(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 bind Our souls to one idolatry! The liberty thy love hath given We thank thee for. We thank thee for Our great dead fathers' holy war Wherein our manacles were riven. We thank thee for the stronger stroke Ourselves delivered and incurred When—thine incitement half unheard— The chains we riveted we broke. We thank thee that beyond the sea The people, growing ever wise, Turn to the west their serious eyes And dumbly strive to be as we. As when the sun's returning flame
