Oklahoma and Other Poems Part 2

If we don't or if we do, We but dust and ashes brew; Labor, trouble, toil and strife Weave within each human life; Sorrows cloud the younger years; Age is bowed with cares and tears; Accidents in fame are few,-- If we don't or if we do.

If we don't or if we do.

Fate to our deserts is true; If we fail, or falter not, Every life deserves his lot; Every human, small or great, Buys with current coin his fate; What's the odds to me and you, If we don't or if we do?

DEAR SONGS OF MY COUNTRY!

Dear songs of my country! How sweetly thy measures Come stealthily stealing o'er mountain and wave, To sweeten the riches of liberty's treasures And thrill with their numbers the hearts of the brave!

To move in wild glory the souls of a nation, Till men are together so happily hurled, That millions are bound in fraternal relation And brotherhoods rule in the ranks of the world.

Such praises ye offer our heroes and sages, So grand is the greatness that lives in thy strains, That small is the fame of the far away ages, So sunken in tyranny, fettered in chains.

For freedom ye strive and ye struggle for glory, And Liberty--Liberty still is your theme-- And glad are your lips with the national story, Which warriors have written on forest and stream.

Dear songs of my country! The soul patriotic Ye fill with the wishes of mighty emprise, Till conquers he tyranny harsh and despotic, Or first in the front of the battle he dies.

Ye offer him laurels, ye crown him with praises, Who falls in the fight with his face to the foe, And grat.i.tude over his sepulcher raises The marbles eternal of national woe.

Your strains are as high as the cloud-covered mountains, As deep as the ocean, as wide as the land, As pure as the murmurs of silvery fountains, But loud as the roar on the billowy strand.

Our deep-furrowed prairies, our ship-laden rivers, Our ax-ringing forests, our steam-shrieking bays, Swell high in your music, for all are free givers To freedom's true grandeur and liberty's praise.

How fondly, dear songs of my country, ye cherish The struggle heroic, the G.o.d-shapen deed, That nothing of worthiness ever may perish But live to the time of humanity's need!

Afar from the realms of the centuries olden, Ye summon with gladness the glories of years, To greet every hero with cadences golden, And sing every sage that in greatness appears.

The ages may falter thee, Land of my Birth, The years may thy grandeur and glory betray; But long as thy songs murmur over the earth, No forces can carry thy splendors away!

Then live, ye dear songs of my country, forever, With voices eternal to utter her name, That cycles may never her liberty sever, Nor trample her greatness nor crumble her fame!

JULY FOURTH.

Hail, glorious morning of Columbia's birth, Celestial dawn of freedom! There shall be In recognition of thy wondrous worth By mighty millions this side of the sea, Triumphant crowns of laurel wreathed for thee!

Welcome thy mammoth pageants, welcome all The choral songs and melodies of glee, The swelling shouts of praise that gladly fall From mighty mult.i.tudes in anthems national!

High hangs the sacred banner, and the stars Dance in the sunshine, while the breezes play Around the glory of the hallowed bars Gleaming in white and crimson; music gay Floats from the patriot host and cheers array Great shouts around its foldings. Long in state, Flag of the brave and free, wave o'er this day To bring the world rejoicings which await The natal hours of might, the day we celebrate!

How fears the tyrant in his capital, As myriad wires throb with the nation's tale!

How despot trembles in his castled hall, When liberty's wild shouts of power prevail, And give their gladness unto every gale!

Fetters and chains dissolve in holy trust, Scepters and swords in puny weakness fail, While crowns and thrones make monumental dust, And kingly Might is dead, Oppression downward thrust.

Wide float thy wondrous paeans; loudly range Thy songs of holy rapture; and the roars Of deep-mouthed cannons echo wild and strange Through shouting cities; Patriotism pours Her full libations on the trembling sh.o.r.es, Till earth reels with her triumph; and the voice Of millions mad with merriment far soars From sea to ocean with entrancing noise, Till nations hear the cry and continents rejoice.

