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And when you're threshing, crippled, with broken

bridge and rail, On a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head

to gale, Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taff

rail dressed, You'll see the old three-decker for the Islands of

the Blest.

You'll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver

spread; You'll hear the long-drawn thunder 'neath her

leaping figure-head; While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns

shine Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles

round a shrine.

Hull down-hull down and under-she dwindles

to a speck, With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her

deck. All's well-all's well aboard her-she's dropped

you far behind, With a scent of old-world roses through the fog

that ties you blind.

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, vast And, in the teeth of all the schools

Il shall save him at the last!

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