General William Booth Enters into Heaven : and other poems Part 1

General William Booth enters into Heaven and other Poems.

by Vachel Lindsay.

General William Booth Enters into Heaven

[To be sung to the tune of 'The Blood of the Lamb' with indicated instrument]

I

[Ba.s.s drum beaten loudly.]

Booth led boldly with his big ba.s.s drum-- (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) The Saints smiled gravely and they said: "He's come."

(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank, Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale-- Minds still pa.s.sion-ridden, soul-powers frail:-- Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath, Unwashed legions with the ways of Death-- (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

[Banjos.]

Every slum had sent its half-a-score The round world over. (Booth had groaned for more.) Every banner that the wide world flies Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes.

Big-voiced la.s.ses made their banjos bang, Tranced, fanatical they shrieked and sang:-- "Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?"

Hallelujah! It was queer to see Bull-necked convicts with that land make free.

Loons with trumpets blowed a blare, blare, blare On, on upward thro' the golden air!

(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

II

[Ba.s.s drum slower and softer.]

Booth died blind and still by Faith he trod, Eyes still dazzled by the ways of G.o.d.

Booth led boldly, and he looked the chief Eagle countenance in sharp relief, Beard a-flying, air of high command Unabated in that holy land.

[Sweet flute music.]

Jesus came from out the court-house door, Stretched his hands above the pa.s.sing poor.

Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there Round and round the mighty court-house square.

Yet in an instant all that blear review Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new.

The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world.

[Ba.s.s drum louder.]

Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole!

Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl!

Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean, Rulers of empires, and of forests green!

[Grand chorus of all instruments. Tambourines to the foreground.]

The hosts were sandalled, and their wings were fire!

(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir.

(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) O, shout Salvation! It was good to see Kings and Princes by the Lamb set free.

The banjos rattled and the tambourines Jing-jing-jingled in the hands of Queens.

[Reverently sung, no instruments.]

And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer He saw his Master thro' the flag-filled air.

Christ came gently with a robe and crown For Booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down.

He saw King Jesus. They were face to face, And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place.

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

The Drunkards in the Street

The Drunkards in the street are calling one another, Heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and gay,-- Publicans and wantons-- Calling, laughing, calling, While the Spirit bloweth s.p.a.ce and Time away.

Why should I feel the sobbing, the secrecy, the glory, This comforter, this fitful wind divine?

I the cautious Pharisee, the scribe, the whited sepulchre-- I have no right to G.o.d, he is not mine.

Within their gutters, drunkards dream of h.e.l.l.

I say my prayers by my white bed to-night, With the arms of G.o.d about me, with the angels singing, singing Until the grayness of my soul grows white.

The City That Will Not Repent

Climbing the heights of Berkeley Nightly I watch the West.

There lies new San Francisco, Sea-maid in purple dressed, Wearing a dancer's girdle All to inflame desire: Scorning her days of sackcloth, Scorning her cleansing fire.

See, like a burning city Sets now the red sun's dome.

See, mystic firebrands sparkle There on each store and home.

See how the golden gateway Burns with the day to be-- Torch-bearing fiends of portent Loom o'er the earth and sea.

Not by the earthquake daunted Nor by new fears made tame, Painting her face and laughing Plays she a new-found game.

Here on her half-cool cinders 'Frisco abides in mirth, Planning the wildest splendor Ever upon the earth.

Here on this crumbling rock-ledge 'Frisco her all will stake, Blowing her bubble-towers, Swearing they will not break, Rearing her Fair transcendent, Singing with piercing art, Calling to Ancient Asia, Wooing young Europe's heart.

Here where her G.o.d has scourged her Wantoning, singing sweet: Waiting her mad bad lovers Here by the judgment-seat!

'Frisco, G.o.d's doughty foeman, Scorns and blasphemes him strong.

Tho' he again should smite her She would not slack her song.

Nay, she would shriek and rally-- 'Frisco would ten times rise!

Not till her last tower crumbles, Not till her last rose dies, Not till the coast sinks seaward, Not till the cold tides beat Over the high white Shasta, 'Frisco will cry defeat.

G.o.d loves this rebel city, Loves foemen brisk and game, Tho', just to please the angels, He may send down his flame.

G.o.d loves the golden leopard Tho' he may spoil her lair.

G.o.d smites, yet loves the lion.

G.o.d makes the panther fair.

Dance then, wild guests of 'Frisco, Yellow, bronze, white and red!

Dance by the golden gateway-- Dance, tho' he smite you dead!