When that which makes men proud first makest them great, And freedom whereof law is magistrate, And thoughts that make men brave, and leave them free. O Mother of our faith, our law, our lore, What shall we answer thee if thou shouldst ask How this fair birthright doth in us increase? 13. Harry Thurston Peck (1856-1914) was a Connecticut scholar who held for many years the chair of Latin at Columbia University. THE OTHER ONE Sweet little maid with winsome eyes That laugh all day through the tangled hair; Gazing with baby looks so wise Over the arm of the oaken chair, Dearer than you is none to me, Dearer than you there can be none; Since in your laughing face I see Here where the firelight softly glows, What to you is the wind that blows, Glints on the gold from your tresses spun, Hold me close as you sagely stand, Watching the dying embers shine; Then shall I feel another hand That nestled once in this hand of mine; Shut from the light of stars and sun, That hide the face of the sleeping one. Laugh, little maid, while laugh you may, Under the robe of drifting snow. Sing while you may your baby songs, 14. Richard Hovey (1864-1900) was a graduate of Dartmouth. His genius was rather slow in maturing, but he showed great promise at the time of his death. He wrote Songs from Vagabondia in collaboration with Bliss Carman, a Canadian engaged in literary work in the United States. Bugles ! THE CALL OF THE BUGLES And the Great Nation thrills and leaps to arms! Without misgiving and without debate, Too calm, too strong for fury or alarms, The splendid summer of its noiseless might; Mounts up in South and North, The thrill That tingled in our veins at Bunker Hill And brought to bloom July of 'Seventy-Six! Pine and palmetto mix With the sequoia of the giant West Their ready banners, and the hosts of war, Sudden as dawn, Innumerable as forests, hear the call The battle-birds! For not alone the brave, the fortunate, Who first of all Have put their knapsacks on They are the valiant vanguard of the rest!— Hand on sword, For the word That bids them bid the nations know us sons of Fate. Bugles ! And in my heart a cry, -Like a dim echo far and mournfully Blown back to answer them from yesterday! November hillsides and the falling leaves Whose congregation glories as it grieves, The long hills sloping to the wave, And the long bugler standing by the grave! Taps! The lonely call over the lonely woodlands- Like the flight of an eagle Taps! They sound forever in my heart. The echoes-still the echoes! The bugles of the dead Blowing from spectral ranks an answering cry! The ghostly roll of immaterial drums, Beating reveille in the camps of dream, As from far meadows comes, Over the pathless hill, The irremeable stream. I hear the tread Of the great armies of the Past go by; I hear, Across the wide sea wash of years between, Concord and Valley Forge shout back from the unseen, Our cheer goes back to them, the valiant dead! awake! Ours to remember them with deeds like theirs! And as an eagle rears his crest, Defiant, from some tall pine of the North, The banners of America go forth Against the clarion sky. Veteran and volunteer, They who were comrades of that shadow host, And the young brood whose veins renew the fires That burned in their great sires, Alike we hear The summons sounding clear From coast to coast, The cry of the bugles, Bugles ! The imperious bugles! Still their call Soars like an exaltation to the sky. They call on men to fall, To die, Remembered or forgotten, but a part Of the great beating of the Nation's heart! A call to victory! Hark, in the Empyrean The battle-birds! The bugles! 15. William Vaughn Moody (1869-1910), a graduate of Harvard, was for several years professor in the department of English at the University of Chicago. He wrote many poems and several dramas, the most successful of which is The Great Divide. Many of his lyrics are most beautiful. (See Bibliography, page 441, for suggested readings.) 16. Paul Lawrence Dunbar (1872-1906) is the first representative of the African race to attain rank as an American poet. Some of his work has the true lyric ring. At the time of his death he held a position in the Library of Congress at Washington, D. C. A CORN-SONG On the wide veranda white, In the purple failing light, Sits the master while the sun is lowly burning; In the softly flowing sound Of the corn-songs of the field-hands slow returning. Oh, we hoe de co'n Since de ehly mo'n; |