LIBERJY 
 *•„ ILLUMINED 
 
 ffssLs 
 
 1115 
 
 PATRIOTIC POEMS 
 WJJJ{ SONGS 
 
 Charles H.Crcndcdl 
 
* 
 
 %>i$ra;___j_4jj 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSE 
 
GLORY, HONOR AND FAME 
 
 and the 
 
 Undying Gratitude of the Country 
 
 for which they died, 
 
 form the 
 
 ETERNAL SKY OF REMEMBRANCE 
 
 in which their names shall shine, 
 
 AS GOLDEN STARS, 
 
 Exponents of Stamford's 
 
 LOVE FOR LIBERTY. 
 
 With increasing luster, 
 
 through the coming years, 
 
 whose 
 
 SAFETY AND HAPPINESS 
 
 Their sacrifice has helped to make 
 
 SECURE FOREVER. 
 
 "Greater Love Hath No Man Than This" 
 
 Captain Ralph Taylor Pvt. Alex. Muchinsky 
 
 Lieut. Robt. F. Crandall Pvt. Michael Lagiria 
 
 Lieut. Oscar W. Cowan Pvt. Samuel Tresser 
 
 Sergt. Frank Ahner Pvt. Frank Morgan 
 Sergt. James E. Fitzsimmons Pvt. William H. Mayette 
 
 Pvt. Kenneth Miller Pvt. James F. Randall 
 
 Pvt. Julius Wagner Pvt. Walter Clegg 
 
 Pvt. John Fitzpatrick Pvt. Martin H. Gill 
 
 Pvt. William Costello Pvt. David P. Anderson 
 
 Pvt. John H. Coulter Pvt. Samuel Levine 
 
 Honor Roll to Oct. 31, 1918. 
 
 New Canaan Honor Roll 
 Howard Bossa Wilfrid Lowndes 
 
 Alfred Tompkins George Finney 
 
 John Phillipsic John Ready 
 
 Darien Honor Roll 
 Lieut. D. Chas. Bispham Edward Punzelt 
 
 Lieut. Ernest F. Sexton Laurence F. Callahan 
 
 Sergt. Murtagh C. McDonald 
 
2 
 
 LIBERTY ILLUMINED. 
 The Bartholcli Statue drawn by R. Emmet Owen. 
 
LIBERTY ILLUMINED 
 
 Patriotic Poems and 
 War Songs 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES H. CRANDALL 
 
 Author of 
 
 Representative Sonnets by American Poets, 
 
 Wayside Music, The Chords of Life, 
 
 Songs from Sky Meadows, etc. 
 
 THE ADVOCATE PRINT 
 
 Stamford, Conn. 
 U.S.A. 
 

 \T 
 
 Copyright, 1918, 
 By 
 
 Charles H. Crandall. 
 
 w 
 
 DEC 26 iai8 
 
 CI. A 5 12114 
 
 
INDEX 
 
 ^ PATRIOTIC POEMS. Page 
 
 ^ The Khaki Boys 11 
 
 Arm ! America ! . . . . .14 
 
 Liberty Illumined 16 
 
 The Airmen 19 
 
 The Red Triangle 21 
 
 The Light Behind the Cross ... 23 
 
 Lincoln 24 
 
 Christmas— 1916 28 
 
 "I. H. S." 29 
 
 Stamford Ode 30 
 
 The Little Gray Mother . . . .33 
 
 In Women's Hearts 34 
 
 The Little Admiral .... 36 
 
 Boys of Battery F 37 
 
 Prophetic Stanzas 40 
 
 A Sprig of Heather 42 
 
 The Sacrifice 43 
 
 Liberty Bombs 45 
 
 Lift Up Your Hearts 47 
 
 The Flag That Never Knew Defeat . . 50 
 
 Stamp It Out 52 
 
 Red Comrades 53 
 
 WAR SONGS. 
 
 The American Marseillaise . . . .55 
 
 The Flag 57 
 
 Columbia ....... 58 
 
 5 
 
INDEX 
 
 
 Continued 
 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Count Me Thy Soldier, Love, Today . 
 
 59 
 
 Blue Footing 
 
 60 
 
 Lincoln's Boys 
 
 62 
 
 On the Road to Old Berlin . 
 
 64 
 
 Over Sea 
 
 65 
 
 Cheer Us, God .... 
 
 67 
 
 America (A Paean) .... 
 
 69 
 
 ECHOES OF OTHER WARS. 
 
 The Old Forsaken Places . . . .71 
 
 Dewey 73 
 
 Cuba Libre 74 
 
 To England 76 
 
 Nemesis ....... 78 
 
 The Rough Rider 80 
 
 Gettysburg 83 
 
 Creasy's "Fifteen Battles" ... 85 
 
 Washington 86 
 
 Saratoga 87 
 
 The Home Coming 91 
 
 Terra Nuova 93 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 ROBERT FERGUSON CRANDALL 
 
 Born on Ponus Ridge, New Canaan, Conn., 
 near the Stamford border, May 11, 1890, he 
 was educated and passed most of his life in 
 Stamford. Having served three years in the 
 Coast Artillery, U. S. Regular Army, where 
 he earned promotion, high commendation and 
 an honorable discharge, he foresaw in 1916 
 that America would have to enter the war. 
 He organized and trained a company of 75 
 young men at Bedford Hills, N. Y. He left 
 wife and children, attended the officers' camp 
 at Plattsburg, was commissioned a second 
 Lieutenant, Regular Army, declining a cap- 
 taincy in the reserves, and commanded and 
 trained companies at camp at Syracuse, N. Y., 
 and Charlotte, N. C. On June 19, 1918, 
 he led seven men in a moonlight raid across 
 the Marne to secure prisoners and infor- 
 mation. He met in all about 70 Germans, 
 brought in one prisoner single handed, and 
 returned twice alone in the face of such odds, 
 calling for his missing men. A French officer 
 who was with his Regiment, 38th Infantry, 
 said it was the bravest act he had heard of 
 since the war started. He was recommended 
 for the Croix de Guerre with a palm and 
 the American Distinguished Service Medal. 
 He was killed by shellfire in the desperate battle 
 of the U. S. Regular divisions against the last 
 furious German drive for Paris below the 
 Marne, July 15, 1918. 
 
"UNTIL WE MEET." 
 Brave Knight! Bright Soul! Farewell! 
 
 Yours was the Deed, mine but the feeble Word, 
 Heaven s voices, calling o'er that awful hell, 
 
 'Mid crashing shells you heard. 
 
 Not love of wife or child 
 
 Could tempt you from that field in carnage 
 swirled; 
 You heard a greater Call, and bravely smiled, 
 
 And fought for all the children in the world. 
 
 Thus ends your glorious quest, 
 
 Following One who shed his blood for all, 
 Who knows when your brave spirit, called from rest, 
 
 Shall hear God's bugle call? 
 
 C. H. C. 
 
ROBERT FERGUSON CRANDALL 
 
 First Lieutenant 38th Inf. 
 
 Killed at the Marne, July 15, 1918. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 To my four sons, three soldiers, 
 who volunteered, and one, a worker 
 in a war plant, to the memory of one 
 who met a hero's death, and also as a 
 tribute to Stamford's soldiers and 
 sailors, and all their brave comrades 
 in arms, whose deeds have helped to 
 make 
 
 Liberty Illumined 
 as it never was before, this little book 
 is inscribed with admiration and affec- 
 tion, hoping to cheer some few of the 
 crusaders for 
 
 World Freedom. 
 
MY THREE STARS 
 
 Arthur Irwin Crandall 
 
 Sergeant Commander, 328th Battalion, 
 
 Light Tank Corps 
 
 Robert Ferguson Crandall 
 
 Late First Lieutenant, 38th Infantry, 
 
 Third Division, Regulars 
 
 Roland Dimon Crandall 
 
 Top-Sergeant, Company A, 
 
 Eleventh Engineers 
 
 10 
 
LIEUT. OSCAR COWAN 
 Battery D, 65th Artillery, C A. C 
 
 Killed in action, August 21, 1918, 
 North of Chateau Thierry, France. 
 
PATRIOTIC POEMS 
 
 THE KHAKI BOYS. 
 
 (Read at a Farewell Dinner to the Seventh and Ninth 
 
 Companies of Coast Artillery, Shippan Yacht Club, 
 
 Stamford, July 24, 1917.) 
 
 It is sweet to live, when the red blood calls 
 
 And youth smiles, unafraid; 
 While the winds laugh loud and the waterfalls 
 
 Fling music from wood to glade; 
 And the cool green shades of the forest halls 
 
 Are calling to man and maid. 
 
 It is sweet to live for the ones we love, 
 
 And gather from tender eyes 
 Reward that we prize all else above, 
 
 Like the light in our Mother's eyes — 
 And to bide at home like a sheltered dove, 
 
 While the fierce hawks sweep the skies. 
 
 But, because we are men, and because we know 
 
 The tender delights of home, 
 We know there's a time to strike a blow, 
 
 To arm, and arouse and roam 
 With arms of steel 'till the hawks lie low 
 
 'Neath Heaven's untarnished dome. 
 
 For the drops that course through a freeman's heart 
 
 Know there is a secret shrine 
 Where each red drop takes a nobler start, 
 
 And thrills with a love divine 
 As it bids him welcome a hero's part 
 
 In the van of Freedom's line. 
 11 
 
Some men are dying for little things, 
 
 For a little more land or gold, 
 But no man knoweth the sacred springs 
 
 Of the soul-life manifold; 
 We brush by heroes, and saints with wings, 
 
 Could our dull eyes behold. 
 
 For once in an age, or a thousand years, 
 
 The bells of God ring loud, 
 And their call is sweet to the hero's ears 
 
 As it asks of the surging crowd: 
 Shall your children laugh in the coming years, 
 
 Or be, by a tyrant, cowed? 
 
 We strike for the child and the gray-head, thrown 
 
 Out in the blood-stained street; 
 O'er the seven seas we have heard their groan — 
 
 Our safety no more is sweet; 
 For an Anti-Christ has overthrown 
 
 Earth's brotherhood, sane and sweet. 
 
 We will back our steel with the hearts that feel, 
 
 Not hearts of wooden slaves; 
 And our guns will peal where the trench clouds reel 
 
 Or over the free blue waves ; 
 And naught shall steal from the heart that's leal 
 
 The joy that a hero craves. 
 
 And know, that, at home, on a thousand hills, 
 
 The harvests of grain shall wave, 
 The plows keep bright and the mighty mills 
 
 Respond to the steam or wave, 
 And men and women with dauntless wills 
 
 Shall toil and sew for the brave. 
 12 
 
When the good old flag, with a lightning gleam, 
 
 Streams over the stricken land, 
 'Twill hearten the brave and fright the slave, 
 
 And the tyrant shall not stand. 
 It carries the fires of the patriot sires 
 
 Of Washington's old command. 
 
 For when all is sung, and writ and said, 
 
 Tho' the noblest lines be penned, 
 The lines with the banner striped with red 
 
 Are the lines that must defend, 
 And the khaki lines, by their captains led, 
 
 The lines of the foe shall rend. 
 
 For a peaceful life is a war at best, 
 
 And he who giveth shall save ; 
 And the life laid down at Christ's behest 
 
 For a brother beyond the wave 
 Is pillowed with love and the noblest rest 
 
 That love can give to the brave. 
 
 When the roaring demon has ceased to rage 
 And we welcome, with heart and hand, 
 
 The men who have written in history's page 
 A record, ever to stand, 
 
 They shall know a joy that shall never age, 
 And the love of a grateful land. 
 
 (From The Advocate.) 
 
 13 
 
ARM! AMERICA! 
 
 Arm, Arm, America! For Peace! 
 
 But, if it must be, then, for war! 
 Awake, arouse, and straightway cease . 
 
 To trust in those who threat to mar 
 The beauty that provokes their lust 
 
 'Til they would sully thy fair fame, 
 And tread thy honor in the dust, 
 
 And desecrate thy glorious name! 
 
 When savages in older days 
 
 Lurked behind any rock or tree, 
 Our fathers braved the woodland ways 
 
 To lift the standard of the free. 
 They offered then to friend and foe 
 
 The honest hand, the fearless heart, 
 While, gleaming in the cabin's glow, 
 
 The axe and rifle made their chart. 
 
