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Her crew are babes or madmen? Her port is all

to make ? You're manned by Truth and Science, and you

steam for steaming's sake ? Well, tinker up your engines—you know your

business bestShe's taking tired people to the Islands of the



The American Spirit speaks:

If the Led Striker call it a strike,

Or the papers call it a war,
They know not much what I am like,

Nor what he is, my Avatar.

Through many roads, by me possessed,

He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
He is the Jester and the Jest,

And he the Text himself applies.

The Celt is in his heart and hand,

The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;
Where, cosmopolitanly planned,

He guards the Redskin's dry reserve.

His easy unswept hearth he lends

From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,

He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop. Calm-eyed he scoffs at sword and crown,

Or panic-blinded stabs and slays: Blatant he bids the world bow down,

Or cringing begs a crumb of praise;

Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,

He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.
His hands are black with blood: his heart

Leaps, as a babe's, at little things.

But, through the shift of mood and mood,

Mine ancient humour saves him wholeThe cynic devil in his blood

That bids him mock his hurrying soul;

That bids him flout the Law he makes,

That bids him make the Law he flouts, Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes

The drumming guns that-have no doubts;

That checks him foolish hot and fond,

That chuckles through his deepest ire, That gilds the slough of his despond

But dims the goal of his desire;

Inopportune, shrill-accented,

The acrid Asiatic mirth
That leaves him careless 'mid his dead,

The scandal of the elder earth.

How shall he clear himself, how reach

Our bar or weighed defence preferA brother hedged with alien speech

And lacking all interpreter ?

Which knowledge vexes him a space;

But while reproof around him rings, He turns a keen untroubled face

Home, to the instant need of things.

Enslaved, illogical, elate,

He greets th' embarrassed Gods, nor fears To shake the iron hand of Fate

Or match with Destiny for beers.

Lo! imperturbable he rules,

Unkempt, disreputable, vastAnd, in the teeth of all the schools

I-I shall save him at the last!


I've paid for your sickest fancies; I've humoured

your crackedest whimDick, it's your daddy_dying: you've got to listen

to him! Good for a fortnight, am I? The doctor told you?

He lied. I shall go under by morning, and — Put that

nurse outside. 'Never seen death yet, Dickie? Well, now is

your time to learn, And you'll wish you held my record before it

comes to your turn. Not counting the Line and the Foundry, the yards

and the village, too, 'I've made myself and a million; but I'm damned

if I made you. Master at two-and-twenty, and married at twenty


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