With act and speech and pen
'Tis yours to spread
The morning-red
That ushers in a grander day:
To scatter prejudice that blinds,
And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds;
To overthrow bland tyrannies
That cheat the people, and with slow disease
Change the Republic to a mockery.
'Tis yours to spread
The morning-red
That ushers in a grander day:
To scatter prejudice that blinds,
And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds;
To overthrow bland tyrannies
That cheat the people, and with slow disease
Change the Republic to a mockery.
George Lathrop - Dreams and Days
poetry.
DREAMS AND DAYS
POEMS
BY
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP
To ROSL
CONTENTS
I
STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN!
"O JAY! "
THE STAR TO ITS LIGHT
"THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES"
JESSAMINE
THE BOBOLINK
SAILOR'S SONG, RETURNING
FIRST GLANCE
BRIDE BROOK
MAY-ROSE
THE SINGING WIRE
THE HEART OF A SONG
SOUTH-WIND
THE LOVER'S YEAR
NEW WORLDS
NIGHT IN NEW YORK
THE SONG-SPARROW
I LOVED YOU, ONCE----
II
THE BRIDE OF WAR
A RUNE OF THE RAIN
BREAKERS
BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO
THE CHILD-YEAR
CHRISTENING
THANKSGIVING TURKEY
BEFORE THE SNOW
III
YOUTH TO THE POET
THE SWORD DHAM
"AT THE GOLDEN GATE"
CHARITY
HELEN AT THE LOOM
THE CASKET OF OPALS
LOVE THAT LIVES
IV
BLUEBIRD'S GREETING
THE VOICE OF THE VOID
"O WHOLESOME DEATH"
INCANTATION
FAMINE AND HARVEST
THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED
THE FLOWN SOUL
SUNSET AND SHORE
THE PHOEBE-BIRD
A STRONG CITY
THREE DOVES
V
ARISE, AMERICAN!
THE NAME OF WASHINGTON
GRANT'S DIRGE.
BATTLE DAYS
KEENAN'S CHARGE
MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND
GETTYSBURG: A BATTLE ODE
NOTES
STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN!
Strike hands, young men!
We know not when
Death or disaster comes,
Mightier than battle-drums
To summon us away.
Death bids us say farewell
To all we love, nor stay
For tears;--and who can tell
How soon misfortune's hand
May smite us where we stand,
Dragging us down, aloof,
Under the swift world's hoof?
Strike hands for faith, and power
To gladden the passing hour;
To wield the sword, or raise a song;--
To press the grape; or crush out wrong.
And strengthen right.
Give me the man of sturdy palm
And vigorous brain;
Hearty, companionable, sane,
'Mid all commotions calm,
Yet filled with quick, enthusiastic fire;--
Give me the man
Whose impulses aspire,
And all his features seem to say, "I can! "
Strike hands, young men!
'Tis yours to help rebuild the State,
And keep the Nation great.
With act and speech and pen
'Tis yours to spread
The morning-red
That ushers in a grander day:
To scatter prejudice that blinds,
And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds;
To overthrow bland tyrannies
That cheat the people, and with slow disease
Change the Republic to a mockery.
With act and speech and pen
'Tis yours to spread
The morning-red
That ushers in a grander day:
To scatter prejudice that blinds,
And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds;
To overthrow bland tyrannies
That cheat the people, and with slow disease
Change the Republic to a mockery.
Your words can teach that liberty
Means more than just to cry "We're free"
While bending to some new-found yoke.
So shall each unjust bond be broke,
Each toiler gain his meet reward,
And life sound forth a truer chord.
Ah, if we so have striven,
And mutually the grasp have given
Of brotherhood,
To work each other and the whole race good;
What matter if the dream
Come only partly true,
And all the things accomplished seem
Feeble and few?
At least, when summer's flame burns low
And on our heads the drifting snow
Settles and stays,
We shall rejoice that in our earlier days
We boldly then
Struck hands, young men!
"O JAY! "
O jay--
Blue-jay!
What are you trying to say?
I remember, in the spring
You pretended you could sing;
But your voice is now still queerer,
And as yet you've come no nearer
To a song.
In fact, to sum the matter,
I never heard a flatter
Failure than your doleful clatter.
Don't you think it's wrong?
It was sweet to hear your note,
I'll not deny,
When April set pale clouds afloat
O'er the blue tides of sky,
And 'mid the wind's triumphant drums
You, in your white and azure coat,
A herald proud, came forth to cry,
"The royal summer comes! "
But now that autumn's here,
And the leaves curl up in sheer
Disgust,
And the cold rains fringe the pine,
You really must
Stop that supercilious whine---
Or you'll be shot, by some mephitic
Angry critic.
