The White Bees Part 2

'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the kings,-- But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things.

So it's home again, and home again, America for me I My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be, In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome; But when it comes to living there is no place like home.

I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled; I like the gardens of Versailles with flas.h.i.+ng fountains filled; But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way!

I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack: The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back.

But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free,-- We love our land for what she is and what she is to be.

Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me I I want a s.h.i.+p that's westward bound to plough the rotting sea.

To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS

Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of royal splendour; These are the homes that were built by the brave beginners of a nation, They are simple enough to be great, and full of a friendly dignity.

I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England valleys, Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feather- ing over them: Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old- fas.h.i.+oned flowers, A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the windows, The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory ready for winter, The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household relics,-- All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self-reliance.

I love the look of the s.h.i.+ngled houses that front the ocean; Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides are weather-beaten; Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full of patience and courage.

They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something indomitable about them: Pacing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand undaunted, While the thin blue line of smoke from the square-built chimney rises, Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth and a cradle.

I love the stately southern mansions with their tall white columns, They look through avenues of trees, over fields where the cotton is growing; I can see the flutter of white frocks along their shady porches, Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards are full of hounds and horses.

They have all ridden away, yet the houses have not forgotten, They are proud of their name and place, and their doors are always open, For the thing they remember best is the pride of their ancient hospitality.

In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil Quaker dwellings, With their demure brick faces and immaculate white-stone doorsteps; And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their high stoops and iron railings, (I can see their little bra.s.s k.n.o.bs s.h.i.+ning in the morning sunlight); And the solid houses of the descendants of the Puritans, Fronting the street with their narrow doors and dormer-windows; And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions of Charleston, Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses and magnolias.

Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my eyes they are beautiful; For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts that have made the nation; The glory and strength of America came from her ancestral dwellings.

FRANCIS MAKEMIE

(Presbyter of Christ in America, 1683-1708)

To thee, plain hero of a rugged race, We bring the meed of praise too long delayed!

Thy fearless word and faithful work have made For G.o.d's Republic firmer path and place In this New World: thou hast proclaimed the grace And power of Christ in many a forest glade, Teaching the truth that leaves men unafraid Of frowning tyranny or death's dark face.

Oh, who can tell how much we owe to thee, Makemie, and to labour such as thine, For all that makes America the shrine Of faith untrammeled and of conscience free?

Stand here, grey stone, and consecrate the sod Where rests this brave Scotch-Irish man of G.o.d!

NATIONAL MONUMENTS

Count not the cost of honour to the dead!

The tribute that a mighty nation pays To those who loved her well in former days Means more than grat.i.tude for glories fled; For every n.o.ble man that she hath bred, Lives in the bronze and marble that we raise, Immortalized by art's immortal praise, To lead our sons as he our fathers led.

These monuments of manhood strong and high Do more than forts or battle-s.h.i.+ps to keep Our dear-bought liberty. They fortify The heart of youth with valour wise and deep; They build eternal bulwarks, and command Eternal strength to guard our native land.

IN PRAISE OF POETS

MOTHER EARTH

Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed, Mother of all the gra.s.s that weaves over their graves the glory of the field, Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep- bosomed, patient, impa.s.sive, Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sor- rows!

Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth below thy breast, Issued in some Strange way, thou lying motion- less, voiceless, All these songs of nature, rhythmical, pa.s.sionate, yearning, Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth returning.

Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time to these measures, Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly, irresistibly Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down, down Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in the sand.

But the souls of the singers have entered into the songs that revealed them,-- Pa.s.sionate songs, immortal songs of joy and grief and love and longing: Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they echo above thee: Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those that love thee?

Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by some old enchantment Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speech- less, Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy Lord and Lover Working within thee awakened the man-child to breathe thy secret.

All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flow- ing waters Are but enchanted forms to embody the life of the spirit; Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and meadow and ocean, Holdest the poem of G.o.d, eternal thought and emotion.

MILTON

I

Lover of beauty, walking on the height Of pure philosophy and tranquil song; Born to behold the visions that belong To those who dwell in melody and light; Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright!

What drew thee down to join the Roundhead throng Of iron-sided warriors, rude and strong, Fighting for freedom in a world half night?

Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou, Above all beauty bright, all music clear: To thee she bared her bosom and her brow, Breathing her virgin promise in thine ear, And bound thee to her with a double vow,-- Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier!

II

The cause, the cause for which thy soul resigned Her singing robes to battle on the plain, Was won, O poet, and was lost again; And lost the labour of thy lonely mind On weary tasks of prose. What wilt thou find To comfort thee for all the toil and pain?

What solace, now thy sacrifice is vain And thou art left forsaken, poor, and blind?

Like organ-music comes the deep reply: "The cause of truth looks lost, but shall be won.

For G.o.d hath given to mine inward eye Vision of England soaring to the sun.

And granted me great peace before I die, In thoughts of lowly duty bravely done."

III

O bend again above thine organ-board, Thou blind old poet longing for repose!

Thy Master claims thy service not with those Who only stand and wait for his reward.

He pours the heavenly gift of song restored Into thy breast, and bids thee n.o.bly close A n.o.ble life, with poetry that flows In mighty music of the major chord.

Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic strain, Surpa.s.sing all thy youthful lyric grace, To sing of Paradise? Ah, not in vain The griefs that won at Dante's side thy place, And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain, The loftiest poet of the Saxon race!

WORDSWORTH

Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls Among the mountains, and thy song is fed By living springs far up the watershed; No whirling flood nor parching drought controls The crystal current; even on the shoals It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed Darkens below mysterious cliffs of dread, Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls.

But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress Of pa.s.sion, and hast trod despair's dry ground Beneath black thoughts that wither and de- stroy.

Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy.

KEATS

The melancholy gift Aurora gained From Jove, that her sad lover should not see The face of death, no G.o.ddess asked for thee, My Keats! But when the crimson blood-drop stained Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained,-- Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy!