, one resolve -- To send the keen ax to the root of wrong, Clearing a free way for the feet of G.o.d.

And evermore he burned to do his deed With the fine stroke and gesture of a king: He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man.