 The flint-lock went to church and school, 
 
 Then, when the storm of warfare broke,, 
 They did not need to learn by rule, 
 
 But braved the blows like centuried oak* 
 'Til, shaking all the courts of wrong, 
 
 And thrilling loftiest mountain trees, 
 Their cannon wrote a Nation's song, 
 
 And flamed its banner o'er the seas ! 
 
 Since then, again, and yet again, 
 
 America has lifted high 
 Her beacon, to ennoble men, 
 
 And proudly called her sons to die. 
 Across the main, in southern glades, 
 
 In islands where oppression leered, 
 Her legions drew their leaping blades 
 
 And made our Country's name revered f 
 14 
 
She freed her soil, she freed the sea, 
 
 She made the cruel pirate quail, 
 She set four million bondmen free, 
 
 And wrote the words in iron hail. 
 She listens now, like tides that flow 
 
 And pulse from Oregon to Maine, 
 To learn if she must strike the blow 
 
 For Peace and Right, but not for Gain. 
 
 Arm ! Arm ! as Pallas, cap-a-pie, 
 
 In gleaming helm and glittering mail, 
 And let the muttering foeman see 
 
 The Goddess he would dare assail, 
 Not lying in a bed of dreams, 
 
 But guarding all her sea-swept sands, 
 While round her head the lightning gleams 
 
 And thunders wait for her commands ! 
 
 {Printed in the Philadelphia Ledger, April 17, 1916, a 
 paper with a million circulation.) 
 
 15 
 
LIBERTY ILLUMINED. 
 
 Shrouded in gloom she stood. 
 
 Her face, enshadowed, as beneath a hood, 
 
 Seemed bowed; 
 
 And in Her eyes one might descry 
 
 The grief of unshed tears 
 
 For starving children cowed 
 
 By brutal sabers, heedless of the cry 
 
 Of women, or the moan 
 
 Of gray-heads thrown 
 
 Out on the pavement, there to bleed and groan 
 
 And pray: "Oh God, art thou alive, 
 
 To let the blood-red War-Fiend live and thrive?" 
 
 So, cold and dark, the tides went by, ashamed, 
 Hurried to lose themselves outside the Bay, 
 To lose the sight of billions piled in brick, far- 
 famed, 
 But now a monument to Mammon's sway; 
 Dread background of the Hope, 
 And prison to the scope 
 Of Her who stood to shed ennobling rays 
 O'er millions as they grope 
 From old-world fetters to our freer ways. 
 So the dark tide goes by, 
 And gloomier grows the sky. 
 
 Gloom, grief and clouds descend upon Her head. 
 For Liberty — our Liberty — is dead! 
 
 The sun has set. 
 
 Scarce can the gray gull's wing 
 
 Be seen above the Narrows, hovering. 
 
 And here and there some eye is wet 
 
 At our great Nation's shame; insulted, spurned, 
 
 16 
 
Not even a fagot, worthy to be burned 
 
 On the great altar of the world-wide Need 
 
 Whose servitors are Honor, Truth and Noble Deed. 
 
 Low tide! 
 
 And coming Night! 
 
 The Harbor, no more glorious with pride, 
 
 Seems like a heart all drained and dried. 
 
 Dark, hopeless, lifeless, empty cold despair, 
 
 And gray and empty air 
 
 Are everywhere. 
 
 But, see, a light! 
 
 Thin gleams along the western sky 
 Widen, and spread; 
 And far, far up the Bay 
 Shineth a ray, 
 A sword of silver light 
 Piercing the shield of Night. 
 Seemingly, lit by that puissant beam, 
 A million tapers in the city gleam, 
 Where patriots have wakened from their dream. 
 O hurry back, ye lately-doubting tides! 
 Race as a horseman harries when he rides 
 To bear a Nation's word to waiting men, 
 Eager to strike and save. 
 Urge, urge and surge 
 O too-slow wave. 
 For see that glorious Form 
 Banishing cloud and storm! 
 The murk has fled, 
 The Death is dead. 
 
 But She, white Goddess of our dearest love, 
 Shines there resplendent, and around, above 
 A million-million stars set in the blue, 
 Protecting, fond and true, 
 
 17 
 
Our flag, wide as the sky and curving round the 
 
 world 
 Bends over her, to guard, 
 To cherish and protect 
 From every missile hurled, 
 Our Harbor-Goddess, sent us from afar 
 To be our Star. 
 She is not dead, nor marred. 
 
 She gleams, she smiles, she throws aloft her light. 
 She lives, she shall live, Freedom pure and bright! 
 
 Whether in yonder Square, or in some Space 
 
 We know not, stand two figures, face to face, 
 
 Their eyes, their hands, their hearts have often met; 
 
 Spirits of Washington and LaFayette! 
 
 They led our loyal sires from Massachusetts' Bay 
 
 To far Virginia's final glorious fray. 
 
 And shall they not today 
 
 Lead on each yeoman son, 
 
 Who dreams of Lexington? 
 
 'Twas but a feeble ray 
 
 That glimmered on their way, 
 
 But we have now a World-Light on our path, 
 
 The fathers' watch-fire, grown to greater power, 
 
 And, fed by France and England in this hour, 
 
 Leaps, burns, and calls again to righteous wrath 
 
 A Nation too long cowed. 
 
 Arise! be strong! be valiant, brave and proud! 
 
 For Liberty, our Light, 
 
 Is still a form of Might, 
 
 A Power to smite, 
 
 And o'er the mountains, sea to azure sea, 
 
 Her light shall lead 'til all the world is free. 
 
 (Printed in 1916, before the war.) 
 18 
 
CAPT. RALPH TAYLOR 
 
 Aviation Service 
 
 Killed August 2, 1917, by a fall at Mineola, L. I. 
 
THE AIRMEN. 
 
 (In memory of Captain Ralph Taylor, Aviation 
 
 Service, killed August 2, 19117, by a fall 
 
 at Mineola, L. I.) 
 
 Into the blue they go, 
 
 Like the arrow from the bow, 
 
 Or as the eagles, mounting higher, 
 
 On the wings of their desire, 
 
 Where the sky-winds never tire. 
 
 As a lover leaves his maid, 
 
 Just to prove her, unafraid, 
 
 So they leave the earth they love 
 
 For the danger-land above, 
 
 Curving and swerving, 
 
 Dipping and slipping, 
 
 Wheeling and reeling, 
 
 Unfearing they go. 
 
 The blue may fade and the clouds may grow, 
 
 The wind may slack or awake and blow, 
 
 Their path unwinds like a river's flow, 
 
 And earth, like a picture, smiles below. 
 
 Into the blue they go 
 
 To swoop on the wary foe 
 
 For there is the place for the super-man 
 
 As the sky and the clouds and the earth they scan, 
 
 And then, like a bolt from the blue, 
 
 The plane shoots straight and true, 
 
 And the instant comes to do and dare, 
 
 The time that thrills a king of the air, 
 
 As he proves his right, 
 
 As an old-time knight, 
 
 To challenge and charge and leap and smite! 
 
 With a hand on the gun, 
 
 And a hand on the wheel, 
 
 19 
 
The battle is won, 
 
 And the bird of steel 
 
 Flies on through the air, for woe or weal. 
 
 Into the blue they go, 
 
 And the end we may not know, 
 
 But whether they win again the nest 
 
 To fold their wings and sleep and rest, 
 
 Planing gently over the wood, 
 
 As evening draws her somber hood, 
 
 Or die in a trice, as a hero should, 
 
 They have earned their place in their country's love, 
 
 To shine like the stars in the sky above, 
 
 To shine, as stars in the field of blue, 
 
 On the banner that they loved and flew. 
 
 They shall not die, but smiling through 
 
 The azure deeps that once they knew, 
 
 Live ever thus, enshrined and true, 
 
 Sure of our love, there, in the blue. 
 
 20 
 
THE RED TRIANGLE. 
 
 (Written for the Y.M.C.A. Campaign.) 
 
 Manning the last redoubt of Right, 
 
 Behind the battle's glow, 
 The Red Triangle gleams tonight — 
 
 Three salients that we know — 
 Gleams like a star, with rays so bright 
 
 It daunts the coming foe. 
 
 One side is Y, that stands for Youth, 
 The boys who heed the call, 
 
 To teach the ruthless legions ruth, 
 To save the weak from thrall, 
 
 To blazon high the sacred truth 
 That right is over all! 
 
 One side is M, and that's for Men 
 With faith to pierce the cloud, 
 
 Who know that truth will rise again, 
 Though often dazed and bowed, 
 
 Who rather would be right, with ten, 
 Than join a lawless crowd. 
 
 The third is C, that trenchant word 
 That never knows defeat — 
 
 Christian, — how many years it stirred 
 And led to duty sweet 
 
 The martyrs to the sacred word, 
 On land or mighty fleet. 
 
 Last, A, the central thought of all, 
 
 The bond that binds us here, — 
 Association ! heed the call ! 
 
 21 
 
And speed the welcome cheer, 
 Where'er our heroes fight or fall 
 They know our hand is near. 
 
 Long live the Red Triangle Fort, 
 Its ruddy beams out-throw, 
 
 The beckoning rays of mercy's court 
 And our hearts' overflow; 
 
 Till all brave lads are safe in port 
 With no more wars to know. 
 
 22 
 
THE LIGHT BEHIND THE CROSS. 
 
 (Written for the Red Cross Campaign.) 
 
 The cross is here. It haunts each lowly ingle. 
 
 It gleams alike in cottage and in hall, 
 And wheresoe'er the people meet and mingle 
 The shadow of the cross is over all. 
 
 But can we see, above all pain and loss, 
 The light behind the cross? 
 
 O bright Red Cross ! If we might know the gladness 
 Thy f arflung rays shed round a tortured world ! 
 Might we but see that Cross dispel the sadness 
 
 From weary eyes where shot and shell are 
 hurled, 
 From starving children, beds of weary pain, 
 Then we might know the Gain. 
 
 Then hang the Red Cross out in every dwelling, 
 
 A light behind it, shining through the eve, 
 And it shall check the doubt and tears upwelling 
 And bid us smile, and work, and cease to grieve, 
 Knowing the incense of a faithful heart 
 Is still the "better part". 
 
 In days to come we shall discern more clearly 
 
 The Good that broods above the storms of ill, 
 And all we give — in those we love so dearly — 
 Returned by One who can the measure fill. 
 
 This is the recompense for every loss — 
 The Light Behind the Cross. 
 
 23 
 
LINCOLN. 
 
 (The Listener.) 
 (From the New York Mail.) 
 Back in the early annals of our land, 
 While yet the name of Washington was breathed 
 In reverence, by men who knew his face; 
 Ere yet the guns of Perry on the lakes 
 Had sealed anew our charter to endure — 
 A refuge for the hopes of all the world — 
 Two streams of life, that many a year had strayed 
 From springs in Norman, British, Celtic hills, 
 Had flowed in veins that crossed the plunging sea, 
 In Pennsylvania and Virginia air 
 Drunk purity and power and faith and love, 
 Converging on Kentucky's blood-stained fields, 
 Rippling together in a sacred joy, 
 Bore one white lily to the shore of life — 
 The lily of a child's unsullied soul, 
 The loveliest flower in all our human ways. 
 
 And as the mother bent above her boy, 
 Feeling her faith so strong within her breast, 
 Knowing the worth, the cost, the pain, the love 
 That had transformed the rude log-cabin home, 
 By prescience saw the way her boy should tread 
 And reverently said : This country yet may need 
 Another Father; Washington is dead. 
 My son may be another patriarch, 
 And tongues may praise him as a Savior too, 
 And so she called her baby — Abraham. 
 
 Under the skies, in such primeval scenes, 
 Amid the woods where the wild creatures strayed, 
 And even the Indian had not sheathed his knife, 
 The lad learned well to listen — to the fall 
 Of catlike feet on forest twigs and leaves, 
 
 24 
 
To winds and wildbird calls, and best of all, 
 He listened to a mother's guiding voice 
 And words of wisdom from his father's lips — 
 So learned to listen ere he chose to speak. 
 
