of flame— Confident, reckless, irresistible, Real Americans— Their rush was never stayed Until the foe fell back, defeated and dismayed. O land that bore them, write upon thy roll Of battles won To liberate the human soul, Château Thierry and Saint Mihiel And the fierce agony of the Argonne; Yea, count among thy little rivers, dear Because of friends whose feet have trodden there, The Marne, the Meuse, and the Moselle.
III
Now the vile sword In Potsdam forged and bathed in hell, Is beaten down, the victory given To the sword forged in faith and bathed in heaven. Now home again our heroes come: Oh, welcome them with bugle and with drum, Ring bells, blow whistles, make a joyful noise Unto the Lord, And welcome home our blue-star boys, Whose manhood has made known To all the world America, Unselfish, brave and free, the Great Republic, Who lives not to herself alone.
IV
But many a lad we hold Dear in our heart of hearts Is missing from the home-returning host. Ah, say not they are lost, For they have found and given their life In sacrificial strife: Their service stars have changed from blue to gold! That sudden rapture took them far away, Yet are they here with us to-day, Even as the heavenly stars we cannot see Through the bright veil of sunlight, Shed their influence still On our vexed life, and promise peace From God to all men of good will.
V
What wreaths shall we entwine For our dear boys to deck their holy shrine? Mountain-laurel, morning-glory, Goldenrod and asters blue, Purple loosestrife, prince’s-pine, Wild-azalea, meadow-rue, Nodding-lilies, columbine— All the native blooms that grew In these fresh woods and pastures new, Wherein they loved to ramble and to play. Bring no exotic flowers: America was in their hearts, And they are ours For ever and a day.
VI
O happy warriors, forgive the tear Falling from eyes that miss you: Forgive the word of grief from mother-lips That ne’er on earth shall kiss you; Hear only what our hearts would have you hear— Glory and praise and gratitude and pride From the dear country in whose cause you died. Now you have run your race and won your prize, Old age shall never burden you, the fears And conflicts that beset our lingering years Shall never vex your souls in Paradise. Immortal, young, and crowned with victory, From life’s long battle you have found release. And He who died for all on Calvary Has welcomed you, brave soldiers of the cross, Into eternal Peace.
VII
Come, let us gird our loins and lift our load, Companions who are left on life’s rough road, And bravely take the way that we must tread To keep true faith with our beloved dead. To conquer war they dared their lives to give, To safeguard peace our hearts must learn to live. Help us, dear God, our forward faith to hold! We want a better world than that of old. Lead us on paths of high endeavor, Toiling upward, climbing ever, Ready to suffer for the right, Until at last we gain a loftier height, More worthy to behold Our guiding stars, our hero-stars of gold.
The Song-Sparrow
There is a bird I know so well, It seems as if he must have sung Beside my crib when I was young; Before I knew the way to spell The name of even the smallest bird, His gentle-joyful song I heard. Now see if you can tell, my dear. What bird it is that, every year, Sings “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”
He comes in March, when winds are strong, And snow returns to hide the earth; But still he warms his heart with mirth, And waits for May. He lingers long While flowers fade; and every day Repeats his small, contented lay; As if to say, we need not fear The season’s change, if love is here With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”
He does not wear a Joseph’s-coat Of many colours, smart and gay; His suit is Quaker brown and gray, With darker patches at his throat. And yet of all the well-dressed throng Not one can sing so brave a song. It makes the pride of looks appear A vain and foolish thing, to hear His “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”
A lofty place he does not love, But sits by choice, and well at ease, In hedges, and in little trees That stretch their slender arms above The meadow-brook; and there he sings Till all the field with pleasure rings; And so he tells in every ear, That lowly homes to heaven are near In “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”
I like the tune, I like the words; They seem so true, so free from art, So friendly, and so full of heart, That if but one of all the birds Could be my comrade everywhere, My little brother of the air, I’d choose the song-sparrow, my dear, Because he’d bless me, every year, With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”
Dulciora
Long, long ago I heard a little song, (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) So lowly, slowly wound the tune along, That far into my heart it found the way: A melody consoling and endearing; And now, in silent hours, I’m often hearing The small, sweet song that does not die away.
Long, long ago I saw a little flower— (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) So fair of face and fragrant for an hour, That something dear to me it seemed to say— A wordless joy that blossomed into being; And now, in winter days, I’m often seeing The friendly flower that does not fade away.
Long, long ago we had a little child— (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) Into his mother’s eyes and mine he smiled Unconscious love; warm in our arms he lay. An angel called! Dear heart, we could not hold him; Yet secretly your arms and mine infold him— Our little child who does not go away.
Long, long ago? Ah, memory, make it clear— (It was not long ago, but yesterday.) So little and so helpless and so dear— Let not the song be lost, the flower decay! His voice, his waking eyes, his gentle sleeping: The smallest things are safest in thy keeping— Sweet memory, keep our child with us alway.
Salute to the Trees
Many a tree is found in the wood And every tree for its use is good: Some for the strength of the gnarled root, Some for the sweetness of flower or
