Of man no need has he, of God, no prayer;
He and his Deity are brothers there.
Above his bivouac the firs fling down
Through branches gaunt and black, their needles brown.
Afar some mountain streams, rockbound and fleet,
Sing themselves through his dreams in cadence sweet,
The pine trees whispering, the heron’s cry,
The plover’s passing wing, his lullaby.
And blinking overhead the white stars keep
Watch o’er his hemlock bed–his sinless sleep.
Of the White, and the Black, and the Tan,He’s the smallest in compass and girth.O! he’s little, and lively, and Tan,And he’s showing the world what he’s worth.For his nation is born, and its birthIs for hardihood, courage, and sand,So you take off your capTo the brave little JapWho fights for Chrysanthemum Land.Near the house…
With pools of purple colouring the skies,Aflood with gold and rose;And some hot soul seems throbbing close to mine,As sinks the sun within that world of wine.I seem to hear a bar of music floatAnd swoon into the west;My ear can scarcely catch the whispered note,But something in my breastBlends with that strain, till both…
Affluence knocks at her gateways, opulence waits to be won.Nuggets of gold are her acres, yielding and yellow with spoil,Dream of the hungry millions, dawn of the food-filled age,Over the starving tale of want her fingers have turned the page;Nations will nurse at her storehouse, and God gives her grain for wage.
As they steal amid the silence,And the shadows of the shore.You can hear them when the Northern candles light the Northern sky,Those pale, uncertain candle flames, that shiver, dart and die,Those dead men’s icy finger tips,Athwart the Northern sky.You can hear the ringing war-cry of a long-forgotten braveEcho through the midnight forest, echo o’er the…
Across the grey-green sea, a ship is bringingFor me a letter, from the Motherland.Naught would I care to live in quaint old Britain,These wilder shores are dearer far to me,Yet when I read the words that hand has written,The parent sod more precious seems to be.Within that folded note I catch the savourOf climes that…
What mighty ills befall our little band,Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand?Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye.No roaming bison calls for it to-day;No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:‘Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.Go; rise and strike,…
