Class ?S^ 3.19_ 
 
 Book JkklS.'J 
 
 Copyright )^^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
SONGS OF EAST AND WEST 
 
SONGS OF 
 EAST AND WEST 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER MALONE 
 
 JOHN P. MORTON & COMPANY 
 LOUISVILLE 
 

 Twe Copies Received 
 : eopyrlght Entry 
 CLASS «- H^^^^-'No. 
 COPY B^__ 
 
 copyeight, 1906 
 By Walter Malonb 
 
<^ 
 
 -^ 
 
 !?! 
 
 ^i INDEX. 
 
 V PAGE 
 
 1^ Omar in Heaven 7 
 
 ^Opportunity 13 
 
 The Captured Battleship 14 
 
 The Reading Boy 16 
 
 San Gabriel Mission 18 
 
 The Desert 20 
 
 Dove of the Desert 22 
 
 Pasadena 23 
 
 Mountain Brook 25 
 
 Saint Augustine 28 
 
 The Everglades 29 
 
 A Night in Cuba 30 
 
 Noon in the Tropics 32 
 
 A MexicanjWayside Station 33 
 
 At the Cathedral of Mexico 36 
 
 In a Tropical Garden 38 
 
 Beside the Danube 40 
 
 At the Paris Morgue 42 
 
 The Wood Thrush 44 
 
 The Death of Poetry 46 
 
 In an Old Library 47 
 
 Drought 49 
 
 To One I Shall See No More 51 
 
 Preface to a Book of Poems 52 
 
 Carroll Vance 54 
 
 Ode 56 
 
 The World Is My Home 58 
 
SONGS OF 
 EAST AND WEST 
 
 OMAR IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Year after year I wait, reposing here 
 
 Among the Faithful, by the Prophet blest; 
 
 A stranger now to grief, remorse and fear. 
 
 My one-time restless heart is wreathed in rest. 
 
 The years glide on, and still they find me free 
 From every care that dogs the feet of men; 
 
 No sun on desert sand, no storm at sea. 
 Shall ever come to vex my soul again. 
 
 No clouded skies on pages ashen-gray 
 
 Reflect heart-breaking annals of the earth; 
 
 The Judas-kisses all have passed away. 
 
 With all the madness that eclipsed our mirth. 
 
 Here all the year is April, May or June, 
 
 With bud and blossom free from every blight; 
 
 Here all the day is everlasting noon. 
 With glory never dimming in the night. 
 
OMAR IN HEAVEN. 
 
 No thorns beset the beauty of the rose, 
 No sweet is ever tinctured with a sour; 
 
 We pluck no fruits, — a heavenly zephyr blows 
 And shakes the mellow apple from its bower. 
 
 No leaflet ever withers on the tree. 
 
 No bulbul song on desert waste is lost ; 
 
 From drought the date and olive flourish free. 
 No tulip ever shudders from the frost. 
 
 No traveler's camel pants and kneels to die 
 As hot siroccos fling their fiery dust; 
 
 No sun-scorched famine makes of earth and sky 
 A brazen oven and a blackened crust. 
 
 Here bubbling fountains, cold as mountain snow. 
 Refresh the pilgrim mad with feverish thirst; 
 
 Here verdant forests dim the noontide glow 
 For caravans from white-hot sands accurst. 
 
 Songs can not sing the glories here on high, 
 The white, white splendor of this blest estate; 
 
 One might rejoice ten thousand times to die 
 To peep one instant through its jeweled gate. 
 
 No hunter here pursues the swift gazelle. 
 The lad no longer here pursues the maid; 
 
 The fawn, grown fearless, knows her master well, 
 The loved one by her lover's side is laid. 
 
OMAR IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Around me, tripping with a dove-like tread, 
 Are seven times seventy houris, passing sweet; 
 
 With oils of roses they anoint my head, 
 And bring rose-water jars to wash my feet. 
 
 They bring me sherbets cool with creamy snow, 
 They scent my courts with frankincense and myrrh; 
 
 With peacock fans they make soft breezes blow, 
 And carol songs that set my heart astir. 
 
 Ah, they are fairer far than maids of earth. 
 And never flee the lover when he wooes. 
 
 They seek me dancing in delightful mirth. 
 And always come to kiss me when I choose. 
 
 They beg me think no more of loves of mine 
 In old-time Aprils there in haunts of men; 
 
 They bid me quaff their jug's mellifluous wine. 
 And never ask to see the Earth again. 
 
 Ah yes, they all surrender free of force, — 
 
 The bird comes captive though I set no snare; 
 
 Yet wines they hand me never bring remorse. 
 The love they lavish never brings despair. 
 
 And here in everlasting youth we stay, — 
 
 The youth of roseate feet and soft dark eyes; 
 
 Though fifty Sultans rule and pass away 
 The years flit soft as wings of butterflies. 
 
OMAR IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Yet, Iran, in my dreams I feel again 
 
 Your dear temptations, your delightful snares. 
 
 Your bitter-sweets, your pleasures mixed with pain, 
 Your blissful sorrows, your divine despairs. 
 
 I long for Bagdad's mosques and minarets, 
 For Shiraz, with its fig-trees, vines and palms; 
 
 For dear old Ispahan my spirit frets, — 
 
 O sight more soothing than Arabian balms! 
 
 I weary of these everlasting Springs, 
 
 These gardens with their never-fading flowers; 
 
 O, bring the North Wind on his eagle wings. 
 To quench their glory in his sleety showers! 
 
 Who cares for youth where every one is young? 
 
 Who values springtime life where none grow old? 
 All gold with iron in one heap were flung 
 
 If every ship came weighted down with gold. 
 
 Where every man is wealthy, none is rich; 
 
 Where bides no Evil, there can be no Good; 
 Without some valley's intervening niche 
 
 No mountain ever stands or ever stood. 
 
 Though youth on Earth soon shatters like a rose, 
 And love's fresh morning ends at last in night. 
 
 The song is sweeter for an early close, 
 Love ten times dearer for an early flight. 
 
OMAR IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Ah, sweet the prospect of a bhss pursued, 
 
 Yet sweeter still the bliss we gained and lost; 
 
 clutch it not with fingers fondly rude, 
 
 Or else to-morrow we shall count its cost. 
 
 We slay the white swan for his peerless plume, — 
 He falls, to splash in mire his snowy down; 
 
 We gather grapes, — our hands brush off their bloom ; 
 The creamy lily that we touch turns brown. 
 