 How soon the shadows played upon his path! 
 
 The mother whom he so revered and loved, 
 
 Heard the low call to leave her boy alone 
 
 To learn the world's hard lessons. Shorn of aid 
 
 From the most faithful heart in all the world, 
 
 Did he not yet, from some high conning tower, 
 
 Framed by his childish faith, still hear her voice 
 
 In admonition from that skyey place? 
 
 So, listening, listening, Lincoln learned to lean 
 
 Upon his conscience and upon his God. 
 
 How grew the stripling to a giant's strength ! 
 Render of trees or wrestler on the green, 
 Yet always gentle! How his humor drew 
 The simple honest folk to love his voice 
 And children ran to claim him as a friend! 
 How he found ease in cheering other hearts, 
 And so chased sadness from his somber path, 
 Yet ever daily watched the open door 
 That God set for him, and no man could close! 
 
 Raised, as by swelling muscles of his mind, 
 Borne on by naturally dauntless will, 
 Men knew the iron hand beneath the glove, 
 Made way for nature's super-man, the child 
 Of purity, clean days and honest toil. 
 And still his quick ear listened, listened oft 
 To rudest friends as well as to the words 
 Of worldly-wise men, leaders in the halls, 
 Where human hopes were hammered into laws. 
 Thus touching all the gamut of desires, 
 
 25 
 
This Yeoman of the plains of Illinois, 
 Linked all the prairies with the gilded domes 
 Of legislation, made them speak as one, 
 And when men whispered, doubted, felt afraid 
 That Right could never breast the thorny road, 
 "Let us have faith that Right makes Might," he 
 said. 
 
 See him, the gentlest man in all the land, 
 Yet head and forefront of most bitter strife, 
 The least resentful soul, compelled to bear 
 Contumely, curses, malice, secret hate, 
 The while he struggled in the awful storm 
 To bring the noble ship again to port! 
 And for reply he left the golden line — 
 "With malice toward none, with love for all" — 
 For charity was love when Lincoln spoke. 
 Then when the ripened moment had arrived, 
 As once his arm had rived the centuried tree, 
 With one quick stroke he cleft the centuried Wrong, 
 And falling shackles echoed round the world ! 
 
 He listened! How he listened! in the night, 
 When others slept, he paced his lonely room. 
 He heard the guns at Chickamauga boom, 
 The horses neigh and charge, the sabers clash, 
 And Death beat out the long stern reveille 
 In rifle shots along those miles of men. 
 Aye, every leader's call, each anguished moan, 
 Did he not hear them? Yes, his spirit heard, 
 And pondering how the nation might be saved 
 With just one lad's life less, one red drop less, 
 Would turn to listen to a mother's plea, 
 And give her back her boy — "Asleep on guard." 
 Who would forgive had Lincoln slept — on guard? 
 
 26 
 
Are tender breasts most open to the darts 
 
 And cruel missiles of unfeeling mobs? 
 
 Do men reserve for benefactors thus 
 
 The hemlock cup, the bullet, crown of thorns, 
 
 The tear-stained path to immortality, 
 
 Whose stony steps were trodden by the feet 
 
 Of Socrates and Dante, Paul and Christ? 
 
 It seemed the blood drops on the Southern fields 
 
 Must thus be washed away, washed out with tears, 
 
 And so the man of simple ways and words — 
 
 A prophet who wrought out his prophecy, 
 
 As far as human mind can hope to do — 
 
 Passed on into the pangless realm of rest, 
 
 Passed to companionship of deathless souls, 
 
 Yet dwelt immortal in the hearts of men, 
 
 His name a trumpet-call to noble deeds. 
 
 Knowing the bow sometimes must be unbent, 
 Trying to shed the care that clogged his thought, 
 So that he might bear up a heavier load, 
 Knowing the people loved to see his face, 
 He sat and watched the players. But his head 
 Bowed down as if he could but listen still 
 To bugle calls upon the southern fields, 
 Or mother's sob among the northern hills. 
 Thank God! he never heard the pistol shot, 
 But heard, perhaps, some far off bugle's strain 
 Take up the recent notes of war and strife, 
 And blending all the throats of silvery horns 
 On each side of the River, in the dusk, 
 Weave all into a lovely, swelling stream 
 Of mellow cadence, sweeping o'er the hills 
 Of Life Eternal — Symphony of Peace. 
 
 So, Lincoln, listening, passed from life to life. 
 
 27 
 
CHRISTMAS— 1916. 
 
 The good of life outweighs its pain and ill; 
 
 The light of life outweighs its shade and woes ; 
 
 One loyal friend outweighs a hundred foes, 
 And one kind word can rout an evil will. 
 So, at this Christmas-tide, let there distil 
 
 And sweeten in our hearts as in a rose 
 
 A dew of Peace, a Faith that Goodness glows 
 Above all storms, with words of "Peace, Be Still". 
 
 O days that try our faith beyond its strength! 
 
 In weakness let us knit that faith anew, 
 Knowing that o'er the battlefields at length, 
 
 Europe shall greet a light she never knew! 
 That, measureless, as are her pain and tears, 
 
 Her blessings shall be in the coming years. 
 
 28 
 
"I. H. S." 
 
 (From The Independent.) 
 
 Borne in the tender arms of faithful friends, 
 
 Back from the trenches where he whirled and 
 fell, 
 
 It seems to him an angel o'er him bends, 
 After the facing of the battle's hell. 
 
 And gentle hands have washed the boyish face, 
 So white, as now he whispers in a trance: 
 
 His name, his home, that far-off dwelling place, 
 And the last happy words: "I die — for France." 
 
 "And did it have to be?" a mother sighs 
 Over the ashes that they say was he. 
 
 O could she see the angel's tender eyes 
 
 As he inscribes: "He died for liberty!" 
 
 "And did it have to be?" a woman said, 
 In dark despair beneath a bloody tree, 
 
 Amid Judea's hills, when all seemed dead, 
 
 The angel wrote : "He died to make men free" 
 
 {Written long before July 15.) 
 
 29 
 
STAMFORD ODE. 
 
 (275th Anniversary, June 1917.) 
 
 In onward rushing of tempestuous days, 
 
 In striving for some boon, some meed of praise, 
 
 In buffeting the crowd in strenuous ways, 
 
 Or daily miss the glimpse of glorious things. 
 
 Watching the worm, we miss the flash of wings. 
 
 Seeking the gem within the stone, 
 
 We miss the stars, the Master-painted zone 
 
 Hung in the west when Nature throws away 
 
 A painting worth a kingdom, every day, 
 
 Burns it to ashes on the sunset sky, 
 
 As Beauty shows us daily how to die. 
 
 j£ $t ifc %r 
 
 What then the message, vital to the hour, 
 As yonder tocsin thrills the city's tower ? 
 Greet the new cycle with unshackled eyes 
 Alert, awake to all life's mysteries. 
 Let nothing fright us from our rightful parts, 
 The clearing house of Fate lies in our hearts, 
 And for the Future's course our hands must draw 
 the charts. 
 
 Forsake the sordid ways — 
 
 For service that assays 
 Far truer good than fashion's changing craze. 
 He whose designs and deeds came never late — 
 Our first great Hero, Father of the State — 
 Dared to be simply great, 
 
 And when his country's right to live was won, 
 Turned quickly homeward with the setting sun, 
 And vaulting from his horse, found ample meed 
 In watching Nature's round, the sprouting seed, 
 And coaxing from the soil the hungry city's need. 
 
 30 
 
Embattled Europe plunges o'er the brink 
 
 Of war's Niagara because her Kings 
 
 Could listen to no call of brotherhood, 
 
 And would not, for one day, withhold the sword, 
 
 To sit in council on their fancied wrongs, 
 
 But lashed the dogs of war with sharp, deep-cutting 
 
 thongs. 
 Sad lesson ! but we cannot choose but see, 
 When those who led the world in arts of Peace, 
 Now turn their every nerve to arts of War. 
 There is no recourse left for us but arms, 
 Arms to defend our right to honored Peace. 
 We cannot henceforth trust the pacts of Kings 
 But mind the homely warning of our sires 
 'To trust in God and keep our powder dry" — 
 Our shining cannon ready for our hands, 
 Our sons awaiting Duty's clear commands. 
 
 We had one patient Man, 
 
 Seemed built upon God's plan, 
 So kindly, listening to each lowly plea, 
 And fonder far of children at his knee 
 Than scenes of pomp or State or revelry. 
 
 Yet he, in his high place, 
 
 Was chosen soon to face 
 
 And guide a fratricidal strife. 
 
 We ponder on his life 
 And wonder if, immortal, it will mould 
 The mind of some new leader, wise and bold, 
 To lead, as Lincoln led, this land aright, 
 Through untold perils of the day and night, 
 To years of peace and light. 
 
 We reverence those far-off pioneers, 
 Who felled the trees and built, in arduous years, 
 The sure foundations of our land, 
 31 
 
But do we understand 
 
 Ours is a duty no less stern ? 
 
 Their spirits fairly yearn 
 
 And call to us to earn 
 The veneration of the ages yet to be, 
 The reverence of the children at our knee. 
 Or must those children think 
 Ours was the faulty link 
 That failed to bring the glorious Ship of State, 
 Across the shoals of peril, war and hate 
 To waters safe and still 
 To serve the Master's will? 
 
 tJ? yf *l& 9|? $fJ 
 
 The same old wildbird trills 
 
 Resound as when the redman paused to hear, 
 
 Or from the cabin doorway, deaf to fear, 
 
 The settler's children wandered neath the trees 
 
 And listened to the forest harmonies, 
 
 Life's joy does still abound 
 
 And none need go uncrowned, 
 
 As it descends like dew, 
 
 Old, old, yet ever new, 
 
 Sung sweetliest by the birds 
 
 And coined in simplest words. 
 
 These are the stars by which we steer our way. 
 
 They served our sires, they serve us still today, 
 
 And shall not fail whene'er we glance above — 
 
 Hope, Courage, Faith and Kindliness and Love. 
 
 32 
 
THE LITTLE GRAY MOTHER. 
 
 (K. L. C, born 1812, died 1916.) 
 
 One moment pause! The little mother goes 
 At last to take her well-deserved rest ; 
 And, fading out like sunset in the west, 
 
 Her spirit speaks in memory's after-glows. 
 
 Born when this infant Nation's earliest foes 
 
 Twice vanquished, bowing to the stern behest 
 Of Freedom, back to England's world-wide woe. 
 
 Great captains, pause! Have you all done as well 
 As she, the white-haired mother, in her way, 
 Gilding her little world with kindly deeds, 
 
 Till, like a quilt that from her fingers fell, 
 
 Her life, like one bright comfort, finished, lay 
 Rich with her kindly thought for others' needs 
 
 33 
 
IN WOMEN'S HEARTS. 
 {To the D.A.R. of the US. A.) 
 
 In women's hearts the love of Country lives 
 
 Throughout the ages, storm and doubt defying 
 
 'Tis she at last, who her crown jewels gives — 
 Her sons, her lover, swell the heaps of dying 
 
 And as she clasps the helpless to her breast 
 Dares the rude victor to despoil the rest. 
 
 What is a land without its sacred homes 
 
 And what is home without the cherished 
 mothers ? 
 
 What patriotic pride to one who roams 
 
 From ocean unto ocean if he smothers 
 
 The longing for the light of one dear fire — 
 Focussing all his thought to one desire. 
 
 Far down the vista of the gloaming years 
 
 We see the mothers of our infant Nation 
 
 Smiling and brave, despite the glistening tears 
 
 Regnant as queens, despite all humble station. 
 
 Arming with glances, proud and unafraid, 
 
 Their Knights, low bending for their accolade. 
 
 And out beside the road or lichened wall 
 
 Where rang the shots in world reverberation, 
 
 Welding the cottage and the stately hall, 
 In eager thought, in grim determination, 
 
 Thoughts of the fireside nerved the knotted hands 
 At Concord Bridge or Yorktown's storied sands. 
 
 In women's hearts should live the love of Peace, 
 
 If Peace be filled with fair and high endeavor, 
 If kindlier living mark the land's increase, 
 
 34 
 
And luxury and ease do not dissever 
 The oldtime ardor for a nobler age, 
 
 As every day turns o'er a virgin page. 
 