Wave on, thou flag of freedom, and this day Still live in hearts of nations! O, thou Land, Where Man was first the monarch, where the sway Of birth exalted first was broken, stand To guard the helpless with a mighty hand, And give the weak protection; scout the ban Which tyrants utter, and with growing band Of n.o.ble freemen serve thy primal plan, And bind all nations in the Brotherhood of Man!

"O, GENTLE SHADE OF QUIET WOODS."

O, gentle shade of quiet woods, Where nature dwells in leafy halls, I love the sacred voice that falls In music o'er thy solitudes!

Within thine arms the weary heart Is hidden from the toils of men, And pleasure makes ambition start Into a n.o.bler life again.

Among the fragrant shadows throng With all the riches of their truth, Glad echoes from the days of youth And mingle into laughing song; While angel fingers touch the keys That slumber in the silent breast, Till mem'ry wakes her lullabies And childhood fancies rock to rest.

Again the hours of early joy Upon the aged years intrude, And dance amid the summer wood The golden dreamings of the boy; Again the songs of wonder thrill The days of life with gladness wild, And lofty visions fondly fill The longing fancies of the child.

Enchanted choirs of baby years, Sweet dirges from the cradle's keys, The glories of your harmonies Impel my secret soul to tears!

The roses of my fancies fade Into the dust of wicked strife, And all the promise boyhood made Has proved the desert of my life.

O, fragrant woods of happy times, Fair children of the glowing days, How sweet the music of your lays Is mingled into fairy chimes!

Ye lisp again the songs of yore, The stories of my infant years, And throw a sweeter cadence o'er My h.o.a.ry sorrows and my tears!

LOVE.

Angelic theme of ancient lays!

By Doric hills, Athenian vales, The nations bound thy brows with bays And fanned thy cheeks with scented gales; While golden lamps illumed thy shrines Beside the Tiber and the Po, Till anthems thine were taught to flow Along the Alps and Appenines.

The souls of sages and of slaves Were faithful servants unto thee, Whose rapture soothed the Grecian waves, And kissed the islands of the sea; And bounding on from strand to strand It crossed the coasts and climbed the slopes, To place a crown of tender hopes Upon the vine-clad Roman land.

Great empress of that early time, Glad ruler of the gentle souls, Each year is changed to raptured rhyme That o'er thy laughing bosom rolls; For cycles as they sink to rest So closely guard thy joy and truth, That fondness and immortal youth Give sweet embraces to thy breast.

Thou G.o.ddess of the Paphian shrine, Cytheran queen of Ion's isle, Fair Venus from the land of wine, The races love thy dewy smile; While silent hills and dewy glades Bear praises on each breeze that blows, Sweet as the breath of morning rose That blossoms in the woodland shades!

Then crown, O, Love, these later days With mystic charms of wondrous bliss, That lived when thou wert wreathed with bays, And nations hungered for thy kiss!

No more thy temples tower above, But lives and bosoms hold thee dear; Then come with all thy worth of cheer And gentleness, O, mighty Love!

WINTERS ON THE FARM.

Glad winters on the olden farm!

How raptures from those early times Commingle into fairy chimes Which gently banish cries of harm!

My fainting soul finds rest the whiles Within the arms of memory, And tender scenes of boyish glee Transform my sorrows into smiles.

How brightly beamed the pleasures then, When frigid fingers came to throw A wintry winding sheet of snow Around the silent homes of men!

But happiness found no alarm, For safe with cheer, secure with love, She gladly grew and sweetly throve Through winters on the olden farm.

With merry bells and busy sleighs, That sung and flew o'er icy vales And climbed the hills as fleet as gales, Like singing phantoms died the days; Or then with coat and m.u.f.fler warm Sweet children glided on the lake, Or chased the rabbit through the brake, In winters on the olden farm.