Shapes of Clay | Page 6

forbidden and without a name. Gigantic night-birds,
rising from the reeds With cries discordant, startled all the air, And
bodiless voices babbled in the gloom. But not to me came any voice
again; And, covering my face with thin, dead hands, I wept, and woke,
and cried aloud to God!

POLITICS.

That land full surely hastens to its end Where public sycophants in
homage bend The populace to flatter, and repeat The doubled echoes of
its loud conceit. Lowly their attitude but high their aim, They creep to
eminence through paths of shame, Till fixed securely in the seats of
pow'r, The dupes they flattered they at last devour.

POESY.
Successive bards pursue Ambition's fire That shines, Oblivion, above
thy mire. The latest mounts his predecessor's trunk, And sinks his
brother ere himself is sunk. So die ingloriously Fame's _élite_, But
dams of dunces keep the line complete.

IN DEFENSE.
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