 All honor to the fair white hands that hold 
 
 Ten thousand lamps along the nation's path; 
 
 And striving steadfast as the dames of old 
 
 Contend for freedom's precious aftermath — 
 
 The high resolve that marked the days of yore— 
 A white ideal pointing on before. 
 
 To mountain fastnesses your light has sped 
 
 Waking young lives from sordid, hopeless 
 groping, 
 
 Your tablets mark where patriot sons have bled, 
 And by some guiding trail renew our hoping; 
 
 You plead for men above the touch of greed, 
 Rising, full bodied, to a nation's need. 
 
 O daughters of the mothers we revere! 
 
 O mothers of the daughters who must follow! 
 Relight your torches, see them burning clear, 
 
 And bear them safely on o'er hill and hollow. 
 The light of liberty shall not expire 
 
 While faithful hands pass on the sacred fire. 
 
 In Women's hearts our last defences lie, 
 
 'Til they are silenced, wrong can never glory; 
 
 Around all crosses, looming 'gainst the sky, 
 
 The kneeling women have their place in story, 
 
 While poets' music and the painters' arts, 
 
 Throw richest haloes round true women's 
 hearts. 
 
 35 
 
THE LITTLE ADMIRAL. 
 
 {To Marjorie Sterrett.) 
 
 Hail to our little Joan of Arc 
 
 Who dared to speak when statesmen stuttered ! 
 She saw the lightning in the dark, 
 
 And heard when far-off thunder muttered! 
 Then for her loved and storied land 
 
 She raised her voice to rouse the nation 
 To guard each unprotected strand 
 
 Her fathers saved from desecration. 
 
 Come on, Come on, you men of means, 
 
 And cast your thousands in her bonnet! 
 This second "Maiden of Orleans" 
 
 Deserves a ship — her name upon it! 
 With Admiral Marjorie on the deck, 
 
 Old Glory at the topmost crown, 
 Don't think that she of foes will reck 
 
 Or ever pull her colors down. 
 
 36 
 
BOYS OF BATTERY F. 
 
 {Stamford Battery, 103rd Field Artillery, organized 
 1916. Now somewhere in France.) 
 
 We're the Boys of Battery F — 
 As many as are lef ' — 
 
 For weVe dropped a few 
 
 Since the game was new 
 Before our ears got deaf. 
 
 Do we dream of olden days? 
 Why sure! In golden haze 
 
 We see each antic 
 
 In old Niantic 
 Or New Haven's shaded ways. 
 
 We were college men — all hail! 
 For we camped with Battery Yale. 
 
 Begun at Boxford, 
 
 We'll win at Oxford 
 Our B. A. without fail. 
 
 We were "on the way," for fair, 
 But we could not dream to "where." 
 
 We gathered our manna 
 
 In Tobyhanna, 
 And thrived on stew and air. 
 
 We've lost lieutenants — a few — 
 
 So we took others — in lieu. 
 Should any get scary 
 We're betting on Cary — 
 
 A man who will see us through. 
 
 37 
 
Don't let your eyes get wet 
 In the fear lest we forget ! 
 
 Well come straight home, 
 
 No more to roam, 
 When we pay Uncle Sam our debt. 
 
 And the French girls — they are kind — 
 And they make you — sort o' mind; 
 
 But there — don't cry — 
 
 We're still betting high 
 On the girls we left behind. 
 
 And now — somewhere in France — 
 We're teaching the Fritz to dance; 
 
 To mind his step, 
 
 With a hep — hep — hep, 
 Or we put him in a trance. 
 
 The sky leaks like a sieve, 
 And we've got mud to give. 
 
 We eat our hash on 
 
 A bumping caisson 
 Or any old way to live. 
 
 When the air is full of smokes, 
 It sounds just like our jokes, 
 To long for a puff 
 Of the real old stuff 
 That's sent by Stamford folks. 
 • 
 
 As you'll hear — when this arrives, 
 They've been giving us new wives; 
 
 Those good little "threes" 
 
 Made quite a breeze, 
 But now we're married to "fives". 
 
 38 
 
And we keep that little pet 
 That Stamford gave — you bet — 
 
 Our one "war-baby' ' 
 
 Whose rattle, maybe, 
 Will save the Battery yet ! 
 
 And we do not stop to rhyme 
 When lives depend on time. 
 
 We think a whole lot 
 
 And sight, and plot, 
 As we wipe the shot from grime. 
 
 The breechblocks shut — co-bang! 
 The shell starts with a whang! 
 
 And where it strikes 
 
 They are through with hikes — 
 For they sleep without a pang. 
 
 When we see old Conn, again — 
 In the year of God-knows-when — 
 
 We hope you will say, 
 
 On that glorious day, 
 That we played the game like men. 
 
 We're the Boys of Battery F, 
 
 Or as many as are lef 
 
 For weVe dropped a few 
 Since our Bat. was new, 
 
 Before our ears got deaf. 
 
 39 
 
PROPHETIC STANZAS. 
 
 {From "Pioneers" read at Stamford, Celebration of 
 "Settlement Day" May 16, 1914.) 
 
 They came at the call of the spirit, 
 
 From the old to the new, strange land, 
 They breasted the sea in cockle-shell ships, 
 
 They knelt on the alien sand. 
 They only knew that before them — 
 
 Like pillars of cloud and of fire — 
 The freedom to work and to worship 
 
 Led on, like a great Desire. 
 
 Oh men! of an age heroic, 
 
 Who followed an unknown trail, 
 Whose wealth was in God and Nature, 
 
 Who knew their bank would not fail; 
 Who trusted in axe and in rifle, 
 
 And the good red blood in their veins, 
 We hail you, our dim forefathers, 
 
 Ere the light, that you kindled, wanes! 
 
 We have grafted the buds of all nations 
 
 On the stock of our old civic tree, 
 The flowers of all Europe are vying 
 
 With the bloom that we first looked to see ; 
 But if branch against branch is contending, 
 
 Can we look for the beautiful fruit ? 
 All must join in a harmony perfect 
 
 And cling to the worthy old root ! 
 
 Are there any who say: "It's all over, 
 The stories have all been told, 
 
 The roads are all built, the laws are all writ, 
 Do nothing but scramble for gold"? 
 
 40 
 
Is there nothing, for some, but "the pictures," 
 
 Of a life that begins to pall? 
 Shall we sneer at the corn with a joy-riding horn 
 
 'Till the hunger is staring at all? 
 
 There's a line — betwixt us and Tomorrow — 
 
 And no one has passed o'er it yet. 
 The Future is primeval forest, 
 
 Its leaves with blood may be wet. 
 There are shapes of the dark-skinned savage, 
 
 And prowlers with hungry jaws, 
 For back of the frontier — Tomorrow — 
 
 Are forces unchained by laws. 
 
 And a call comes up from the billows, 
 
 A call from the forest and hills — 
 From Rippowam, Myanos, Norwalk — 
 
 A call that wakes us and thrills! 
 For it cries: "Awake from your dreaming, 
 
 And fill up the ranks of the brave. 
 There are paths to be cut and rivers to cross, 
 
 And, yes, souls and bodies to save. 
 
 Strong ones! stand shoulder to shoulder, 
 
 And wise ones ! forget all but truth ! 
 White hands, that are gentle and skillful, 
 
 Your work calls for mercy and ruth. 
 Then join, as true sisters and brothers, 
 
 In the annals of Rippowam's years, 
 For the unknown Future is calling, 
 
 And we are the Pioneers. 
 
 41 
 
TO A SPRIG OF HEATHER. 
 
 (Presented to me by Thomas Brown, January 25, 1915.) 
 
 Rooted in Scotia's soil, you lately grew, 
 
 Drawing your bonny tints from Highland brass 
 That lent their beauty to immortal lays 
 
 When life and love to Robert Burns were new. 
 
 We give you welcome, as across the blue, 
 You come to cheer these January days 
 Wherever plaided Scots are met to praise 
 
 The Bard whose heart was manly, brave and true! 
 
 Poet of rugged hills and singing burns! 
 
 Thou shouldst be living in thy native air 
 While many a lad his cot and ingle spurns, 
 
 Taking thy war-chant with him like a prayer, 
 "To stand as freeman or as freeman fall" — 
 
 Brother to all who heed the world-wide call! 
 
 42 
 
THE SACRIFICE. 
 {Feb. 16, 1916.) 
 
 They are dying, dying, dying, 
 
 On the sodden fields of France. 
 In the trenches they are lying, 
 
 Marred by bullet, shell and lance. 
 Though they speak in divers language, 
 
 Varied battle-cry and song, 
 They are brothers 1 — human brothers — 
 
 And their only foe is Wrong. 
 
 Who has bred the brood of Envy? 
 
 Who has sown the seed of Spite? 
 Made the million sons of mothers 
 
 Ravening beasts in deadly fight? 
 Speak ! You pampered Lord of Conquest, 
 
 Hungry coveter of lands? 
 Do you glory in this slaughter 
 
 Dripping from your guilty hands? 
 
 Are you shepherds who thus pilot 
 
 Peaceful flocks to ravening hordes? 
 Are you true to God and Country — 
 
 You the "God-appointed" lords, 
 Can you hope to 'scape the summons., 
 
 When your glory meets its knell; 
 "Pass in, through Death's darkest portal, 
 
 You, arch-architect of Hell"! 
 
 But, above the bursting shrapnel, 
 
 Cries of man and stricken steed, 
 
 O'er the smoke and stench and horror, 
 Awful sacrifice to Greed — 
 
 43 
 
Shine the stras, that move, unwarring, 
 O'er the happy fields of space, 
 
 While we dream of One who leads them- 
 Justice, Beauty, Love and Grace. 
 
 And there must be higher reason 
 
 For this blood-gift on the shrine, 
 That new faith shall spring triumphant 
 
 From the welter by the Rhine; 
 That these brothers are forerunners 
 
 Of a grander day to be, 
 When the nations shall be lovers — 
 
 Bound with love, as by the sea. 
 
 See the stormcloud, how it changes 
 
 Awful front to depths of gold ! 
 See, from direst pangs of Europe, 
 
 Birth of blessings manifold! 
 See the race, with full heart throbbing 
 
 Rise to greet its glad Release, 
 Rising, from the cross of War, 
 
 To bear the sacred crown of Peace. 
 
 44 
 
LIBERTY BOMBS. 
 
 (A marching song for bond buyers.) 
 
 Bond! Bond!— Bond, Bond Bond! 
 
 Let them hear the music from Berlin to Trebi- 
 
 zond! 
 
 Why! it's only lending to your only, bestest friend, 
 
 We are all behind it, boy, to pay you in the end. 
 
 Uncle Sam gives you a chance, your country to 
 
 defend — 
 Grab it! don't be bashful, lad, but lend, lend, lend! 
 
 Dig! Dig!— Dig, Dig, Dig! 
 Down into your panty pockets like a rooting 
 
 Pig! 
 Bring up a few hundred, or a thousand for a stunt, 
 Hand it to the teller with a happy wink and 
 grunt : 
 "If I cannot bat a home-'run I can make a bunt." 
 Will the Kaiser rule us? Well, he wont, 
 wont, wont! 
 
 Buy! Buy! — Buy, Buy, Buy! 
 Turn your bond into a bomb and "hit 'em in 
 the eye!" 
 Let your dollar hit the "mark" , and knock it 
 Haman high. 
 Off to join the Schrecklichheit, forever and 
 goodbye ! 
 Freemen uber alles is the latest battle-cry! 
 
 Buy a bond and watch oppression, die, die, die! 
 
 Bang! Bang! — Bang, Bang, Bang! 
 That's your hundred dollars sailing over with 
 a whang! 
 
 45 
 
Now it strikes a German "pill box" squarely on 
 the bun, 
 Sets the Fritzies hopping out on one good last 
 home-run, 
 That may turn a battle and the victory may be won, 
 With your little bond that fired the gun, gun, 
 gun! 
 
