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And her lips were blooming a rosy red. Then my heart spoke out with a right bold
"Thou art worse than a fool, O head!"
ON THE ROAD
I's boun' to see my gal to-night-
De night is skeery-lak an' still
Fu' lone de way, my dearie.
I hyeah de hootin' of de owl
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
I wish dat watch-dog would n't howl -
I whistles so 's I won't be feared-
Fu' lone de way, my dearie.
O LI'L' lamb out in de col',
Mary McNeil Fenollosa
THE HILLS SATSUMA
Of a lonely wing on a dawn-lit bay.
Find me the thought of a rose, at sight
Of a crow's slow flight,
And the long, sweet grace of a willow's dream.
Then add the droop of a golden fan,
Lure me a lay from a sunbeam's throat,
To its own sweet death in the upper air.
Who sees the English elm-trees fling Long shadows where his footsteps pass, Or marks the crocuses that spring
Sets starlike in the English grass,
And who can walk by English streams,
The wound with which his fathers bled,
The homesick tears which must, unshed,
Have dimmed the brave, unfaltering eyes That saw New England's elms outspread
Green branches to her loftier skies?
How dear to exiled hearts the sound
Of little brooks that run and sing! How dear, in scanty garden ground,
The crocus calling back the spring
How dear that aching memory
Of cuckoo cry and lark's light wing! And for their sake how dear to me !
Who owns not how, so often tried,
The bond all trial hath withstood; The leaping pulse, the racial pride
In more than common brotherhood; Nor feels his kinship like a flood Rise blotting every dissonant trace, He is not of the ancient blood! He is not of the Island race!
THE great Republic goes to war,
But spring still comes as spring has done,
And rising eastward bring new day
But ah, those dawns will have a light,
With what a note the birds will sing,
A DEAD Soul lay in the light of day, Desperate, wan, it had passed;
To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea,
On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free, And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, Breaker and beach cry each to each, “”T is
the Mother who calls! Be still!" Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm,
Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, Who calls again to the leagues of main,
and who calls them this time home!
And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest,
The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars,
And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars!
Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade,
Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade,
And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release,
From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace."
Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show
The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go, How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear,
South and North at the call stood forth, and
the whole land answered, "Here!" For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song
Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong, Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod, Brave faces raise, and give the praise to
the grace of their country's God!
Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,
To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea,
1 Copyright, 1898, by HARPER & BROTHERS.