 What though the damsel struggle from my arm? 
 
 What though she laughs and runs beyond my reach? 
 The cherry's tartness proves its chief est charm. 
 
 The topmost bough withholds the reddest peach. 
 
 Only one game is ever worth dispute, 
 
 Well won with ardors of an anxious day, — 
 
 To chase the prize, uncertain in pursuit, 
 And having won, soon feel it slip away. 
 
 1 envy Earth its secret, stolen bliss, 
 
 Its fond embraces, half withheld, then given, 
 Its lover's quarrels, crushed beneath a kiss. 
 
 Its fond farewells, that make a hell seem heaven. 
 
 I love the world, — its spice of doubts and fears. 
 Its sugared fictions, hiding heartless truth. 
 
 Its silvery laughter, shining through its tears, 
 The sweet, uncertain tenure of its youth. 
 
OMAR IN HEAVEN. 
 
 I beg the Prophet from his judgment seat 
 To let me steal to Earth from heights above, 
 
 Once more to test its wine-cup's dear deceit, 
 And taste the bitter honey of its love. 
 
OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 They do me wrong who say I come no more 
 When once I knock and fail to find you in; 
 
 For every day I stand outside your door, 
 
 And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win. 
 
 Wail not for precious chances past away, 
 Weep not for golden ages on the wane! 
 
 Each night I bum the records of the day, — 
 At sunrise every soul is bom again! 
 
 Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, 
 To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; 
 
 My judgments seal the dead past with its dead. 
 But never bind a moment yet to come. 
 
 Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep ; 
 
 I lend my arm to all who say "I can!" 
 No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep. 
 
 But yet might rise and be again a man! 
 
 Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast? 
 
 Dost reel from righteous Retribution's blow? 
 Then turn from blotted archives of the past. 
 
 And find the future's pages white as snow. 
 
 Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell; 
 
 Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven; 
 Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell. 
 
 Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven. 
 
 13 
 
THE CAPTURED BATTLESHIP. 
 
 In days long past no happier ship than I 
 
 Flung forth her empire's banner to the breeze; 
 
 No bolder bark withstood a stormy sky, 
 With fiercer ardor fought the foaming seas. 
 
 But then at last a day of evil came 
 
 On which we met. the onslaught of the foe. 
 
 Oh, who shall tell the story of my shame. 
 My desolation, my disgrace, my woe? 
 
 My hull was splintered by their bursting shells. 
 My tottering turrets down the deck were hurled; 
 
 I heard my dying seamen's shrieks and yells. 
 
 As red flames through the black smoke waved and 
 whirled. 
 
 I saw my gunners fall beside their guns, 
 
 I saw my captain, sword in hand, drop dead; 
 
 Shot after shot struck down my splendid sons, 
 And splashed my bosom with a frightful red. 
 
 Ah, could I then have foundered in the flood. 
 
 And won the glorious death that waits the brave! 
 
 Could I have sunk, baptized in precious blood. 
 To endless honor in an ocean grave! 
 
 14 
 
THE CAPTURED BATTLESHIP. 
 
 But no, they took me to their far-off shore, 
 And nailed their haughty standard to my mast; 
 
 I served my king, my fatherland, no more; 
 I fought the flag I bled for in the past! 
 
 So, Uke a Judas, I must sail the sea, 
 
 A traitor to the master loved so well; 
 A hated outcast, still I flee and flee. 
 
 Around me ocean — in my heart a hell! 
 
 And since that time, when days of peace have come, 
 I sometimes meet old comrade-ships I knew; 
 
 Ah, how they spurn me as they spurn the scum, 
 And pass me, shamed, and shrinking from their view ! 
 
 Sometimes at dusk I hear my sailors call, 
 
 And see their hands up-beckoning from the deep; 
 
 "Oh, come!" they tell me, "show them after all, 
 Your faith, your honor, you will die to keep!" 
 
 God grant some night an awful storm shall rise, 
 And give me chance for vengeance on this foe; 
 
 How I should gloat to hear their craven cries, 
 As I should pitch to take them all below! 
 
 Then I should shout above their last wild yell, 
 "I bring them, sons, a sacrifice to you! 
 
 They lied who said I did not love you well; 
 O, darling sailor boys, my soul is true!" 
 
 15 
 
THE READING BOY. 
 
 Sunk in the cushion of a high arm-chair, 
 A volume resting where his knees are crost, 
 
 With one hand slowly fumbling through his hair, 
 There sits the boy in magic pages lost. 
 
 At times he lifts a grave, though youthful face. 
 Revealing depths of eyes of liquid brown; 
 
 He seems a traveler from some far-off place 
 Who flees us as his flitting glance turns down. 
 
 O, dreamy boy, with fair May-morning brow, 
 What realms of wonders lure your restless feet? 
 
 In what far kingdom are you treading now? 
 What distant ocean bears your wandering fleet? 
 
 You sail with Sindbad through enchanted seas. 
 Your pockets stuffed with diamonds from his caves; 
 
 You and Aladdin gather gems from trees; 
 You give your orders to a thousand slaves. 
 
 With Crusoe you have rifled rich old wrecks. 
 You tame his parrot and you herd his goats; 
 
 With Captain Kidd you rake the foeman's decks, 
 And smiUng, cut freebooting rivals' throats. 
 
 i6 
 
THE READING BOY. 
 
 Columbus-like, you find another world, 
 You help Magellan sail the globe around; 
 
 Your flags with Drake and Raleigh float unfurled 
 From Dutch Guiana unto Puget Sound. 
 
 You sit with Alexander on his throne, 
 
 Yet conquer other worlds beyond his wake; 
 
 With Caesar you have bridged the Rhine and Rhone, 
 Yet worn the crown which Caesar dared not take. 
 
 And yet, my sturdy boy, you soon shall see 
 Youth's peerless poem dwindle into prose; 
 
 And soon your nimble feet, so wild and free, 
 Shall bleed from thorns of each caressing rose. 
 
 Boy-Caesar, in the Future's sullen shade. 
 
 Some envious Casca plans his traitorous part; 
 
 Some lean and hungry Cassius whets his blade, 
 
 Some much-loved Brutus waits to stab your heart. 
 
 Yet I salute you, ere your dreams go wrong; 
 
 To you, young master, see my head bowed down; 
 O, prince of romance, story, and of song, 
 
 O, lord of gladness, glory and renown! 
 
 17 
 
SAN GABRIEL MISSION. 
 
 A long, low building, reared of brick and stone, 
 
 An iron railing running up its side; 
 A churchyard with its graves weed-over grown. 
 
 And epitaphs which tall geraniums hide. 
 
 A plumy pepper-tree hangs billowy boughs 
 To shade the portal of the ancient church; 
 
 On crumbled walls the droning hornets drowse. 
 And now and then some pigeon finds a perch. 
 
 Two swarms of bees have found a quiet home 
 In hollowed niches of the Mission's side; 
 
 Here they have treasured honey, hung the comb, 
 As years have flourished, pined away and died. 
 
 Here in the chapel hang the old-time saints, 
 
 Brought centuries past from convent-cells of Spain; 
 
 Stern-browed and formal, in their vivid paints 
 They hold their own as empires wax and wane. 
 
 This quaint baptismal font of copper here, 
 Old monks beat into shape for pious need; 
 
 Here fired with zeal, yet half in doubt and fear, 
 Three thousand red men chose the white man's creed. 
 
 i8 
 
SAN GABRIEL MISSION. 
 
 Around the rectory door frail roses twine, 
 In pink and yellow clusters faintly sweet; 
 
 Lantanas glow like red and golden wine, 
 
 In brilliant sprays that hang from head to feet. 
 
 Flame not, lantana, with too bold a red. 
 Flush not, young rose, in vanity or pride; 
 
 Remember how your loving Master bled. 
 Remember how your loving Master died! 
 
 Without these walls one hears the mighty world 
 Rage like an awful ocean in alarm; 
 
 Here in this haven every sail is furled, 
 And every sailor safe from every harm. 
 
 Without these walls let revolutions roll. 
 
 Let epochs march, let progress never cease; 
 
 Here seek the balm that soothes the weary soul, 
 That gives the broken-hearted wanderer peace! 
 
 Los Angeles. 
 
 19 
 
THE DESERT. 
 
 Stretched helpless on the burning sands I lie, 
 While scorching suns beat on me as they pass. 
 
 Day after day I watch the glaring sky, 
 A fiery furnace reared like burnished brass. 
 
 Spread Uke a tawny lion's shaggy hide. 
 
 The yellow plains reach hillocks red and brown; 
 
 See here the bones where dogs and men have died, 
 While imp-faced rocks in hideous hate looked down ! 
 
 No living thing will come to share my grief, 
 Save when at night the famished coyotes howl, 
 
 Or, coiled at twilight by some withered sheaf, 
 The rattler hisses at the screeching owl. 
 
 Ah, if I only once could hear the birds 
 
 Trill songs of joy in woodlands fresh and cool! 
 
 Ah, if I only once could see the herds 
 
 Wade, lowing, knee-deep in some dark-green pool! 
 
 Ah, if I only once could feel the tide 
 
 Come thundering with its giant foaming waves; 
 
 Through all my burning veins cool streams should glide, 
 And raise the corpses from my world of graves! 
 
THE DESERT. 
 
 But year by year I wait and wait and wait, 
 
 And year by year I linger in despair; 
 Yet still I hear the stem decree of Fate; 
 
 "No rain, No rain!" through white-hot noons a-glare. 
 
 God, remember I was dear to Thee 
 
 In green, glad mornings ere I felt Thy frown. 
 
 1 am Thy daughter; hear and pity me. 
 Accurst and fruitless, withered, barren, brown! 
 
 A gray-haired virgin, still unwooed, unwed, 
 
 I waste away unloved and all alone; 
 My bosom is a dried-up river bed. 
 
 The heart within it but a dusty stone. 
 
 O, all Thy gifts are held beyond my grasp; 
 
 I am a woman; let me sweetly rest, 
 To feel a lover's arms around me clasp, 
 
 A tiny infant cooing on my breast! 
 
 No rain, no dew, from cruel sky or sea; 
 
 In restless, raging passion here I lie. 
 Like Rachel I am crying out to Thee, 
 
 "God, give me children, or else let me die!" 
 
DOVE OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Dove of the desert, so wild and so free, 
 
 What nook in this waste is dear unto thee? 
 Around you I see the dead cactus stand, 
 
 And brown, withered weeds on hot hills of sand. 
 Here yawns the red gully, here bums the dead plain. 
 
 Here hang the sharp rocks, all thirsty for rain. 
 O dove of the desert, so wild and so free. 
 
 What spot in these barrens is blest unto thee? 
 
 Dove of the desert, around thee are spread. 
 In the alkali dust, the bones of the dead. 
 
 No spring can be seen, no blossom uprears 
 
 Through the bayonet-bush with its porcupine spears. 
 
 No cloud cools the brow of the hot, fevered plain, 
 Unbaptized, unblest, with the patter of rain. 
 
 dove of the desert, as meek as a child. 
 
 What charm brings thee here to this death-haunted 
 wild? 
 
 Dove of the desert, you find a sweet rest 
 
 When sinking at night to sleep on your nest. 
 
 The desert is barren, and sterile and hot, 
 
 Yet it gives to your heart a consecrate spot. 
 
 1 traverse great cities, yet I find no home, 
 On the crowded streets I in solitude roam. 
 
 There out in the desert, you mate with your own, — 
 Dove of the desert, I fare forth alone. 
 
PASADENA. 
 
 Pasadena, charming town, 
 Wears a fruit-and-flower crown. 
 There the tendrils, boughs and twigs 
 Bend with lemons, grapes or figs. 
 Purple bougainvillea vines 
 Interlace with palms and pines, 
 And the buff and crimson cannas 
 Wave beside broad-leaved bananas. 
 
 In the dall5dng ocean breeze 
 Swing the feathery pepper- trees ; 
 Here nasturtiums, orange-red, 
 Wreathe the scarlet salvia-bed; 
 Here are lilies, pink or pied. 
 Spotted like a leopard's hide; 
 Here the marigold in yellow 
 Mocks the apricot grown mellow. 
 
 Morning glories float and flow 
 Like a cloud of indigo; 
 Blooming eucalyptus trees' 
 Blood-hued clusters tempt the bees; 
 Rank geraniums fringe the ways 
 With a splendid sunset blaze; 
 Like a flamed-robed Witch of Endor 
 Yon hibiscus shines in splendor. 
 
 23 
 
PASADENA. 
 