 Smile! Smile! — Smile, Smile, Smile! 
 Now youVe done your duty, don't you think 
 it worth the while ? 
 Mighty comfy feeling, knowing that your treasured 
 chink, 
 Goes to keep the Khaki Boys in hearty food and 
 drink, 
 Goes to put oppression down, forever on the blink — 
 Happy thought for you, my boy, to think, 
 think, think! 
 
 46 
 
LIFT UP YOUR HEARTS. 
 "SURSUM CORDA" 
 
 (A Paean in War-Time. Sept., 1914.) 
 
 Lift up your hearts, O, lovers of the right! 
 It is not always day, nor always night. 
 The world revolves, the darkest hour shall cease, 
 And Alp and Vosges feel the kiss of peace. 
 With lighter hearts men yet shall tend the vine, 
 By rolling Danube and the storied Rhine; 
 With freer muscles drive the steaming plows, 
 Facing the morn with hope-illumined brows. 
 Burdens are dropping; shackles ne'er again 
 To chafe and jangle on the limbs of men! 
 
 Sick Europe! fevered in her every vein, 
 Raves, all demented, in her deadly pain! 
 A billion corpuscles, with every breath, 
 Are striving for her life or for her death, 
 As now she pays, with throes and bitter tears, 
 For wrongs and errors of the burdened years ! 
 Yet, all unseen, there watches at her side, 
 The Good Physician who shall turn the tide, 
 And back to health win back a new Old World, 
 In newer beauty, by her seas impearled. 
 
 While deadly guns are wreaking their own death, 
 Steel wrecking steel with every thunderous breath, 
 And glittering armaments go down in dust, 
 Slow dawns a brighter age, a kindlier trust. 
 When brave men fight, they part with new esteem, 
 And o'er their anger dawns a brighter dream. 
 The arts of war shall yield to arts of peace ; 
 Pure living, justice, yield their fair increase, 
 And men shall prize, beyond mere gold and lands, 
 The hearty pressure of their brothers' hands. 
 
 47 
 
Into the furnace kings shall cast their crowns, 
 The blood and treasure of a thousand towns, 
 To be recast in a diviner mould, 
 A world Design that shall surpass the old ; 
 So, from it all, shall rise a fairer Form, 
 Radiant, smiling, victor, o'er the storm — 
 O'er thrones and scepters, humbled in the dust — 
 The newer Freedom and the newer Trust. 
 
 While groans of dying fill the tortured air, 
 God can transform their curses to a prayer! 
 And brave true boys, so yielding up their breath, 
 Shall win their victory from ruthless death. 
 The world shall listen, and shall heed the call — 
 Drop self and pelf, and live, each one, for all. 
 Thank God! that by that inky battle cloud, 
 Hiding all Europe in its awful shroud, 
 Shines yet more brightly on our own fair land, 
 The rays of peace, from shining strand to strand, 
 That here the Slav and Teuton, side by side, 
 Peacefully work or walk, in native pride, 
 Sorrowing, yet with calmness can debate 
 The throes of war, the blunders of the State, 
 And with a sympathy, by freedom bred, 
 Show charity for living, honor to the dead. 
 
 My Country, take the lesson to thy heart! 
 We are no stronger than our weakest part. 
 The favored few must bend to help the weak, 
 The haughty hearts take lessons from the meek, 
 And all be glad to give, and glad to toil, 
 Winning their living from a free man's soil, 
 While trivial chasers of a moment's toy 
 Shall drop the dance and learn a nobler joy. 
 
 48 
 
Hard, hard, the heart that does not feel the throes 
 Of France or England, Russ or German woes! 
 What can we do? The tears are in our eyes, 
 The path is dim, yet straight ahead it lies! 
 Have faith! On many a thunder-shaken field 
 A prayer has wrought a calm, though cannon pealed. 
 Doing our duty, in the fields or marts, 
 Have faith, be calm, be kind ! Lift up your hearts ! 
 
 49 
 
THE FLAG THAT NEVER KNEW DEFEAT. 
 
 (Written for the Bond Campaign.) 
 
 The flag that never knows defeat! 
 
 O where is anything so sweet ? 
 
 It's a flower! It's a song! 
 
 It's a sword against wrong! 
 
 It's the light of children's eyes — 
 
 All the dear ones that we prize; 
 
 The altar and the home all shine 
 
 In that banner, yours and mine. 
 
 Shall it live, shall it fly? 
 
 Aye! Aye! Aye! Aye! Aye! 
 
 Shall it droop, shall it die? 
 
 No! No! No! we cry! 
 
 While the blue sky lives overhead, 
 
 While the sun stripes the east with red, 
 
 While the stars lead our thoughts above, 
 
 We will battle for the flag we love. 
 
 It is you and I 
 
 Who must live or die — 
 
 For the flag that never shall retreat, 
 
 For the flag that never knew defeat. 
 
 For the flag that never knew retreat 
 Ten million men are on their feet. 
 There's a gun, for each one, 
 'Till the fight is fought and won. 
 And behind each fighting man 
 There are nine to push and plan, 
 To toil and work and save, 
 To cheer the hearts of the brave, 
 Shall they fail? Shall they quail, 
 Meeting the iron hail? 
 Shall they charge with a smile, 
 Drive on, — mile on mile? 
 50 
 
The answer is with you and me — 
 Are we worthy of our liberty? 
 When the boys cry "Freedom or deaths- 
 Fight for us till their latest breath — 
 And so, in the strife, 
 Giving all, giving life — - 
 Are we worthy of that gift so sweet 
 And the flag that never knew defeat? 
 
 51 
 
STAMP IT OUT. 
 
 If a fire starts in our woodland 
 
 You will hear the farmers shout, 
 
 Phone the warden, call each worker, 
 Put the wasteful flames to rout. 
 
 Cut down cedars, start a back-fire, 
 
 Work like beavers, Stamp It Out. 
 
 There's a raging fire in Europe, 
 
 And the flames are mounting higher. 
 
 Men and women, little children, 
 Are consumed upon that pyre; 
 
 Helpless nations, noble cities, 
 Are but fuel for the fire. 
 
 See, the sparks are coming over, 
 
 Shooting towards us o'er the sea, 
 
 Even ocean cannot stop them, 
 
 Then what other help have we? 
 
 Send our boys across the billows — 
 They will fight for you and me. 
 
 Buy a Thrift Stamp, buy a War Stamp, 
 
 Put the raging flames to rout. 
 Show our boys that we're behind them, 
 
 Let them have no chance to doubt! 
 Choke that fire with Thrift and War Stamps. 
 
 Stamp it out, boys, stamp it out! 
 
 52 
 
"RED COMRADES" 
 
 When the winds talk and murmur in the trees, 
 When in the forest shadows work their will, 
 And voices call, and then are strangely still, 
 
 Or eerie laughter rustles in the breeze, 
 
 Then we believe the Red Men still are straying, 
 Watching the river and the children playing. 
 
 We thought them vanished when the reddening sun 
 Drew his red children to the rosy west, 
 As parents seize the child they love the best 
 
 When danger threatens from the wolf or gun; 
 
 And so we dreamed that with the sunset glory, 
 The warrior vanished with his poignant story. 
 
 When was the white man's eye of full avail? 
 
 Does the Great Spirit do his work in vain ? 
 
 Does he, like children, build to break again, 
 Attempt a universe and only fail? 
 
 Call the Red Woodmen into wondrous being 
 
 Then ] leave them formless las the shadows 
 fleeing? 
 
 The rain and wind may blot for many a year 
 The trail of wigwam poles across the plains, 
 The crooning of the squaws be lost in strains 
 
 Of lullabys for fairer infant's ear. 
 
 But can you dream of mother-love as dying 
 Or all it means as dead beyond replying? 
 
 When we stand hushed amid the forest halls, 
 And something bids us listen and be still, 
 And distant cries seem drifting down the hill, 
 And over all some veil of magic falls, 
 
 We seem to see the lithe red bodies glinting, 
 And know that moccasins the ground are 
 printing. 
 
 53 
 
How live it is — the Red Man's vanished soul! 
 
 And how it lives in all our untold dreams ! 
 
 How it still draws to hills and woodland streams 
 Our youth who make Romance their leafy goal, 
 
 Fleeting their arrows at the same old willows, 
 
 Guiding canoes across the same old billows! 
 
 We love these haunted hills and streams and lakes 
 
 With all their mellow Indian names and lore, 
 The more because each from the Red Man takes 
 
 New romance, dating from the days of yore. 
 
 And for this land our blood drops wake and 
 rally 
 
 Ready to fight for every hill and valley. 
 
 Come then, boon spirits of the wilding ways! 
 
 At least in spirit join us on the path! 
 
 Whether in peace or joined in warlike wrath, 
 We shall have friends and scouts beyond all praise. 
 
 As long as Uncas has one arrow in his quiver, 
 
 Or faithful Sagamore keeps watch by rock and 
 river. 
 
 54 
 
WAR SONGS 
 
 THE AMERICAN MARSEILLAISE. 
 
 (America to France. Written for the music.) 
 
 O lovely France! we know your glory, 
 
 In dreams we long have seen your face. 
 The seas have borne to us your story, 
 
 The spirit of your valiant race — 
 
 The spirit of your valiant race. 
 Your song of Freedom in us ringing, 
 
 We hasten now with you to stand, 
 
 Defenders of your glorious land, 
 We grasp our blades and join you singing: 
 
 To arms! to arms, ye brave! 
 
 Ours too, t\i avenging sword! 
 
 March on, as one, all hearts resolved 
 
 On victory or death! 
 
 Long years ago our swords entwining 
 
 Upheld an arch for Freedom's way, 
 Aligned with our good sabres shining, 
 
 The sons of France joined in the fray — 
 The sons of France joined in the fray. 
 Then LaFayette with us was vieing 
 
 To rend the Teuton tyrant's chain, 
 While Freedom strove and writhed in pain- 
 So now we join you gladly crying: 
 To arms! to arms, ye brave! etc. 
 
 O look now where a Woman standing, 
 Upholds a torch to light the world! 
 
 And who this Spirit, so commanding, 
 
 Around whose feet the tides are whirled? 
 
 55 
 
Around whose feet the tides are whirled? 
 From far all brave men flock around her, 
 
 Lest Liberty herself should fall, 
 
 What then could light the heavens pall? 
 O say, shall shot and shell confound her? 
 
 To arms! to arms, ye brave! etc. 
 
 The bugle round the world is sounding, 
 From Alpine mountain to the sea; 
 
 The slaves of wrath are now surrounding 
 The shrines and firesides of the free! 
 The shrines and firesides of the free! 
 
 But no! see England, grim and gory, 
 
 With us sweeps to the great Crusade — 
 Italia draws the righteous blade — 
 
 For God, for Country and for Glory! 
 To arms! to arms, ye brave! etc. 
 
 {Since published in Paris.) 
 
 56 
 
THE FLAG. 
 
 The flag, the flag, to heaven it climbs, 
 As borne on hidden wings, 
 
 Bearing our prayers and songs and rhymes, 
 It lives and leaps and sings! 
 
 Against the blue it loves to wave — 
 The peerless banner of the brave! 
 
 Strong, young, as on its natal day, 
 In deathless colors drenched, 
 
 This beacon of our land shall stay 
 And ne'er a star be quenched; 
 
 But, flaming with a people's will, 
 
 Bid all the waves of wrong "Be Still". 
 
 Small wonder that the flag-staff thrills 
 
 With pride to hold it high, 
 And lives again as on our hills 
 
 It reaches toward the sky — 
 The nation's glorious symbol-flower, 
 
 The flag of Freedom, Hope and Power. 
 
 And as we gaze, the souls of might 
 Seem summoned from the past; 
 
 From Ironsides deck, from Yorktown fight, 
 They gather round the mast. 
 
 With them we pledge their battle-toast: 
 "The flag, on every sea and coast." 
 
 The flag, the flag, with every sun 
 
 It rises to the peak, 
 And 'till that royal orb is done, 
 
 Blooms against heaven's cheek; 
 While dew of tender tears shall wet 
 
 That symbol till all suns are set. 
 57 
 
COLUMBIA. 
 
 (A National Song.) 
 
