You may say, if you please, Johnny Bull,
that our girls
Are crazy to marry your dukes and your
earls;
But I’ve heard that the maids of
your own little isle
Greet bachelor lords with a favoring smile.
Nay, titles, ’tis said in defense
of our fair,
Are popular here because popular there;
And for them our ladies persistently go
Because ’tis exceedingly English,
you know.
Whatever the motive, you’ll have
to confess
The effort’s attended with easy
success;
And—pardon the freedom—’tis
thought, over here,
’Tis mortification you mask with
a sneer.
It’s all very well, sir, your scorn
to parade
Of the high nasal twang of the Yankee
maid,
But, ah, to my lord when he dares to propose
No sound is so sweet as that “Yes”
from the nose.
Our ladies, we grant, walk alone in the
street
(Observe, by-the-by, on what delicate
feet!)
’Tis a habit they got here at home,
where they say
The men from politeness go seldom astray.
Ah, well, if the dukes and the earls and
that lot
Can stand it (God succor them if they
cannot!)
Your commoners ought to assent, I am sure,
And what they ’re not called on
to suffer, endure.
“’Tis nothing but money?”
“Your nobles are bought?”
As to that, I submit, it is commonly thought
That England’s a country not specially
free
Of Croesi and (if you’ll allow it)
Croesae.
You’ve many a widow and many a girl
With money to purchase a duke or an earl.
’Tis a very remarkable thing, you’ll
agree,
When goods import buyers from over the
sea.
Alas for the woman of Albion’s isle!
She may simper; as well as she can she
may smile;
She may wear pantalettes and an air of
repose—
But my lord of the future will talk through
his nose.
AN INVOCATION.
[Read at the Celebration of Independence
Day in San
Francisco, in 1888.]
Goddess of Liberty! O thou
Whose tearless eyes behold
the chain,
And look unmoved upon the
slain,
Eternal peace upon thy brow,—
Before thy shrine the races press,
Thy perfect favor to implore—
The proudest tyrant asks no
more,
The ironed anarchist no less.
Thine altar-coals that touch the lips
Of prophets kindle, too, the
brand
By Discord flung with wanton
hand
Among the houses and the ships.
Upon thy tranquil front the star
Burns bleak and passionless
and white,
Its cold inclemency of light
More dreadful than the shadows are.
Thy name we do not here invoke
Our civic rites to sanctify:
Enthroned in thy remoter sky,
Thou heedest not our broken yoke.
Thou carest not for such as we:
Our millions die to serve
the still
And secret purpose of thy
will.
They perish—what is that to
thee?
The light that fills the patriot’s
tomb
Is not of thee. The shining
crown
Compassionately offered down
To those who falter in the gloom,
And fall, and call upon thy name,
And die desiring—’tis
the sign
Of a diviner love than thine,
Rewarding with a richer fame.
To him alone let freemen cry
Who hears alike the victor’s
shout,
The song of faith, the moan
of doubt,
And bends him from his nearer sky.
God of my country and my race!
So greater than the gods of
old—
So fairer than the prophets
told
Who dimly saw and feared thy face,—
Who didst but half reveal thy will
And gracious ends to their desire,
Behind the dawn’s advancing
fire
Thy tender day-beam veiling still,—
To whom the unceasing suns belong,
And cause is one with consequence,—
To whose divine, inclusive sense
The moan is blended with the song,—
Whose laws, imperfect and unjust,
Thy just and perfect purpose serve:
The needle, howsoe’er it swerve,
Still warranting the sailor’s trust,—
God, lift thy hand and make us free
To crown the work thou hast designed.
O, strike away the chains that bind
Our souls to one idolatry!
The liberty thy love hath given
We thank thee for. We thank
thee for
Our great dead fathers’ holy
war
Wherein our manacles were riven.
We thank thee for the stronger stroke
Ourselves delivered and incurred
When—thine incitement
half unheard—
The chains we riveted we broke.
We thank thee that beyond the sea
The people, growing ever wise,
Turn to the west their serious
eyes
And dumbly strive to be as we.
As when the sun’s returning flame
Upon the Nileside statue shone,
And struck from the enchanted
stone
The music of a mighty fame,
Let Man salute the rising day
Of Liberty, but not adore.
’Tis Opportunity—no
more—
A useful, not a sacred, ray.
It bringeth good, it bringeth ill,
As he possessing shall elect.
He maketh it of none effect
Who walketh not within thy will.
Give thou or more or less, as we
Shall serve the right or serve
the wrong.
Confirm our freedom but so
long
As we are worthy to be free.
But when (O, distant be the time!)
Majorities in passion draw
Insurgent swords to murder
Law,
And all the land is red with crime;
Or—nearer menace!—when
the band
Of feeble spirits cringe and
plead
To the gigantic strength of
Greed,
And fawn upon his iron hand;—
Nay, when the steps to state are worn
In hollows by the feet of
thieves,
And Mammon sits among the
sheaves
And chuckles while the reapers mourn;
Then stay thy miracle!—replace
The broken throne, repair
the chain,
Restore the interrupted reign
And veil again thy patient face.
Lo! here upon the world’s extreme
We stand with lifted arms
and dare
By thine eternal name to swear
Our country, which so fair we deem—
Upon whose hills, a bannered throng,
The spirits of the sun display
Their flashing lances day
by day
And hear the sea’s pacific song—
Shall be so ruled in right and grace
That men shall say: “O,
drive afield
The lawless eagle from the
shield,
And call an angel to the place!”