 Green pomegranates' blossom-stars 
 Glare and glow like angry Mars; 
 Here lantana clusters burn, 
 Trumpet-flowers with passion yearn. 
 Here are cactus, fuschia, rose, 
 Oleanders' fragrant snows. 
 Blue solanum, red tacoma. 
 Heliotrope with blest aroma. 
 
 Here are scattered on her slopes 
 Strawberries, melons, cantaloupes; 
 Here the golden orange clings, 
 Here the odorous grape-fruit swings. 
 Here are dangling in your reach 
 Olive, plum, and pear and peach, 
 Purple aster, red verbena. 
 Saffron poppy, — Pasadena ! 
 
 24 
 
MOUNTAIN BROOK. 
 
 Mountain brook, wild mountain brook, 
 Roaring through this rocky nook. 
 Tell me why you twist and toss 
 On from couch to couch of moss? 
 Tell me why your spirit yearns, 
 Heedless of caressing ferns, 
 And the laurel's pleading look 
 As she begs you linger, brook? 
 
 Hear the murmur of the pines, 
 Heed the kiss of columbines: 
 How they call to you to stay 
 Ere you leap your headlong way I 
 Yet in foaming haste you go. 
 Far from parent speaks of snow. 
 Leaping cream-white cascades down. 
 Speeding to yon lowland town. 
 
 Pause, O, pause before you leap 
 Down this vine-entangled steep! 
 Linger here with peaks of snow 
 Flushed with mom's carnation glow; 
 Linger here in hemlock bowers. 
 Play with rhododendron flowers; 
 Linger here in youth and joy, 
 Like a bonny blithesome boy! 
 
 25 
 
MOUNTAIN BROOK. 
 
 In that soiled and sinful town 
 Crystal waves are smirched with brown; 
 Soon your airy white attire 
 Draggles in the murky mire; 
 You shall curdle green with scum, 
 And your happy voice grow dumb. 
 Ere you leap, I beg you look. 
 Pure and peerless mountain brook! 
 
 But, you answer, "I must go 
 Far through panting plains below; 
 I must rescue fainting wheat 
 Drooping in the brazen heat; 
 I must bear to parching com 
 Vigor of this mountain mom; 
 I must bring from melting snows 
 Blood for blushes on the rose. 
 
 "I must come to aid of men 
 
 In yon far-off huddled den; 
 
 Rush where huts and hovels scowl 
 
 Over alleys close and foul. 
 
 I must make the factory hum. 
 
 Though it curdle me Avith scum. 
 
 I must cleanse the sink and sewer 
 
 Though they make myself impure." 
 
 Mountain brook, wild mountain brook. 
 Heaven had planned the course you took. 
 
 26 
 
MOUNTAIN BROOK. 
 
 Though the blossom soon must fade, 
 Though the leaf soon hangs decayed; 
 Though the star must sink in gloom, 
 Though I soon shall seek the tomb; — 
 Let us go with gladsome look, 
 God's hand leading, mountain brook. 
 
 27 
 
SAINT AUGUSTINE. 
 
 Saint Augustine, Saint Augustine, 
 
 What memories come to me. 
 
 While treading down your quaint old streets, 
 
 Along the tropic sea! 
 
 Where old Fort Marion rears his walls 
 
 Of mouldering shells and sand, 
 
 And green against an opal sky 
 
 The tall palmettos stand. 
 
 Here mocking-birds entrance the air 
 
 With keen and quivering notes. 
 
 And through the long gray Spanish moss 
 
 The red-bird's love-song floats. 
 
 Here orange gardens scent the breeze 
 
 With wreaths of starry blooms, 
 
 And citrons with the lemons hang 
 
 Like gold in emerald glooms. 
 
 Like Ponce de Leon, I have come, 
 
 Old town, forever young. 
 
 To find your bubbling Fount of Youth 
 
 For ages sought and sung. 
 
 Alas! I find you fresh and green, 
 
 Blithe in your old-time joy; 
 
 But man, for all his plaints and prayers, 
 
 Is only once a boy. 
 
 28 
 
THE EVERGLADES. 
 
 Vast, watery fields of slender waving grass; 
 Near by, a green and matted mangrove swamp; 
 Huge live-oak limbs where verdant creepers romp, 
 And orchids hang red flowers in a mass; 
 A river in a bramble-tangled pass, 
 Where trumpet blossoms swing in scarlet pomp; 
 Great bamboo thickets, oozy, dark and damp. 
 And starry lilies in a green morass. 
 
 White cranes on yonder cypress boughs alight. 
 
 An old gray heron stalks demure and slow; 
 
 Then gUding through the gray-mossed forest's night, 
 
 A water-snake dives in the dim bayou. 
 
 I wonder, as the reptile sinks from sight. 
 
 What monster shapes are swimming down below. 
 
 29 
 
A NIGHT IN CUBA. 
 
 Far out to sea the home-bound seabirds wing, 
 Dim in brief twiHght of the tropic day; 
 
 Then, one by one, Ughts of the city swing 
 A sparkling semicircle round the bay. 
 
 Above me, from its broad-leaved sheath of green, 
 A great banana hangs its purple husk; 
 
 Beside me, like a seraph half unseen. 
 An odorous oleander haunts the dusk. 
 
 The moon seems fallen from her throne on high. 
 So clear and close she comes to earthly view. 
 
 And in the blue corolla of the sky 
 Canopus quivers Hke a drop of dew. 
 
 A-thrill with passion, pierced with bhss and pain, 
 
 A Hght guitar obeys a lover's hands. 
 And pours a fervid and heart-broken strain. 
 
 Now sweet, now bitter, from its trembling strands. 
 
 O, lovelorn youth, your dark-brown liquid eyes 
 Need sweet caresses of the dews of sleep: 
 
 Your Ups were made for laughter, not for sighs; 
 Youth comes to gladden, not to make you weep! 
 
 30 
 
A NIGHT IN CUBA. 
 
 Youth's wild young feet were made to dance for joy; 
 
 Youth's sweet wild heart was made to leap with bhss ; 
 O revel in your glory, splendid boy, 
 
 For all the world is craving for your kiss! 
 
 In Cuban skies, the palm's imperial crest 
 Lifts plumes forever free from winter snows; 
 
 No frost shall ever blight the lily's breast, 
 Nor dim the glory of the ardent rose. 
 
 Remember, while that flower is free from frost, 
 That bud forever free from winter blight, 
 
 Youth, once escaping, is forever lost, 
 
 His feet have wings more swift than swallows' flight ! 
 