 Pure as the air that blows across 
 
 Thy many mountains old; 
 Warm as the fire that drives the dross 
 
 Off from the shining gold ; ■ 
 Bright as the stars that watch above 
 
 Thy prairies broad unrolled; 
 True as the truest tale of love 
 
 That e'er was sung or told; 
 Is the love we bear to thee, 
 O Queen of the Land and Sea! 
 Columbia ! Columbia ! 
 Thou Home of Liberty! 
 
 Long as we love the sacred ties 
 That love has given birth ; 
 Long as we love the memories 
 
 That twine around each hearth; 
 Long as our best life-blood to thee 
 
 Shall be of any worth; 
 Long as we hope our heaven shall be 
 When we shall leave the earth; 
 
 Will we pray and fight for thee, 
 Will we live and die for thee; 
 Columbia ! Columbia ! 
 Thou Home of Liberty ! 
 
 58 
 
COUNT ME THY SOLDIER, LOVE, 
 TODAY. 
 
 Count me thy soldier, Love, today, 
 
 Give me thy spotless shield, 
 And send me on thine errantry 
 
 Forth to the fateful field, 
 Give me thy banner, pure and bright, 
 
 A sword that shall not fail, 
 And lead me in thy glorious fight 
 
 Till all thy foes shall quail. 
 
 The battleground lies far and wide, 
 
 The hosts no man can tell; 
 But here at hand I make a stand, 
 
 One life to dearly sell. 
 The laureled wreath may not be mine, 
 
 Nor plaudits greet my ear, 
 But in this place, a little space, 
 
 For Love I couch a spear. 
 
 The triumph over dark and wrong, 
 
 The victory for the Light, 
 Waits but each single soldier's stroke 
 
 To put the foe to flight. 
 O, do not doubt that far away 
 
 Your comrades' cheers arise! 
 Faith, and the blow that proves the faith, 
 
 Shall win the peerless prize. 
 
 Count me thy soldier, Love, today, 
 
 And when the fight is won 
 Then come and walk the battlefield 
 
 At setting of the sun. 
 And let me join the victor's shout 
 
 Or, on my grass-green bed. 
 Let me but dream I see thee smile 
 
 Above thy soldier dead. 
 59 
 
BLUE FOOTING. 
 
 (A Song for the Navy.) 
 
 It's all blue footing wherever we go — 
 
 Blue footing, my hearties, blue footing. 
 It's blue overhead and it's blue down below, 
 And who's for a ship when the tenknotters blow? 
 And who for the Navy is rooting? 
 Come away! Come away! 
 And let the land lubbers stay. 
 Me for saltwater glory 
 In dreadnought or dory — 
 Come away! Come away! Come away! 
 
 Hurrah for the service that conquers the seas — 
 
 The seven seas flowing around you; 
 Forget all your Broadways and meadows and trees, 
 They'll never be missed in a good spanking breeze, 
 And bless the good bo 'sun who found you! 
 Come away! Come away! 
 To the song of the halliard and stay. 
 And the good engine beating, 
 A big bone back-fleeting — 
 Come away! Come away! Come away! 
 
 Go dowse all your clocks for we're dancing to bells 
 
 On the decks of a good man-of-war, sir; 
 There's nothing to do when you're footing the blue 
 But jump around quick when the bos'n goes through, 
 And heave a line straight like a tar, sir. 
 Come away! Come away! 
 We're the cops on a long ocean way ; 
 And we use a big stick, 
 And we lay it on quick — 
 Come away! Come away! Come away! 
 
 60 
 
Go trust all the stars that you see in the sky 
 
 Or clouds in a hurricane flying; 
 But don't trust a stick that you see floating by, 
 Or a light that bobs up and goes out like an eye, 
 Or you'll have the sea black with your dying. 
 Come away! Come away! 
 It is we or the sub every day. 
 Dead lights keep in cover, 
 Sharp eyes play the rover — 
 Come away! Come away! Come away! 
 
 But give us a top-of-the-water square fight — 
 
 Blue footing, my hearties, blue footing — 
 And let the guns talk, whether eights or fourteens, 
 We'll paint up the ocean to please the marines, 
 And give the sly foemen a booting. 
 Come away! Come away! 
 There may come a glorious day — 
 And just think of that fight — 
 In the day or the night — 
 And Hurray ! And Hurray ! And Hurray ! 
 
 61 
 
LINCOLN'S BOYS. 
 
 (Tune, "Marching Through Georgia." 
 Sung at Pageant in Stamford Theatre.) 
 
 "We're coming, Father Abraham," three million 
 
 soldiers more, 
 Your spirit leads us as it led our fathers once 
 
 before, 
 We'll save the Union once again, amid the battle's 
 
 roar — 
 Singing — the battle-cry of Freedom! 
 
 Chorus : 
 
 Hurrah! Hurrah! the year of jubilee! 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! the world shall all be free ! 
 The sons of Lincoln's soldier boys are going 
 
 over sea 
 To win — this final fight for Freedom! 
 
 The voice of good old Lincoln is a voice that never 
 
 dies, 
 And now it calls the North and South, as brothers, 
 
 to arise, 
 And o'er the mountains, East and West, we hear 
 
 the glad replies — 
 We're coming — to win the war for Freedom! 
 
 That ruling, "by the people shall not perish from 
 
 the earth," 
 That, "under God, the nation should be blest with 
 
 newer birth," 
 He gave his brain and life and blood, and all that 
 
 he was worth — 
 Fighting — the noble fight for Freedom! 
 
 62 
 
"The land cannot endure," he said, "if half of it 
 
 is slave," 
 We write it on a larger page, and march, the 
 
 world to save. 
 So fling the chorus o'er the seas, and rally with 
 
 the brave — 
 Singing — the battle-cry of Freedom! 
 
 63 
 
ON THE ROAD TO OLD BERLIN. 
 
 It's a crooked road to old Berlin, 
 
 It's a stony trail to old Berlin, 
 But dinna ye mind! 
 
 For we will find 
 The road to old Berlin! 
 
 Chorus : 
 
 Halloa there, Lassie! 
 
 Remember — we will win ! 
 Bring my best coat — 
 Don't miss the boat — 
 
 Well dance in old Berlin! 
 
 To fight the Germans is no lark! 
 
 They should have been kept in the Ark! 
 But then they make a good big mark 
 
 On the road to old Berlin ! 
 
 Oh no — we don't mean any harm — 
 
 We're only fighting to keep warm — 
 
 But we'll give each Belgian girl a farm — 
 When we get to old Berlin ! 
 
 The dachshund has begun to pout, 
 
 Three strikes now, Fritzie, and — you're out! 
 We keep the ball and take the kraut, 
 
 On the road to old Berlin ! 
 
 It's a crooked road to old Berlin, 
 
 It's a stony trail to old Berlin, 
 But dinna ye mind ! 
 
 For we will find 
 The road to old Berlin! 
 
 64 
 
Chorus : 
 
 OVER SEA. 
 
 WeVe a little trip to make — 
 
 Over Sea — 
 And a little town to take — 
 
 Over Sea. 
 There's a little grouchy man 
 Who will stop us if he can, 
 But we'll have to spoil his plan- 
 
 Don't you see? 
 
 Yes, all the boys are going o'er the wave, 
 
 O'er the wave ; 
 And all the girls are going to be brave, 
 
 To be brave. 
 Where the good old flag is streaming, 
 Where the bayonets are gleaming, 
 You will help us in our dreaming — 
 
 To be brave. 
 
 O our army will be grand — 
 
 Over Sea — 
 Such a splendid mighty band — 
 
 Over Sea. 
 'Twill be worth a hundred years 
 Just to hear the U. S. cheers 
 When we charge with level spears — 
 
 Don't you see? 
 
 We will tramp o'er many miles — 
 
 Over Sea — 
 We will win the children's smiles — 
 
 Over Sea. 
 
 65 
 
We will soothe their sore alarms, 
 And win back their little farms, 
 And redress their many harms — 
 Don't you see? 
 
 When our banner is unfurled — 
 
 Over Sea — 
 It will free a tortured world — 
 
 Over Sea. 
 So God give us help and speed, 
 Put our creed into our deed, 
 With old Glory in the lead- 
 Over Sea! 
 
 66 
 
CHEER US, O GOD. 
 
 (Tune, "Cutler" No. 416, M. E. Hymnal, 
 "The Son of God Goes Forth to War") 
 
 Cheer us, O God, as we go forth to slay the demon 
 
 war, 
 And let no craven thought of fear our soldier 
 
 spirits mar, 
 Knowing the fiends of hell must bow to Thee, 
 
 whose sons we are. 
 Cheer us, O God, as we go forth to slay the demon 
 
 war. 
 
 Cheer us, O God! 
 
 Bless us, O God, as Thou didst bless Thy Son of 
 
 blessed fame, 
 Who scourged the wicked from Thy courts, whose 
 
 eyes with rage could flame. 
 Bless us as now we follow swift His footsteps, in 
 
 Thy name. 
 Bless us, O God, as Thou didst bless Thy Son of 
 
 blessed fame. 
 
 Bless us, O God! 
 
 Steel us, O God, to do Thy will, to be Thy light- 
 ning stroke, 
 
 Now that the centuried tyrant Wrong has bour- 
 geoned like the oak. 
 
 Show how the scorners of Thy will shall, like a 
 reed, be broke. 
 
 Steel us, O God, to do Thy will, to be Thy light- 
 ning stroke. 
 
 Steel us, O God! 
 
 67 
 
Lead us, O God, when leaders fall and clouds 
 
 obscure the foe, 
 Right through the smoke and fire and din let us 
 
 unerring go. 
 O lead us straight to the dragon Hate, and let us 
 
 lay him low! 
 Lead us, O God, when leaders fall and clouds 
 
 obscure the foe. 
 
 Lead us, O God! 
 
 Save us, O God, in life or death, — all through the 
 
 battle's stress, 
 And save us from all hapless hours when we might 
 
 trust Thee less, 
 And save the foe from his worst fate, the fate of 
 
 his success. 
 Save us, O God, in life or death, all through the 
 
 battle's stress. 
 
 Save us, O God! 
 
 68 
 
AMERICA. 
 
 A Paean. 
 
 Daughter of Liberty, 
 Mother of Heroes, 
 Hater of Neros, 
 Beacon of Nations! 
 All degradations 
 
 Flee at thy coming, 
 
 With flag-gleam and drumming, 
 The stripes of Old Glory, 
 And each star a story 
 Of glorious ventures! 
 All races turn to thee, 
 All peoples yearn to thee, 
 
 All but oppressors 
 
 The poor slaves-possessors! 
 
 Lead, and we follow 
 
 O'er mountain and hollow — 
 
 Follow the swaying 
 
 Of free limbs on-gliding, 
 Follow thy sword-gleam 
 
 To victory striding, 
 Brave hearts repeating 
 The throb and the beating 
 Of drums and the weaving 
 Of gladness and grieving 
 In bugle-tones rhyming 
 Our spirits up-climbing! 
 
 Daughter of Liberty! 
 Peace is thy omen, 
 Love thy cognomen. 
 
 69 
 
Justice, thy law, 
 
 Bids us love royally 
 
 Sweetness and beauty; 
 Bids us tread loyally 
 
 Footpaths of duty, 
 Joyfully heeding 
 Wherever be speeding 
 Thy Woman-Sours leading ! 
 
 Gleam of thy tresses 
 
 And challenge of glances, 
 
 More potent than lances, 
 Our ardor possesses. 
 We are thy yeomen, 
 Thy archers and bowmen, 
 As gladly we hie to thee, 
 Cheer for thee, cry for thee, 
 Live for thee, die for thee! 
 Snowily vestured, 
 Panoplied spotlessly 
 In thy white temple 
 
 'Neath thy blue dome ; 
 Clouds for thy servitors 
 Winds for thy messengers 
 Stars for thy guardians, 
 
 Loyally come! 
 Flowers upspring to thee 
 Paeans we sing to thee 
 Loyal hearts fling to thee — 
 
 Light of our Home! 
 
 70 
 
ECHOES OF OTHER WARS 
 
 THE OLD FORSAKEN PLACES. 
 
 (Written for the D.A.R.) 
 
