| |
New York Harbor, August 20, 1898
TO eastward ringing, to westward winging, o’er miles of mapless sea, | |
| On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free, | |
| And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill. | |
| Breaker and beach cry each to each, | |
| “’Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!” | 5 |
| Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm, | |
| Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, | |
| Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, | |
| Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time Home! | |
| And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest, | 10 |
| The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west | |
| Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, | |
| And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars! | |
| Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade, | |
| Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade, | 15 |
| And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, | |
| From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is “Peace! Thank God for peace.” | |
| |
| Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show | |
| The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go,— | |
| How, when the stirring summons smote on her children’s ear, | 20 |
| South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered, “Here!” | |
| For the soul of the soldier’s story and the heart of the sailor’s song | |
| Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong, | |
| Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod, | |
| Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country’s God! | 25 |
| |
| Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free, | |
| To carry the hearts of the people to the uttermost ends of sea, | |
| To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait, | |
| To run your ship to the harbor’s lip and sink her across the strait:— | |
| But better the golden evening when the ship heads round for home, | 30 |
| And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam, | |
| And the people wait at the haven’s gate to greet the men who win! | |
| Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in! | |
| |