 31 
 
NOON IN THE TROPICS. 
 
 A violet ocean and a violet sky; 
 A glistening beach of red and yellow sands; 
 A promontory where one palm-tree stands; 
 Green orange^ groves, gold-fruited, far and nigh ; 
 Here clumps of cocoanuts soar to the sky. 
 Here spread the sugar and tobacco lands; 
 Here, deftly tilled by swarthy negro hands, 
 Pineapple fields in burning sunshine lie. 
 
 Ah, what relief, should summer pass away. 
 
 And bring this gorgeous pageant to a close! 
 
 Once more to see a dark November day 
 
 Shake down his dead leaves while the north wind blows ! 
 
 Once more to see December, cold and gray. 
 
 From leaden clouds sweep swirls of fluttering snows! 
 
 32 
 
A MEXICAN WAYSIDE STATION. 
 
 A red-hot sun is blazing fiercely down 
 
 On red-hot hills of dreary desert sand; 
 The ragged sage-brush all is scorched to brown, 
 
 And gray with dust the mesquite bushes stand. 
 
 Like grizzled ghosts the cactus thickets lift 
 Their gaunt, gnarled fingers, barbed with spines for claws ; 
 
 Thorn-girdled, thrusting from a rocky rift. 
 Are serried teeth of aloes sharp as saws. 
 
 A stockade wall surrounds a hut of mud. 
 
 Where naked urchins romp with mangy curs; 
 
 Dumb as a painted post, with scarlet hood, 
 A mongrel native stares but never stirs. 
 
 An ancient bucket hangs above a well. 
 
 The well-rope dangling from a crooked stick; 
 
 Here beggars swarm, their harrowing tales to tell. 
 
 Where hobbling hunchbacks crowd the maimed and sick. 
 
 And here a broken wooden plough is left. 
 Discarded with a battered wooden wheel. 
 
 And here like shipwrecked seamen, all bereft. 
 Two oxen by a shattered wagon kneel. 
 
 33 
 
A MEXICAN WAYSIDE STATION. 
 
 On brazen zinnias withering blazes beat, 
 
 The hollyhock in thirsty anguish dies; 
 The prickly-pears, a-blister in the heat, 
 
 Ooze out their sickly syrup for the flies. 
 
 But here a-swing from cracks of mud-built walls, 
 There blooms a peerless lovely yellow rose; 
 
 Her sweetness all the Northern Spring recalls, 
 New-born at melting of the northern snows. 
 
 And here, like Patience, still she waits and waits 
 In burning suns that doom her soon to die. 
 
 Yet never breathes a murmur at the fates 
 Who forced her exile from her native sky. 
 
 The railroad trains pass thundering North and South, 
 And bear rich gifts to others far away; 
 
 But here she lingers in the land of drought. 
 Forgotten as she fades from day to day. 
 
 Here one by one her golden petals fall. 
 
 Yet hear no sighs borne on her fragrant breath; 
 
 O Rose of Patience! Life soon takes your all, 
 And leaves you to an unregretted death. 
 
 And so, my heart, in patience still you wait, 
 While fame and fortune come and pass me by; 
 
 The great world rumbles on in pomp and state, — 
 It would not answer though it heard you cry. 
 
 34 
 
A MEXICAN WAYSIDE STATION. 
 
 So, glorious dreams, here I can only sit 
 
 With folded hands and watch you fade from view; 
 I smile in silence as I see you flit, 
 
 Yet all my life is lost in losing you. 
 
 35 
 
AT THE CATHEDRAL OF MEXICO. 
 
 Here gold and silver glimmer everywhere, 
 
 Through gracious twilight, down the solemn aisles; 
 
 A cloud of incense dims the dreamy air, 
 As up yon stair a long procession files. 
 
 They reach the altar; priests and chorus-boys 
 Are all enrobed in scarlet draped in white; 
 
 How quiet! Not the shadow of a noise 
 Disturbs the pious meaning of the sight. 
 
 Then like a constellation, star by star. 
 
 The golden candlesticks have burst in bloom; 
 
 Now like great winds from Paradise afar 
 The glorious organ pipes begin to boom. 
 
 The sweet, sharp voices of the bird-like boys 
 Respond to deep-toned chantings of the priest; 
 
 O what a call to heaven's transcendent joys 
 Beside the Bridegroom at His wedding feast! 
 
 Yon sculptured angel with the golden wings 
 Seems beckoning to a blissful realm above; 
 
 Ah, is it true, that song the choir-boy sings, 
 Of endless life, of everlasting love? 
 
 36 
 
AT THE CATHEDRAL OF MEXICO. 
 
 And then my gaze falls on a wooden saint 
 
 Whose wooden feet long in this niche have stood ; 
 
 Poor little doll! Your lips, through gaudy paint, 
 Seem saying "I would help you if I could." 
 
 O wooden saint, outside, on yonder square. 
 The Inquisition fixed its fearful stake; 
 
 O, whisper not the horrors that were there, — 
 And all qnacted for Religion's sake! 
 
 Down yonder street, housed in yon rambling pile, 
 Are hideous Aztec idols, all a-grin; — 
 
 Nay, do not shirk my question with a smile, — 
 Those Gods, like yours, presumed to pardon sin! 
 
 There stands the Aztec sacrificial stone; 
 
 Above it frightful Aztec idols scowl; 
 They heard ten thousand human victims groan. 
 
 And heard a million maddened votaries howl ! 
 
 Perplexed, confused between the warring creeds, 
 I can not tell which way to turn, in sooth. 
 
 My anxious soul, beset by sorest needs. 
 
 Like Pilate, still is asking "What is Truth?" 
 
 O, breathe me, wooden saint, one precious word! 
 
 Come, tell me, as we two forever part, — 
 Will all these prayers in heaven at last be heard, 
 
 Or end forever at your wooden heart? 
 
 37 
 
IN A TROPICAL GARDEN. 
 
 Here every honey-hearted sweet 
 
 In fruits of gold and red 
 
 The heavy-laden tropic trees 
 
 With rich profusion shed. 
 
 Here buff and scarlet blossoms hang 
 
 From vines of glossy green, 
 
 And humming birds, with ruby throats, 
 
 Like floating flames are seen. 
 
 Here pink and purple passion-flowers 
 
 Hang scarfs of airy silk, 
 
 And claret-clouded orchids bloom 
 
 By orchids white as milk. 
 