 The old forsaken places — 
 
 They lie within our hearts, 
 The graves of vanished beauty 
 
 Where nothing living starts, 
 Except the grass that covers 
 
 The paths where once we met. 
 The grass seems to remember — 
 
 The roses may forget! 
 
 The old forsaken places ! 
 
 How much they once did mean! 
 A presence by a fireside — 
 
 A mother's face serene. 
 But when the roof-tree crumbles, 
 
 The chimney totters too, 
 Where are the life and laughter 
 
 And love that once they knew? 
 
 The old forsaken places — 
 
 Could they give up their dead 
 You'd see the Continentals 
 
 That Greene and Putnam led. 
 You'd see the stern-faced legions 
 
 Take up the same old trails 
 To end perhaps at Princeton 
 
 Or Yorktown's bloody vales. 
 
 71 
 
In old forsaken places 
 
 By some fair-flowing stream, 
 Amid the sweets of Maytime 
 
 I love to pause and dream 
 That possibly the blue-bird, 
 
 In martial buff and blue, 
 With cheering notes immortal, 
 
 May reach their hearing too. 
 
 In old forsaken places 
 
 We seem to hold too cheap, 
 Among the vines and briars 
 
 Where our defenders sleep, 
 The valor that was tested 
 
 In far tremendous days 
 That striped with red our ensign 
 
 That we so idly raise. 
 
 Wake those forsaken places, 
 
 Forgotten, in the heart! 
 Awake the slumbering passion 
 
 To do a hero's part ! 
 For if our love lies sleeping 
 
 When leaps up to the light 
 The flag our heroes carried 
 
 Then we should shrink from sight. 
 
 Then raise the fallen headstones 
 
 Above the buff and blue, 
 And o'er the hero women — 
 
 The Molly Pitchers too — 
 Else better one smooth meadow, 
 
 Green, soft and dewy wet, 
 Where roses may remember 
 
 And grass will not forget. 
 
 72 
 
DEWEY. 
 
 (Died Jan. 16, 1917.) 
 
 Hail to him, guns of the fort and the fleet! 
 Hail to him, echoes that thunder and meet 
 Round the round world where the flag that he bore 
 Flutters in grief on Manilla's far shore. 
 
 Speak for him, lads, on the Man-of-War deck! 
 Speak for him, Cubans, remember the wreck 
 Where Morro Castle frowns over the bay; 
 The Maine's great avenger is passing today. 
 
 Sing to him, waves of the wide Seven Seas! 
 Let him imagine he welcomes the breeze 
 Over Luzon bringing spice of the shore 
 Grateful and sweet when the day's work is o'er. 
 
 On high Olympus the sea-gods look down; 
 On Olympia's captain awaiting his crown. 
 "When you are ready," old Hero, they say, 
 That was the order you gave in the Bay. 
 
 (From the N. Y. Tribune.) 
 
 73 
 
CUBA LIBRE. 
 
 (Was Set to music and sung. 
 Just before the Spanish War.) 
 
 "Cuba Libre !" Hear our daughter o'er the water 
 
 bravely cry, 
 While the smoke that never falters from her altars 
 
 stains the sky ; 
 While the aged, and the children, and the stricken 
 
 women reel; 
 "Cuba Libre !" is their answer to the tyrant's fatal 
 
 steel. 
 
 "Cuba Libre!" At her option, by adoption, she is 
 
 ours ; 
 Bound to us by cords of freedom mightier than 
 
 earthly powers! 
 She is hoping, she is groping, through the murk 
 
 of slavery's air. 
 Shall we by our deafness drive her to the silence 
 
 of despair? 
 
 "Cuba Libre!" shouts Maceo, riding to a martyr's 
 
 death ; 
 "Cuba Libre!" smiles Bandera, victor in his latest 
 
 breath ! 
 "Cuba, wilt thou bow thy head? on royal promises 
 
 rely?" 
 "Cuba Libre!" Hear a nation saying she would 
 
 rather die! 
 
 "Cuba Libre!" Hear the mountains echo back the 
 
 patriot boast ; 
 "Cuba Libre!" sing the waves along two thousand 
 
 miles of coast! 
 
 74 
 
O'er the water hear our daughter saying: "Mother, 
 
 from thy brow, 
 I have caught the rays of freedom, you may not 
 
 disown me now!" 
 
 Valiant daughter, o'er the water, we have heard 
 
 thy moving voice, 
 And the glory of thy story makes a patriot land 
 
 rejoice ! 
 Five and forty stars of ours salute thee o'er the 
 
 tumbling sea, 
 Pledge their forces in their courses 'til thy single 
 
 star is free! 
 
 75 
 
TO ENGLAND. 
 
 (1898) 
 
 Brothers, who face with us the boisterous brine, 
 That, through the storied immemorial years, 
 With buffets of sharp salt and mighty surge, 
 Has taught our fathers courage, patience, faith — 
 Bear with us yet if in these strenuous days, 
 Full of reverberations, we seem deaf, 
 Or hardly mindful, to the kindly words 
 Breathed under the Atlantic for our cheer. 
 Ah yes, we hear them, and they nerve anew 
 The grip upon the sabre and the hands 
 That keep the grim-lipped guns in ready leash! 
 From salutations such there comes a thrill 
 Filling tense veins with ancient battle- joy 
 That threads a lineage bright with daring deeds. 
 
 The sons of men who heard Will Shakespeare speak, 
 Whose fathers were with yours at Stamford Bridge, 
 When Saxon Harold made the Derwent red, 
 But not with blush for England; we who trace 
 From those old sea-kings whose swift galleys made 
 King Philip's proud "invincibles" a myth; 
 We, mindful how our pulses take their rhythm 
 From the unending drum-beat that has rolled 
 Round Trafalgar, Sebastopol, Lucknow, 
 And kindred monuments to England's arms, 
 That make familiar all the Old-World map — 
 We thank you for your thought of us today. 
 
 Nor were we e'er unmindful of your stress. 
 We joy with you when to your destiny 
 Uprising, equal, you dispense new rights — 
 New rights as old as Freedom's honored seat 
 
 76 
 
In human hearts. We offer stintless praise 
 For your great giant souls like him just dead,* 
 Who gave fair Ireland bigger chance to breathe, 
 Shorn of old bondage; watch with glistening eyes 
 Your ancient cross spread freedom in the East 
 And keep God's harbors open to all sails 
 That carry knowledge, justice, order, peace. 
 If Afghan bullets stain a Highland plaid, 
 If the grim crescent drips with English blood 
 Shed to defend a bruised and trodden race, 
 Know we shall feel the hurt as quick as you! 
 
 Now, in this solemn task, we only blush 
 
 Because we were too patient. Eager never 
 
 To hold red hands up for the world to see, 
 
 We writhed in silence at a mighty wrong. 
 
 But, well-determined on this great redress, 
 
 We reck at nothing if our aims are right. 
 
 You, too, who give your plaudits, would esteem 
 
 Us less if we did not at once declare, 
 
 (Had we no war-base but our consciences) 
 
 That we will wipe the wrong and wronger out 
 
 Forever from this fair, free Western world. 
 
 Take, then, the simple phrase that suits the times. 
 
 The hand-grasp and the meeting of the eye 
 
 Shall write our pact in stronger bonds than ink, 
 
 And, sealed by faith in which our shoulders touch, 
 
 Shall keep the old world rolling up the hill 
 
 To that high plane on which good hearts are set, 
 
 When your brave cross and our fair sister stars 
 
 Shall jointly guard a universal peace, 
 
 And equal right and opportunity 
 
 Shall be the glory of the human race. 
 
 (From the Boston Transcript.) 
 
 ♦Gladstone. 
 
 77 
 
NEMESIS. 
 
 (The "Maine.") 
 
 She glided on her peaceful quest, 
 
 What though her starry flag might bear 
 
 To some a silent, stern behest, 
 
 To some a breath of freedom's air; 
 
 Then, in her berth, a stately guest, 
 Slept, trustful, in that alien lair. 
 
 But what are bulkheads, fashioned well, 
 And what are sides and decks of steel, 
 
 Or cunning dialhands to tell, 
 
 Through night and day, of woe or weal, 
 
 When human hearts can league with hell 
 And sow volcanoes 'neath a keel ? 
 
 So by a deed whose blackness made 
 
 The night it chose seem white beside, 
 
 Struck in the dark by coward blade, 
 
 The valiant MAINE leapt once and died — 
 
 A name to make a throne afraid, 
 
 A wreck that moaned beneath the tide ! 
 
 (The "Oregon/') 
 
 But o'er the land the tidings swept, 
 
 And death-cries quivered through the wire, 
 
 Down in the hold the engines leapt, 
 The coal sprang eager to the fire, 
 
 And never slacked, and never slept 
 The sister warship's grim desire ! 
 
 With patient throbs that never wane 
 A continent's long coast is won; 
 
 78 
 
That proof of more than royal reign 
 Shall teach the lesson to the Don 
 
 That he who strikes a blow at Maine 
 Shall reckon yet with Oregon ! 
 
 Ah! when her helm goes hard a-port, 
 And all her broadside speaks in fire, 
 
 And from the proudly floating fort 
 
 The cheers ring out with brave desire, 
 
 That sound shall shake a trembling court, 
 And thrill Havana's sunken pyre! 
 
 {This poem from the N. Y. Tribune was posted on 
 the Oregon's bulletin board before and during the 
 naval battle at Santiago.) 
 
 79 
 
THE ROUGH RIDER. 
 
 Unpretendingly he dropped the branding-iron upon 
 
 the plain, 
 Threw the lariat to his partner, waved the eastward- 
 glimmering train; 
 Bade adieu to dog and bronco, friends that drew a 
 
 brace of tears; 
 Wondered if he'd round-up Spaniards handy as he 
 
 corralled steers. 
 Then he sweated in the transport, broiled upon the 
 
 torrid sand, 
 Fingering the Krag-Jorg lever 'til 'twas ready to 
 
 his hand; 
 Got his clothes to setting on him, got just chummy 
 
 with the sun — 
 Cooked immune in showers that sizzled when they 
 
 pattered on his gun. 
 Then he took the trail, all quiet, stepping in his 
 
 comrade's tracks; 
 Stripping slowly for the tussle, dropping extra togs 
 
 and packs; 
 Gripping to the stock and barrel, ready for a Span- 
 ish rise, 
 Humming softly little songs of Sunday-school and 
 
 Paradise. 
 He'd a wad of antiseptic ready for the Spanish hits, 
 He'd a cracker for his supper, if it wasn't knocked 
 
 to bits; 
 With the cactus in his leggin's he went pricking 
 
 o'er the plain, 
 And the sound of "Cuba Libre" grew to seem a 
 
 trifle vain. 
 
 80 
 
Lying in the pelt of Mausers, waiting for the word 
 
 to go, 
 Thinking that the old camp-meeting opened up a 
 
 trifle slow; 
 Then, a jaunty laugh illuming canyons of his grimy 
 
 face, 
 Through the jungle slipping, jumping, setting Death 
 
 a rattling pace! 
 Punching bullets in the bushes, catching all that 
 
 came his way, 
 Taking them as invitations from the Dons to come 
 
 and stay; 
 Teaching proud Castilian Spaniards points about 
 
 another breed, 
 Till he rested on their ramparts, gone plum hungry 
 
 for a feed. 
 
 Back, to hear a Nation's welcome roar along a 
 
 crowded street; 
 Back, so soon to be upswallowed in the tramp of 
 
 million feet; 
 Back to canyon and arroyo, back to maverick and 
 
 ranch — 
 Living just to keep a steer from crossing Little 
 
 Coyote Branch! 
 Not the less the picture brightens on the Nation's 
 
 ample page, 
 History bending fondly o'er the hero-figure of the 
 
 age, 
 Roosevelt, and his gallant Riders, with their polka- 
 dot guidon, 
 Crashing, slipping, leaping, cheering, up the tangle 
 
 of San Juan! 
 To a cowboy in his saddle, herding by the prairie 
 
 stream, 
 
 81 
 
Even now it seems half real, half an unremembered 
 
 dream, 
 Not to Fame ! who, proudly musing on that glorious 
 
 charge and rout, 
 Guards San Juan, while weak oblivion tries in vain 
 
 to wipe it out. 
 
