and devise great things for the coming race— Children of yours who shall people and rule the domain of Texas; They shall know, they shall comprehend more than their fathers, They shall grow in the vigour of well-rounded manhood and womanhood, Riper minds, richer hearts, finer souls, the only true wealth of a nation— The league-long fields of the State are pledged to ensure this harvest!
Your old men have dreamed this dream and your young men have seen this vision. The age of romance has not gone, it is only beginning; Greater words than the ear of man has heard are waiting to be spoken, Finer arts than the eyes of man have seen are sleeping to be awakened: Science exploring the scope of the world, Poetry breathing the hope of the world, Music to measure and lead the onward march of man!
Come, ye honoured and welcome guests from the elder nations, Princes of science and arts and letters, Look on the walls that embody the generous dream of one of the old men of Texas, Enter these halls of learning that rise in the land of the pioneer’s log-cabin, Read the confessions of faith that are carved on the stones around you: Faith in the worth of the smallest fact and the laws that govern the starbeams, Faith in the beauty of truth and the truth of perfect beauty, Faith in the God who creates the souls of men by knowledge and love and worship.
This is the faith of the New Democracy— Proud and humble, patiently pressing forward, Praising her heroes of old and training her future leaders, Seeking her crown in a nobler race of men and women— After the pioneers, sweetness and light!
Turn o’ the Tide
The tide flows in to the harbour— The bold tide, the gold tide, the flood o’ the sunlit sea— And the little ships riding at anchor, Are swinging and slanting their prows to the ocean, panting To lift their wings to the wide wild air, And venture a voyage they know not where— To fly away and be free!
The tide runs out of the harbour— The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb o’ the moonlit bay— And the little ships rocking at anchor, Are rounding and turning their bows to the landward, yearning To breathe the breath of the sun-warmed strand, To rest in the lee of the high hill land— To hold their haven and stay!
My heart goes round with the vessels— My wild heart, my child heart, in love with the sea and the land— And the turn o’ the tide passes through it, In rising and falling with mystical currents, calling At morn, to range where the far waves foam, At night, to a harbour in love’s true home, With the hearts that understand!
Rappel d’Amour
Come home, my love, come home! The twilight is falling, The whippoorwill calling, The night is very near, And the darkness full of fear, Come home to my arms, come home!
Come home, my love, come home! In folly we parted, And now, lonely hearted, I know you look in vain For a love like mine again; Come home to my arms, come home!
Come home, dear love, come home! I’ve much to forgive you, And more yet to give you. I’ll put a little light In the window every night— Come home to my arms, come home.
The First Bird o’ Spring
To Olive Wheeler
Winter on Mount Shasta, April down below; Golden hours of glowing sun, Sudden showers of snow! Under leafless thickets Early wild-flowers cling; But, oh, my dear, I’m fain to hear The first bird o’ Spring!
Alders are in tassel, Maples are in bud; Waters of the blue McCloud Shout in joyful flood; Through the giant pine-trees Flutters many a wing; But, oh, my dear, I long to hear The first bird o’ Spring!
Candle-light and fire-light Mingle at “the Bend;” ’Neath the roof of Bo-hai-pan Light and shadow blend. Sweeter than a wood-thrush A maid begins to sing; And, oh, my dear, I’m glad to hear The first bird o’ Spring!
“Gran’ Boule”
A Seaman’s Tale of the Sea
We men hat go down for a livin’ in ships to the sea— We love it a different way from you poets that ’bide on the land. We are fond of it, sure! But, you take it as comin’ from me, There’s a fear and a hate in our love that a landsman can’t understand.
Oh, who could help likin’ the salty smell, and the blue Of the waves that are lazily breathin’ as if they dreamed in the sun? She’s a Sleepin’ Beauty, the sea—but you can’t tell what she’ll do; And the seamen never trust her—they know too well what she’s done!
She’s a wench like one that I saw in a singin’-play— Carmen they called her—Lord, what a life her lovers did lead! She’d cuddle and kiss you, and sing you and dance you away; And then—she’d curse you, and break you, and throw you down like a weed.
You may chance it awhile with the girls like that, if you please; But you want a woman to trust when you settle down with a wife; And a seaman’s thought of growin’ old at his ease Is a snug little house on the land to shelter the rest of his life.
So that was old Poisson’s dream—did you know the Cap’? A brown little Frenchman, clever, and brave, and quick as a fish— Had a wife and kids on the other side of the map— And a rose-covered cottage for them and him was his darlin’ wish.
“I ’ave sail,” says he, in his broken-up Frenchy talk, “Mos’ forty-two year; I ’ave go on all part of de worl’ dat ees wet. I’m seeck of de boat and de water. I rader walk Wid ma Josephine in one garden; an’ eef we get tire’, we set!
“You see dat bateau, Sainte Brigitte? I bring ’er dh’are From de Breton coas’, by gar, jus’ feefteen year bifore. She ole w’en she come on Kebec, but Holloway Frères Dey buy ’er, an’ hire me run ’er