 Here red and yellow mangoes cling. 
 
 Here citrons bend the twigs. 
 
 Here green and golden melons trail, 
 
 Here swing delicious figs. 
 
 What gorgeous flowers, what luscious fruits 
 
 Unknown to me before! 
 
 I gaze in wonder on them now. 
 
 But soon shall see no more. 
 
 Their blaze of glory stills the speech. 
 
 Their brilliance blinds the eyes; 
 
 What Tyrian tints, what heavenly hues, 
 
 Like flaming sunset skies! 
 
 38 
 
IN A TROPICAL GARDEN. 
 
 No Northern violet opens here 
 Its baby eyes of blue; 
 No daisy lifts from tufted grass 
 To drink the morning dew. 
 No oak tree ever quivers here 
 In wanton winds of heaven; — 
 Ah, I am but a stranger, too. 
 Here for a moment driven. 
 
 tYet, Beauty ever hand in hand 
 
 With Sadness still is met; 
 
 These glories only fill my heart 
 
 With longing and regret. 
 
 What sorrow haunts this scented air 
 
 For bliss once all my own; 
 
 Yes, Love and Joy should both be mine. 
 
 Yet here am I alone! 
 
 39 
 
BESIDE THE DANUBE. 
 
 Beside the Danube let me sit 
 And view the scene before me, 
 
 While olden griefs and olden joys 
 On spirit wings flit o'er me. 
 
 This is the stream in song renowned, 
 Far-famed in storied pages. 
 
 Whose shores are haunted by the dreams 
 Of lost romantic ages. 
 
 And yet, O Danube, as I muse 
 Beside your rippling waters, 
 
 I think not of your chivalry, 
 Your splendid sons and daughters. 
 
 Forgotten are your mounts and vales. 
 Your peasant-cots, your castles, 
 
 Your Kings and Queens, your peace, your wars, 
 Your noblemen, your vassals. 
 
 I think of one who sang to me 
 In years gone by forever. 
 
 Of lovers, who one night in June 
 Rowed on you, Danube River. 
 
 O, I remember still that night, 
 Your city lights a-glimmer. 
 
 And how the mellow moon arose 
 And made your wavelets shimmer. 
 
 40 
 
BESIDE THE DANUBE. 
 
 Ah, in those days we never thought 
 We ever would be parted; 
 
 We thought to wander side by side, 
 Forever single-hearted. 
 
 How strange! Beneath her churchyard grass 
 She dreams no more, O, never. 
 
 Of one, six thousand miles away 
 Beside the Danube River. 
 
 Budapest. 
 
 41 
 
AT THE PARIS MORGUE. 
 
 Behind a glass, all in a ghastly row, 
 
 We here behold the loathsome pauper dead; 
 
 Sick at the sight, our horror bids us go; 
 We shudder, start, we turn away the head. 
 
 Shocked and disgusted at those staring eyes. 
 
 Those blue- white brows, lips withered, pinched and brown, 
 
 We quail at hideout Death without disguise. 
 And like a leaden lump our hearts sink down. 
 
 And yet, poor creatures, you have loved and laughed, 
 And known Parisian glory in your prime; 
 
 The cup of passion and of mirth you quaffed. 
 Before the days you fell to want and crime. 
 
 Old woman, in your girlhood long ago. 
 
 Some lover's fingers fondled through your hair; 
 
 He breathed sweet words no other ears might know, 
 And clasped you close, and swore that you were fair. 
 
 Old man, your mother would not know you now, — 
 Her blue-eyed boy is now a shocking sight! — 
 
 God! who would think a man could fall so low. 
 That such a dawn could die in such a night? 
 
 42 
 
AT THE PARIS MORGUE. 
 
 Young woman, trusting hearts are seldom wise! 
 
 You here forsaken in the Morgue alone? 
 Man's sweetest vows are oft but honeyed lies; 
 
 Youth's tender heart may sometimes turn to stone! 
 
 Young man, you loudly swore to win the race; 
 
 Hither you came in all your boyhood bloom; 
 See, glorious Paris turns away her face, 
 
 And leaves you in the horror of this tomb ! 
 
 O Paris, Paris, you have slain them all, 
 
 Your foolish lovers, snared within your spell; 
 
 You sit enthroned, robed in a funeral pall, 
 Your face a heaven, and your heart a hell! 
 
 43 
 
THE WOOD THRUSH. 
 
 Bird of the brown wing and the dotted breast, 
 
 He dwells in deep woods, cool and dark and green; 
 
 In dewy, dim retreats he rears his nest, 
 By all save barefoot truants left unseen. 
 
 In Spring and Summer, at the dusk and dawn. 
 He iSoods the forest with his liquid trill; 
 
 At burning noon, in solitude withdrawn. 
 
 The hours doze on while all his songs are still. 
 
 Like rival troubadours, from every spray. 
 To all his notes his brethren make reply; 
 
 They speed the splendid sunrise on his way. 
 And chant a requiem when the light must die. 
 
 When morning, like a tulip flecked with fire. 
 In scarlet and in orange breaks in bloom. 
 
 Bird answers bird, and in one heavenly choir 
 They hail him from their forest-temple's gloom: 
 
 "O day of joy, haste, haste thy nimble feet! 
 
 All earth is happy, like a sweet love-stor}^ 
 Come on, come on, where Youth and Pleasure meet. 
 
 To crown thee as thou risest in thy glory!" 
 
 44 
 
THE WOOD THRUSH. 
 
 When sunset lingers over Western hills 
 In ashen purple, hke an exiled king, 
 
 Bird answers bird in melancholy trills, — 
 
 Ah me, that song the wild wood-thrushes sing! 
 
 "O perfect day, how soon thy joys shall end! 
 
 Thou wilt return, O never, never, never; 
 Far, O how far, thy weary feet must wend; 
 
 O day of joy, farewell, farewell, forever!" 
 
 45 
 
THE DEATH OF POETRY. 
 
 They tell us that the poet's day is past, 
 
 That Song no more shall gush from human heart; 
 
 They tell us ^ all the old dreams must depart, 
 
 The old ideals by the way be cast. 
 
 What babbling folly! Frailest dreams outlast 
 
 The noisiest jargon of the mightiest mart; 
 
 Great empires crumble, yet the realm of Art, 
 
 Unconquered, glorious, stands forever fast. 
 