 82 
 
GETTYSBURG. 
 
 (July 4, 1913.) 
 (A Hymn of Reconciliation.) 
 
 We pin the rose of valor 
 
 On the faded coat of gray; 
 The lily of faithfulness-till-death 
 
 On the blue that won the day. 
 Our hearts swell with the music 
 
 As the gray-head ranks go by 
 For the love that lives immortal 
 
 O'er the hate that had to die. 
 
 From the songs of greeting maidens 
 
 To the war-shriek of the shell, 
 From the dream of home and mother 
 
 To the fury-hags of hell, 
 How quick the changing drama 
 
 To the boy— hosts, years ago — 
 A warm hand on a banner, 
 
 A still heart lying low. 
 
 O phantom steeds of Buford, 
 
 Or serried ranks of Hill, 
 O lads that fell with Reynolds 
 
 When the thunder wreaked its will, 
 Heroes of Sykes and Sickles, 
 
 Stone wall of Ewell's line — 
 Speak, was it worth the heart-throes 
 
 And blood that flowed like wine? 
 
 No, never! unless this Nation 
 Gains new life from Today, 
 
 Stirred to its deepest pulses 
 
 By that far, mighty fray! 
 
 83 
 
When the sun o'er the storied village 
 Sees the veteran ranks depart, 
 
 There must bide renewed devotion 
 In a Country's mellowed heart. 
 
 By trembling hands committed — 
 
 A gift we cannot weigh — 
 From the Gettysburg battalions 
 
 To the boys of the great Today- 
 Great God of the Day of Battles — 
 
 Of Peace, of Age, of Youth — 
 Bivouac, each night our Country 
 
 On higher plains of Truth ! 
 
 We pin the rose of valor 
 
 On the faded coat of gray; 
 The lily of faithfulness-till-death 
 
 On the blue that won the day. 
 Our hearts swell with the music, 
 
 As the gray-head ranks go by, 
 For the love that lives immortal, 
 
 O'er the hate that had to die. 
 
 84 
 
CREASY'S "FIFTEEN BATTLES." 
 
 In this thin book, that shows no crimson stain, 
 
 We trace the course of empire flowing through 
 The ancient world until it meets the new. 
 
 And Saratoga mirrors back the plain 
 
 Of Marathon, while Blenheim's bloody rain 
 Gives warning dire of weltering Waterloo, 
 So, too, rise up, portentous to the view, 
 
 Hastings, Pultowa, Valmy's dreadful train! 
 
 How like a line of rugged beetling crags, 
 
 That thrust a river to the left or right — 
 
 And sometimes turn it back upon its 
 course — 
 Loom up these battles! Likewise never flags 
 
 The human heart-beat, like the river's might, 
 Winning its Freedom, spite of any Force. 
 
 85 
 
WASHINGTON. 
 
 (February 22, 1918.) 
 
 A mount unmeasured by its peers, 
 We trace its shadow hurled, 
 
 And say it falls a hundred years 
 And reaches round the world ! 
 
 Our Knight! Of patient, ample mind; 
 
 A form of hero part; 
 And face so firm it seemed to bind 
 
 The courage of his heart. 
 
 No greater in his task divine 
 Than great in little things; 
 
 'Twas this that made his greatness shine 
 Preeminent o'er kings. 
 
 On gold and bronze in honored state 
 His face for years has shone. 
 
 Stamp deeper, day we celebrate, 
 His nature on our own. 
 
 Had he foreseen what years have brought, 
 Would he have changed his part? 
 
 He bore a nation in his thought — 
 Its life-beat in his heart. 
 
 And always as his watchful eyes 
 
 Swept out across the seas 
 His country heard his counsel wise: 
 
 "Prepare for war in peace." 
 
 Again our country would invoke 
 That sword that Freedom won. 
 
 Save us again from tyrant yoke — 
 Immortal Washington ! 
 
 86 
 
SARATOGA. 
 
 {Read October 18, 1912, at the Dedication of the Battle 
 
 Monument at S chuylerville , N. Y., the site 
 
 of Burgoyne's Surrender.) 
 
 Historic Hudson! Haste not by today! 
 
 More gently, let thy waters take their way 
 As on thy banks we dedicate 
 This shaft unto the dead, the great, 
 
 Whose memory, like thy stream, a shining story, 
 
 Shall broaden to a boundless sea of glory. 
 
 Quiet for many a year has here been found, 
 The wild bird feared no martial sight or sound, 
 
 Under the peaceful fields, well kept, 
 
 The ashes of the soldiers slept, 
 With summer's guard of tasseled corn around, 
 Or winter's snow-shroud hallowing the ground. 
 
 On yonder plain where England's grenadiers 
 Laid down the arms they loved, with bitter tears, 
 The armies of the grass and grain 
 Have struggled o'er and o'er again, 
 In changing regiments of green and yellow, 
 Through lusty June through autumn ripe and mel- 
 low. 
 
 Yet here God set one of His deathless scenes, 
 Defying centuries, all that intervenes. 
 
 The mountains, that today inspire, 
 
 Kindled that day the patriot fire, 
 While streams, ravines and bastioned bluff and scar 
 Conspired against the foe — a fatal bar. 
 
 87 
 
O hallowed amphitheatre of Peace! 
 O chosen setting for a land's release ! 
 Renew the faith of that far day, 
 Usher again the mighty sway 
 Of powers divine, to lead this land aright, 
 Till Wrong shall "ground its arms" to Truth and 
 Light. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The modern spirit would itself demean, 
 
 Did we not flock today to such a scene, 
 For, from the Nation's rugged past, 
 The rude days when its fate was cast, 
 
 Has flowed the stream that makes all men draw 
 near her, 
 
 The Freedom that has made the world revere her. 
 
 Here fell the blow that made oppression reel 
 And set on Freedom's cause its brightest seal ; 
 Honor to Schuyler, Morgan, Grates, 
 The victors over threatening fates, 
 And praise for him whose niche has but a name, 
 Too valiant to forget, to base for fame. 
 
 Honor to every, nameless, fallen one! 
 
 Honor them all, each one the country's son! 
 Stone for their fitting monument 
 From many a State has here been sent, 
 
 And every block that lifts this tapering spire 
 
 Is sacred, as if touched by holy fire. 
 
 New, on this soil, the flag we love to name, 
 Flew in the wind, a never-dying flame ! 
 
 Giving a heart-beat to the land, 
 
 Binding it with a silken band — 
 An amulet where e'er its name is spoken, 
 'Gainst which no sword shall ever fall unbroken ! 
 
 88 
 
And when this ceremonial pomp shall pass, 
 
 And undisturbed shall glow and fade the grass, 
 While storm and sun and shadow chase 
 Across each bronze, stern-featured face, 
 
 Yet shall this place to may a one be dear, 
 
 And liberty shall love to linger here. 
 
 To multitudes who come with pilgrim feet, 
 The sculptured tablets will their tales repeat, 
 Again in fancy will be seen 
 The redcoats on the meadows green 
 And Jane McCrea will leave her pillow gory, 
 Or hearts be cheered by Lady Acland's story. 
 
 For she, whose love was greater than her fears, 
 Who sought our camp and conquered it, with tears, 
 Was but a type of woman's heart — 
 Which ever bravely plays its part — 
 Which soothes in peace, in war gives cheering word, 
 Melts lead to ball and reaches down the sword! 
 * * * * 
 
 Speak, sons of Saratoga here today! 
 
 Shall it not be this valley's boast to say: 
 The soil of Saratoga sends 
 The kind of man that never bends 
 
 Whether in council hall a vote he wield 
 
 Or grasps a gun upon a battle-field. 
 
 England ! a foe no longer, peace to thee ! 
 
 A common lineage throbs beneath the sea; 
 And though this day binds to the heart 
 The Nation — Friends who took our part, 
 
 We send to him who rules thy fair demesnes, 
 
 Greeting from ninety million kings and queens ! 
 
 89 
 
The Nation that forgets its Marathon 
 Has lost the choicest glory it has won! 
 
 Then let this granite shaft of grace 
 
 Forever be a rallying place 
 For liberty and honor till the day 
 The stone is dust, the river dried away. 
 
 And when, a century hence, this column hath 
 Whirled with the world thro' space its spiral path, 
 
 And men of grander, later days, 
 
 With faces strange, upon it gaze, 
 'Twill draw our thought, like lightning from the 
 
 sky, 
 The man who dies for country does not die. 
 
 90 
 
THE HOME-COMING. 
 
 They ride the racing train, 
 The cinders fleck the pane, 
 The cars rock to and fro, 
 The steel track seems to flow, 
 Yet, O, how slow! how slow 
 They come who come toward Home ! 
 Home, boys, yes, coming Home — 
 You come toward Home! 
 
 A roar — a rush — they're here! 
 O give them cheer on cheer! 
 The hoarded tears let flow, 
 Laugh, cry, O let them know 
 This is no common show 
 That bids them welcome Home — 
 Home, boys, yes, welcome Home! 
 We have you Home. 
 
 Back now from faces strange! 
 Back from your farthest range, 
 Where siren breezes tried 
 To coax you from our side! 
 But 'twill not be denied — 
 The cord that draws you Home. 
 It will not let you roam 
 From Home, from Home. 
 
 The strong, bronze faces pass — 
 Gleam in the serried mass — 
 That might have silent laid 
 Deep in some foreign glade; 
 But now — you smile, fair maid! 
 The one you love is Home, 
 Home, for your kisses, Home! 
 Your lad is Home. 
 
 91 
 
"Home," "Home" — the great bells ring! 
 "Home," "Home," the pulses sing! 
 The steeples rock and sway, 
 The trumpets blare and bray, 
 All hearts are yours the day 
 When you, at last, come Home — 
 Come back to love and Home — 
 To love and Home ! 
 
 When hands no more can fight, 
 Then camp — the one last night. 
 From shape and shadow harms, 
 From war and black alarms, 
 To Peace and her white arms — 
 O call the soldiers Home — 
 The bugle-call for Home — 
 The call for Home. 
 
 (Written for the home-coming of the Spanish War 
 soldiers.) 
 
 92 
 
TERRA NUOVA. 
 
 (A Prayer.) 
 
 O God, give us, we pray, a new bright world. 
 
 O Thou who givest gifts so large and free, 
 
 Who giveth light and land and air and sea, 
 And all the beauty in the sky impearled, 
 Thou who hast watched the spheres in order 
 whirled, 
 
 Since first Thou badst them take their courses 
 free, 
 
 And who hast made the birds to sing with glee 
 For Freedom since the earth was onward whirled. 
 
 Now, out of all thy Greatness and thy Love, 
 Out of Thy mercy and Thy patient might, 
 For sake of all the awful pain and strife 
 
 For sake of souls of millions, sped above, 
 
 Deeming they fought for God and Truth and 
 Right, 
 
 Give us a pure new world, a new glad life ! 
 
 93 
 
From Colonel Theodore Roosevelt: 
 
 I sympathize cordially with your letter and 
 your poems, such as I would expect of a man of 
 your antecedents, civil and military. Good for 
 your boys! 
 
 From General H. L. Scott, Chief of Staff: 
 
 I rejoice that you are sending out such 
 appeals. 
 
 From General Leonard Wood: 
 
 Your poems are excellent. Keep up the good 
 work and give it widest circulation. We need 
 more of the old Revolutionary spirit. 
 
 From Admiral Dewey, Jan. 11, 1916: 
 I agree with you absolutely. 
 
 From Henry Van Dyke, former Ambassador to 
 Holland and author of "Little Rivers, etc.": 
 Your patriotic poems are full of spirit, and 
 have the brave rhythm of forward marching feet. 
 They have also that core of noble thinking and 
 feeling which is essential to a true lyric. 
 
 From the Philadelphia Ledger: 
 
 "Arm America" is a wonderful poem, a 
 spirited call to arms for defense, characterized 
 by such fine poetic fervor that it should be given 
 widest circulation. 
 
 From E. C. Stedman: 
 
 I note that you have a gift as a song writer, 
 and you should cultivate it often. 
 
 94 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 
 
 PreservationTechnologies 
 
 A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
 
 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
 (724) 779-2111 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 012 243 726 7