The White Bees | Page 7

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 flashing
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 ship 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 feathering
over them:?Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and oldfashioned
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 shingled 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 brass knobs shining 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 God'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 God!
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 gratitude for glories fled;?For every noble 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-ships 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 grass that weaves over their
graves the glory of the field,?Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deepbosomed,
patient, impassive,?Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sorrows
!?Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth
below thy breast,?Issued in some Strange way, thou lying motionless,
voiceless,?All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate,
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,--?Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and
grief and love and longing:?Floating from heart