Anthology of Massachusetts Poets | Page 6

do more arise;?Great souls, great pallid ghosts of pain, who wake?And wander yet; all, weary men who brake?Their hearts; all hemlock-drunk, with growing?wise:?Hudson adrift; Defoe; the Wandering Jew;?Tannhauser; Faust; Andrea; phantoms, all,?In Masefield's eyes you lodge; and to the wall?I turn you,--hand a-tremble,--lest you make?Of mine own stricken eyes a mirror, too.?Wherein the sad world's sadder for your sake.
III
HIS "DAUBER"
O Masefield's "Dauber!" You, who being dead,?Yet speak: heroic, dauntless, flaming soul,?Too suddenly snuffed out! Here take fresh toll?Of cognizance, and, in your ocean bed,?Serenely rest, assured that who has read?What you would fain have pictured of the Pole?Would gladly match your part against the whole?Of many a modern artist, Paris-bred.
And more than this: if you, indeed, are his,?Then, by a dual truth, he, too, is yours;?For, marked and credited by what endures,?Were it the only thing, which bears his name,?(O deathless Soul, I speak you true in this!)?"The Dauber" has brought Masefield to his fame.
IV
HIS "GALLIPOLI"
"Small wonder," speaks my pensive self, "that he?Whose passion 'tis to sing of men who fail,--?(Belabored, broken by The Unseen Flail)?Small wonder that be makes Gallipoli
His fervent text, for could there be?A costlier failure in Earth's shuddering tale??Think of heroic Sulva's bloody swale;?Of Anzac's tortured thirst and agony!"?But as I read, protesting voices cry: "Not we,?Not we, who fell among the daffodils,?Who conquered Death among those blistered hills,?And found our glory after mortal pain;?Not we, who failed and lost Gallipoli;?The sad, strange failure theirs who mourn in vain!"
V
HIS MEAD
So, Masefield, have your royal words once more?Called forth the praise of men, where praise is due;?Your great elegiac, tragically true,?Must leave all Britain prouder than before;?And, in spite of all that breaking hearts deplore,?And all that anguished consciences must rue,?One arrowed gladness surely pierces through?From London's centre to Canadian shore:
When England, sobbing, mourns Gallipoli,?When warm tears flow for Rupert Brooke?And all the splendid Youth her error took?As hostage from the fields of daffodils,?Let this a present, living solace be:?You are not sleeping in those cruel hills!
AMY BRIDGEMAN
1620-1920
BEFORE him rolls the dark, relentless ocean;?Behind him stretch the cold and barren sands;?Wrapt in the mantle of his deep devotion?The Pilgrim kneels, and clasps his lifted hands;
"God of our fathers, who hast safely brought us?Through seas and sorrows, famine, fire, and?sword;?Who, in Thy mercies manifold hast taught us?To trust in Thee, our leader and our Lord;
"God, who hast send Thy truth to shine before us,?A fiery pillar, beaconing on the sea;?God, who hast spread thy wings of mercy o'er us;?God, who hast set our children's children free,
"Freedom Thy new-born nation here shall cherish;?Grant us Thy covenant, changing, sure:?Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish;?Freedom and Truth, immortal shall endure."
Face to the Indian arrows.?Face to the Prussian guns,?From then till now the Pilgrim's vow?Has held the Pilgrim's sons.
He braved the red man's ambush,?He loosed the black man's chain;?His spirit broke King George's yoke?And the battleships of Spain.
He crossed the seething ocean;?He dared the death-strewn track;?He charged in the hell of Saint Mihiel?And hurled the tyrant back.
For the voice of the lonely Pilgram?Who knelt upon the strand?A people hears three hundred years?In the conscience of the land.
Daughter of Truth and mother of Courage,?Conscience, all hail!?Heart of New England, strength of the Pilgrims,?Thou shalt prevail.?Look how the empires rise and fall!?Athens robed in her learning and beauty,?Rome in her royal lust for powerEach?has flourished for her little hour,?Risen and fallen and ceased to be.?What of her by the Western Sea,?Born and bred as the child of Duty,?Sternest of them all??She it is and she alone?Who built on faith as her corner stone;?Of all the nations none but she?Knew that the truth shall make us free.?Daughter of Courage, mother of heros,?Freedom divine.?Light of New England, Star of the Pilgrim,?Still shalt thou shine.?Yet even as we in our pride rejoice,?Hark to the prophet's warning voice:?"The Pilgrim's thrift is vanished?And the Pilgrim's faith is dead,?And the Pilgrim's God is banished,?And Mammon reigns in his stead;?And work is damned as an evil,?And men and women cry,?In their restless haste, 'Let us spend and waste,?And live; for to-morrow we die.'
"And law is trampled under;?And the nations stand aghast,?As they hear the distant thunder?Of the storm that marches fast;?And we,--whose ocean borders?Shut off the sound and the sight,?We will wait for marching orders;?The world has seen us fight;?We have earned our days of revel;?'On with the dance'! we cry.?It is pain to think; we will eat and drink!?And live; for to-morrow we die."
"We have laughed in the eyes of danger;?We have given our bravest and best;?We have succored the starving stranger;?Others shall heed the rest.'?And the revel never ceases;?And the nations hold their breath;?And our laughter peals, and the mad world reels,?To a carnival of death.
"Slaves of sloth and the senses,?Clippers of Freedom's wings,?Come back to the Pilgrim's Army?And fight for the King of Kings;?Come back to the