 When Spring comes not in triumph as of yore, 
 When Earth's last rose her last sweet leaf hath shed; 
 When oceans cease to swell, and peaks to soar, 
 When man and maid no longer woo and wed; 
 When starry skies proclaim their God no more, — 
 Not till that day shall Poesie be dead. 
 
 46 
 
IN AN OLD LIBRARY. 
 
 In this old farmhouse garret where I stray, 
 
 A refugee from worries of the town, 
 I dig and delve the livelong summer day 
 
 Through ancient volumes, dusty, worn and brown. 
 
 On dingy panes a hornet fumes and frets, 
 A beetle thumps the wall with sudden thud; 
 
 A wasp hangs captive in a spider's nets 
 
 A dirt-daub, singing, moulds his house of mud. 
 
 A mantel holds two antiquated clocks, 
 
 Where scampering mice go playing hide-and-seek; 
 
 A wren, snug-nested in an empty box, 
 
 Sits calm and quiet while her fledglings squeak. 
 
 Here, like a vein of purest virgin gold 
 Deep-hidden in the desert rock and sand, 
 
 Are all the treasures of the days of old, 
 
 Brought by the Great and Good from every land. 
 
 Here all the friends of youth (for youth alone 
 Can make the friendships that are sure to last) 
 
 Soothe once again the heart half turned to stone. 
 With old enchantments that I thought were past. 
 
 47 
 
IN AN OLD LIBRARY. 
 
 Here, like a pirate at his secret cave, 
 I dig my buried ingots from the junk; 
 
 And, like a diver, from an ocean grave 
 I raise the Spanish galleons that I sunk. 
 
 Here all the wise sit in serene array, 
 
 Where Plato's words flow forth in honeyed sweets ; 
 I see the face of Goldsmith and of Gray, 
 
 I walk with Shelley and I talk with Keats. 
 
 O magic Past, you woo me from To-day; 
 
 The frenzied world outside is lost to view. 
 Old friends are best! I tread this quiet way, 
 
 Forsaking not the old to win the new. 
 
 Like mellow wine in cobwebbed cellars stored, 
 Here burn the suns of long-forgotten years; 
 
 To-day I revel in their precious hoard 
 
 Of love and laughter, gladness, grief and tears. 
 
 48 
 
DROUGHT. 
 
 The pale white skies hang in an ashen haze, 
 The far-oflf hills are veiled in faded blue; 
 
 Dust-clouds obscure the rambling country ways, 
 Half hiding teams and wagons straggling through. 
 
 Hour after hour the heat grows more intense; 
 
 An angry wasp drums on the window pane; 
 A panting peacock on the old rail fence 
 
 Peeps at the skies as though he prayed for rain. 
 
 An old ox dozes in a weary dream; 
 
 Long lines of sheep in patient silence pass; 
 Two horses tread a muddy half-dried stream, 
 
 Dust-powdered cattle browse on withered grass. 
 
 The passion-vine is withered at the gate, 
 
 A sickly rose is falling leaf by leaf; 
 Sunburned and thirsty, faded asters wait 
 
 For death to bind them in his yellow sheaf. 
 
 The splitted husk flips out its floating down. 
 The bursting pod shells out its rattling seeds. 
 
 The pasture is a desert burned to brown. 
 The garden is a withered waste of weeds. 
 
 49 
 
DROUGHT. 
 
 O let dark clouds like ocean billows roll, 
 
 Let mellow thunders throb like muffled drums! 
 
 Let lightnings rouse the west wind's sleeping soul, 
 To rush with shouting as the rainstorm comes! 
 
 And yet this sickly, sweltering August day 
 Marks but the place we all must travel soon; 
 
 This is the end of all the mirth of May, 
 And this the ending of the joys of June! 
 
 When all the zest of youth is on the wane. 
 We sigh for storm-clouds of the bygone years; 
 
 The heart cries out in one long prayer for rain 
 To fall on parching lids in dewy tears. 
 
 Above my desert bosom, as of yore. 
 
 Once more let lightnings glitter, thunders roll! 
 
 Drown dusty memories; let there be no more 
 Drought in the heart, or famine in the soul! 
 
 50 
 
TO ONE I SHALL SEE NO MORE. 
 
 Come, let me look once more close in your eyes, 
 Come, let me feel the beating of your heart; 
 
 Our time has ended; we must break the ties; 
 God knows I love you, but we two must part. 
 
 Nay, do not ask me why I turn away. 
 
 And why these words at parting seem so cold; 
 
 Nay, precious, do not sigh and beg me stay; — 
 Our dream must be a story left untold. 
 
 Ah, ere you came, the dead leaves hid my soul, 
 My heart was buried in a shroud of snow; 
 
 Then, like the Spring across the waste you stole. 
 And made the birds sing and the blossoms blow. 
 
 How sweet you were, O precious, when you came 
 To let me know my soul had found its mate; 
 
 My Autumn skies were flushed with vernal flame — 
 And then I saw the warning face of Fate! 
 
 Come, clasp me once before I turn to go, 
 
 Heed not these tear-drops as I kiss your feet; 
 
 How sweet my dreams were, you shall never know, 
 How blissful, blissful, yet how fleet, how fleet! 
 
 Nay, do not blame me, it is best — is best! 
 
 Forget me, though you take away my heart; 
 There! see, I laugh, and turn it to a jest — 
 
 God knows I love you, but we two must part. 
 
 51 
 
PREFACE TO A BOOK OF POEMS. 
 
 Forever perished seems the age of gold, 
 With all the May-mom glory of the past; 
 
 Where now the songs the minstrels sang of old, 
 A- thrill with fervor like a trumpet blast? 
 
 Ah, in those days Life sipped of morning dew 
 Fresh from the^ bosom of a springtime bud ; 
 
 Youth's pink-white feet on skylark pinions flew. 
 All April's ardor tingling through his blood. 
 
 Now is the sordid age of greed and gain: 
 
 Now bloated Mammon rules the market-place; 
 
 The Poet, like the Painter, strives in vain, — 
 O glorious doom, to share their Art's disgrace! 
 
 Ah, we are only struggling pioneers. 
 
 To blaze the path for others yet to be; 
 
 Ours is the task to dig through thankless years, 
 And found the temples we shall never see. 
 
 Some time that golden age again shall come, 
 The olden glory shine once more for men. 
 
 But that far day shall dawn when we are dumb. 
 And who shall mourn us, who shall miss us then? 
 
 52 
 
PREFACE TO A BOOK OF POEMS. 
 
 Far in the future, through the jealous haze, 
 We see the golden city reared to Art; 
 
 We see its cloud-encircled turrets blaze, 
 As splendid as the sunset's burning heart. 
 
 That promised land our feet shall never tread, 
 
 Our hands shall never pluck its flowers and fruits; 
 
 Our cheeks shall never flush from white to red 
 From passion-pealing of its lovers' lutes. 
 
 Yet in that purple age I wish one bard 
 To say of me these little words of praise: 
 
 "He plodded on through sharpened flint and shard. 
 Though sordid cares pursued him all his days. 
 
 "In darkest hours he wrought with cheerful will: 
 He shared the exile of his precious Art; 
 
 Though men denied applause, he labored still, 
 Nor wrote one line to please the vulgar mart. 
 
 "So, like a priest who guards a temple's light. 
 
 He trimmed the lamp whose flame was nearly gone: 
 
 He kept his vow to watch it through the night. 
 And died beside it at the birth of dawn." 
 
 53 
 
CARROLL VANCE. 
 
 We sigh because you passed away so young, 
 Forsaking us, who wander still below. 
 
 When life was like a lute with strings unstrung, 
 A-thrill with music Earth may never know. 
 
 But we, not you, deserve the piteous plaint, 
 The sob, the sigh, the wringing of the hands, 
 
 Soul freed at last from every mortal taint. 
 Among the lilies of enchanted lands! 
 
 For us, the slowly creeping steps of age. 
 For you, the halcyon heart forever young; 
 
 For us, the garment soiled, the blotted page. 
 For you, the glory of the songs unsung. 
 
 For us, the sad September's withered sheaves, 
 For you, the peach-blooms of an April day; 
 
 For us, the numb November's hectic leaves, 
 For you, the verdure of the morns of May. 
 
 Best is that death when Life is in its Spring, 
 
 When morning skies are gowned in blue and gold, 
 
 Before one bird has ever ceased to sing, 
 And not one forest leaf has yet grown old. 
 
 54 
 
CARROLL VANCE. 
 
 Ah, kindly Fate, forever thus to be, 
 
 When Love, the wild gazelle, treads not amiss. 
 When pearly-footed Youth forbears to flee, 
 
 And dimpled Joy defers his farewell kiss! 
 
 For you, assassin Autumn never comes 
 
 To stab white-bosomed Summer to the heart. 
 
 No winds of Winter beat their muffled drums 
 To bid the brilHant tropic birds depart. 
 
 You shall not see Hope's shattered roses strewn. 
 Nor golden locks flecked into frosty gray. 
 
 Nor learn the disillusions of the noon, 
 Nor see at last Affection's dull decay. 
 
 For you no fairy story came untrue. 
 No Gospel seemed unworthy of belief; 
 
 The peasant still will be king to you. 
 And every wisp of tares a golden sheaf. 
 
 Rest, calm and peaceful; you have naught to fear, 
 Who drove all hate and malice from your side, 
 
 Nor gave one being cause to shed a tear, 
 
 Until that day, dear boy, on which you died. 
 
 LOFC. 
 
 55 
 
ODE 
 
 For the Semi-centennial Celebration of the Founding of the 
 Sigma Chi Fraternity, Oxford, Ohio, June 28, 1905. 
 
 A half a hundred years ago to-day 
 
 Seven youths joined hands to consecrate this shrine, 
 Where friendship's fires might never fade away, 
 
 But glow forever with a flame divine. 
 
 Youth is the father of all fellowship. 
 
 Begetter of the Brotherhood of Men. 
 Oh, when his suns in twilight darkness dip. 
 
 The old-time thrills are never known again! 
 
 We drift on desert seas of selfishness, 
 
 When cold Indifference steers the bark alone; 
 
 We heed no shipwreck's signals of distress, 
 Forgetting others' miseries in our own. 
 
 But here we anchor for one happy day, 
 And tread old memory-gardens of the past, 
 
 To pledge old friendships, made in morns of May — 
 God grant them leal and loyal to the last! 
 
 Let Youth's pink roses twine through locks of Age; 
 
 Come back, dear boy-hearts, from your tombs of yore! 
 Oh, let us read once more from one sweet page 
 
 In that lost volume we shall clasp no more! 
 
 56 
 
ODE. 
 
 Come, let us gather, old-time friends, again. 
 Within the temple we have loved so long; 
 
 See here the old ideals, free from stain. 
 
 The old-time precepts, sweet as heavenly song. 
 
 Here, like the seven golden candlesticks 
 Beheld by John on Patmos long ago. 
 
 Seven Hghts are set, on which oiir eyes may fix, 
 To guide our feet when darkness comes below. 
 
 One candlestick is Friendship, one is Truth, 
 And one is Faith, and Hope another yet; 
 
 And one is Peace, and one called Glow of Youth, 
 With Love high over all the others set. 
 
 O, be they not like torches quenched in strife, 
 Nor light of Laodicea, soon to wane. 
 
 But true as Smyrna, crowned with endless life, 
 And steadfast as the Philadelphian fane! 
 
 57 
 
THE WORLD IS MY HOME. 
 
 I travel to East, I wander to West; 
 
 Each land that I see is dear to my breast. 
 
 I greet the green hills as I float down the Rhine, 
 
 The vineyards of France I love as if mine. 
 
 With rapture the castles of England I see, 
 
 And Switzerland's peaks are old friends to me; 
 
 A freeman of Athens, a tribune of Rome, 
 
 All men are my brothers, the world is my home. 
 
 Let Sultans and Czars make war if they will. 
 
 But let their own blood on the battlefield spill; 
 
 For none but the Fool will lift up his arm 
 
 To murder the man who has done him no harm. 
 
 Let the bigot cry out for a bloody crusade. 
 
 To pierce heathen hearts with his sanctified blade; 
 
 From mosque of the Nile to Saint Peter's dome 
 
 All men are my brothers, the world is my home. 
 
 Wherever we meet, on sea or on sod. 
 
 We are brethren of Christ, we are children of God. 
 
 They may prattle of Codes, or prate of their Creeds — 
 
 I care not for these, but for brotherly deeds. 
 
 They may boast of their Church, their Clique or their Clan- 
 
 I but yearn for the touch of a true fellow-man. 
 
 So my heart still repeats, wherever I roam. 
 
 All men are my brothers, the world is my home. 
 
 58 
 
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