« AnteriorContinuar »
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,
Nor what he is, my Avatar.
Through many roads, by me possessed,
He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
And he the Text himself applies.
The Celt is in his heart and hand,
The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;
He guards the Redskin's dry reserve.
His easy unswept hearth he lends
From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
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.
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;
The acrid Asiatic mirth
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!
THE MARY GLOSTER.
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