Excerpt
STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN!
Strike hands, young men!We know not whenDeath or disaster comes,Mightier than battle-drumsTo summon us away.Death bids us say farewellTo all we love, nor stayFor tears;—and who can tellHow soon misfortune's handMay smite us where we stand,Dragging us down, aloof,Under the swift world's hoof?
Strike hands for faith, and powerTo gladden the passing hour;To wield the sword, or raise a song;—To press the grape; or crush out wrong.And strengthen right.Give me the man of sturdy palmAnd vigorous brain;Hearty, companionable, sane,'Mid all commotions calm,Yet filled with quick, enthusiastic fire;—Give me the manWhose impulses aspire,And all his features seem to say, "I can!"
Strike hands, young men!'Tis yours to help rebuild the State,And keep the Nation great.With act and speech and pen'Tis yours to spreadThe morning-redThat ushers in a grander day:To scatter prejudice that blinds,And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds;To overthrow bland tyranniesThat cheat the people, and with slow diseaseChange the Republic to a mockery.Your words can teach that libertyMeans more than just to cry "We're free"While bending to some new-found yoke.So shall each unjust bond be broke,Each toiler gain his meet reward,And life sound forth a truer chord.
Ah, if we so have striven,And mutually the grasp have givenOf brotherhood,To work each other and the whole race good;What matter if the dreamCome only partly true,And all the things accomplished seemFeeble and few?At least, when summer's flame burns lowAnd on our heads the drifting snowSettles and stays,We shall rejoice that in our earlier daysWe boldly thenStruck hands, young men!
"O JAY!"
O jay—Blue-jay!What are you trying to say?I remember, in the springYou pretended you could sing;But your voice is now still queerer,And as yet you've come no nearerTo a song.In fact, to sum the matter,I never heard a flatterFailure than your doleful clatter.Don't you think it's wrong?It was sweet to hear your note,I'll not deny,When April set pale clouds afloatO'er the blue tides of sky,And 'mid the wind's triumphant drumsYou, in your white and azure coat,A herald proud, came forth to cry,"The royal summer comes!"
But now that autumn's here,And the leaves curl up in sheerDisgust,And the cold rains fringe the pine,You really mustStop that supercilious whine—-Or you'll be shot, by some mephiticAngry critic.
You don't fulfill your early promise:You're not the smartestKind of artist,Any more than poor Blind Tom is.Yet somehow, still,There's meaning in your screaming bill.What are you trying to say?
Sometimes your piping is delicious,And then again it's simply vicious;Though on the whole the varying jangleWeaves round me an entrancing tangleOf memories grave or joyous:Things to weep or laugh at;Love that lived at a hint, orDays so sweet, they'd cloy us;Nights I have spent with friends;—Glistening groves of winter,And the sound of vanished feetThat walked by the ripening wheat;With other things.......