General William Booth Enters into Heaven | Page 4

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 Space 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 God, he is not mine.

Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell.
I say my prayers by
my white bed to-night,
With the arms of God 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 God has
scourged her
Wantoning, singing sweet:
Waiting her mad bad
lovers
Here by the judgment-seat!
'Frisco, God'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.
God loves this rebel city,
Loves foemen brisk and game,
Tho', just
to please the angels,
He may send down his flame.
God loves the
golden leopard
Tho' he may spoil her lair.
God smites, yet loves the
lion.
God 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!

The Trap
She was taught desire in the street,
Not at the angels' feet.
By the
good no word was said
Of the worth of the bridal bed.
The secret
was learned from the vile,
Not from her mother's smile.
Home
spoke not. And the girl
Was caught in the public whirl.
Do you say
"She gave consent:
Life drunk, she was content
With beasts that her
fire could please?"
But she did not choose disease
Of mind and
nerves and breath.
She was trapped to a slow, foul death.
The door
was watched so well,
That the steep dark stair to hell
Was the only
escaping way . . .
"She gave consent," you say?
Some think she was meek and good,
Only lost in the wood
Of
youth, and deceived in man
When the hunger of sex began
That ties
the husband and wife
To the end in a strong fond life.
Her captor,
by chance was one
Of those whose passion was done,
A cold fierce
worm of the sea
Enslaving for you and me.
The wages the poor
must take
Have forced them to serve this snake.
Yea, half-paid girls
must go
For bread to his pit below.
What hangman shall wait his
host
Of butchers from coast to coast,
New York to the Golden Gate
--
The merger of death and fate,
Lust-kings with a careful plan

Clean-cut, American?
In liberty's name we cry
For these women about to die.
O mothers who failed to tell
The mazes of heaven and hell,
Who
failed to advise, implore

Your daughters at Love's strange door,

What will you do this day?
Your dear ones are hidden away,
As
good as chained to the bed,
Hid like the mad, or the dead: --
The
glories of endless years
Drowned in their harlot-tears:
The children
they hoped to bear,
Grandchildren strong and fair,
The life for ages
to be,
Cut off like a blasted tree,
Murdered in filth in a day,

Somehow, by the merchant gay!

In liberty's name we cry
For these women about to die.
What shall be said of a state
Where traps for the white brides wait?

Of sellers of drink who play
The game for the extra pay?
Of