RECESSIONAL RUDYARD KIPLING 30 [Written at the close of the great British festival in honor of the 60th anniversary of Victoria's accession to the throne.] God of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle-line, The tumult and the shouting dies; An humble and a contrite heart. On dune and headland sinks the fire: Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget! 10 WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN * GUY WETMORE CARRYL [On the conclusion of the war with Spain.] To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea, Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home! And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest, And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars! Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade, Thank God for peace." Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free, But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home, UNMANIFEST DESTINY+ RICHARD HOVEY [Written when the war between the United States and Spain had brought into use the phrase "manifest destiny," with reference to the new world-policy of the nation.] To what new fates, my country, far Compelled to what unchosen end, *From "The Garden of Years and Other Poems," courtesy of G. P. Putnam's Sons, publishers. tReprinted by special permission of Duffield & Company. Across the sea that knows no beach The harbor where thy future rides! 30 Till in the fulness of accomplished time. Comes brother Forepaugh,1 upon business bent, Tracks her through frozen and through torrid clime, And shows us, neatly labeled in a tent, The stages of her huge experiment; Blabbing aloud her shy and reticent hours; Dragging to light her blinking, sloth ful moods; Publishing fretful seasons when her pow ers Worked wild and sullen in her solitudes, Or when her mordant laughter shook the woods. 60 Here, round about me, were her vagrant births; Sick dreams she had, fierce projects she essayed; Her qualms, her fiery prides, her crazy mirths; The troublings of her spirit as she strayed, Cringed, gloated, mocked, was lordly, was afraid, On that long road she went to seek mankind; Here were the darkling coverts that she beat To find the Hider she was sent to find; Here the distracted footprints of her feet Whereby her soul's Desire she came to greet. 70 But why should they, her botch-work, turn about And stare disdain at me, her finished job? Why was the place one vast suspended shout Of laughter? Why did all the daylight throb With soundless guffaw and dumb-stricken sob? Helpless I stood among those awful cages; The beasts were walking loose, and I was bagged! I, I, last product of the toiling ages, And worst of all was just a kind of brute 1 Forepaugh. The proprietor of the menagerie. |