The White Bees | Page 7

fulness of light,
And sing us a song of the
glory of noon?
Oh, the high noon, and the clear noon,
The noon with golden crest;

When the sky burns, and the sun turns
With his face to the way of the
west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength;
How slowly he crept
as the morning wore by;
Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at
length
To the height of his throne in the blue summer

sky.
Oh, the long toil, and the slow toil,
The toil that may not rest,

Till the sun looks down from his journey's
crown,
To the wonderful way of the west!
AN AMERICAN IN EUROPE
'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up
and down
Among the famous palaces and cities of renown,
To
admire the crumbly castles and the statues of
the kings,--
But now I think I've had enough of antiquated
things.
So it's home again, and home again, America for
me I
My heart is
turning home again, and there I long to
be,
In the land of youth and
freedom beyond the ocean
bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight and
the flag is full
of stars.
Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in
the air;
And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in
her hair;
And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great
to study Rome;
But 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