You don't fulfill your early promise:
You're not the smartest
Kind of artist,
Any more than poor Blind Tom is.
Yet somehow, still,
There's meaning in your screaming bill.
What _are_ you trying to say?
DREAMS AND DAYS
POEMS
BY
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP
To ROSL
CONTENTS
I
STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN!
"O JAY! "
THE STAR TO ITS LIGHT
"THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES"
JESSAMINE
THE BOBOLINK
SAILOR'S SONG, RETURNING
FIRST GLANCE
BRIDE BROOK
MAY-ROSE
THE SINGING WIRE
THE HEART OF A SONG
SOUTH-WIND
THE LOVER'S YEAR
NEW WORLDS
NIGHT IN NEW YORK
THE SONG-SPARROW
I LOVED YOU, ONCE----
II
THE BRIDE OF WAR
A RUNE OF THE RAIN
BREAKERS
BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO
THE CHILD-YEAR
CHRISTENING
THANKSGIVING TURKEY
BEFORE THE SNOW
III
YOUTH TO THE POET
THE SWORD DHAM
"AT THE GOLDEN GATE"
CHARITY
HELEN AT THE LOOM
THE CASKET OF OPALS
LOVE THAT LIVES
IV
BLUEBIRD'S GREETING
THE VOICE OF THE VOID
"O WHOLESOME DEATH"
INCANTATION
FAMINE AND HARVEST
THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED
THE FLOWN SOUL
SUNSET AND SHORE
THE PHOEBE-BIRD
A STRONG CITY
THREE DOVES
V
ARISE, AMERICAN!
THE NAME OF WASHINGTON
GRANT'S DIRGE.
BATTLE DAYS
KEENAN'S CHARGE
MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND
GETTYSBURG: A BATTLE ODE
NOTES
STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN!
Strike hands, young men!
We know not when
Death or disaster comes,
Mightier than battle-drums
To summon us away.
Death bids us say farewell
To all we love, nor stay
For tears;--and who can tell
How soon misfortune's hand
May smite us where we stand,
Dragging us down, aloof,
Under the swift world's hoof?
Strike hands for faith, and power
To gladden the passing hour;
To wield the sword, or raise a song;--
To press the grape; or crush out wrong.
And strengthen right.
Give me the man of sturdy palm
And vigorous brain;
Hearty, companionable, sane,
'Mid all commotions calm,
Yet filled with quick, enthusiastic fire;--
Give me the man
Whose impulses aspire,
And all his features seem to say, "I can! "
Strike hands, young men!
'Tis yours to help rebuild the State,
And keep the Nation great.
With act and speech and pen
'Tis yours to spread
The morning-red
That ushers in a grander day:
To scatter prejudice that blinds,
And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds;
To overthrow bland tyrannies
That cheat the people, and with slow disease
Change the Republic to a mockery.
With act and speech and pen
'Tis yours to spread
The morning-red
That ushers in a grander day:
To scatter prejudice that blinds,
And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds;
To overthrow bland tyrannies
That cheat the people, and with slow disease
Change the Republic to a mockery.
Your words can teach that liberty
Means more than just to cry "We're free"
While bending to some new-found yoke.
So shall each unjust bond be broke,
Each toiler gain his meet reward,
And life sound forth a truer chord.
Ah, if we so have striven,
And mutually the grasp have given
Of brotherhood,
To work each other and the whole race good;
What matter if the dream
Come only partly true,
And all the things accomplished seem
Feeble and few?
At least, when summer's flame burns low
And on our heads the drifting snow
Settles and stays,
We shall rejoice that in our earlier days
We boldly then
Struck hands, young men!
"O JAY! "
O jay--
Blue-jay!
What are you trying to say?
I remember, in the spring
You pretended you could sing;
But your voice is now still queerer,
And as yet you've come no nearer
To a song.
In fact, to sum the matter,
I never heard a flatter
Failure than your doleful clatter.
Don't you think it's wrong?
It was sweet to hear your note,
I'll not deny,
When April set pale clouds afloat
O'er the blue tides of sky,
And 'mid the wind's triumphant drums
You, in your white and azure coat,
A herald proud, came forth to cry,
"The royal summer comes! "
But now that autumn's here,
And the leaves curl up in sheer
Disgust,
And the cold rains fringe the pine,
You really must
Stop that supercilious whine---
Or you'll be shot, by some mephitic
Angry critic.
You don't fulfill your early promise:
You're not the smartest
Kind of artist,
Any more than poor Blind Tom is.
Yet somehow, still,
There's meaning in your screaming bill.
What _are_ you trying to say?
