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- Poems of Sentiment - 10/14 -

Of every wind the sport - Now rigged and manned, her course well planned, Sails proudly out of port; And fluttering gaily from the mast This motto is unfurled, Let all men heed its truth who read: "Republics rule the World!"

The universe is high as God! Good is the final goal; The world revolves and man evolves A purpose and a soul. No church can bind, no crown forbid Thought's mighty upward course - Let kings give way before its sway, For God inspires its force.

The hero of a vanished age Was one who bathed in gore; Who best could fight was noblest knight In savage days of yore; Now warrior chiefs are out of date, The times have changed. To-day We call men great who arbitrate And keep war's hounds at bay.

The world no longer looks to priest Or prince to know its needs; Earth's human throng has grown too strong To rule with courts and creeds. We want no kings but kings of toil - No crowns but crowns of deeds; Not royal birth but sterling worth Must mark the man who leads.

Proud monarchies are out of step With modern thought to-day, For Brotherhood is understood, And thrones may pass away. Men dare to think. Concerted thought Contains more power than swords: The force that binds united minds Defeats mere savage hordes.

Man needs no arbitrary hand To keep him in control; He feels the power grow hour by hour Of his expanding soul: In God's stupendous scheme of worlds He knows he has a place; He is no slave to cringe, and crave Some worthless monarch's grace.

As ocean billows undermine The haughty shores each hour, Time's sea has brought its waves of thought To crumble thrones of power; And one by one shall kingdoms fall Like leaves before the blast, As man with man combines to plan Republics formed to last.

Columbia baulked a tyrant king, And built upon a rock, In Freedom's name, a shrine whose fame Outlived the century's shock. Now France within our port has set Her symbol of re-birth; Her lifted hand tells sea and land Republics light the earth.

One mighty church for all the world Would make men far more kind; One government would bring content To many a restless mind. Sail on, fair ship of Freedom, sail The wide sea's breadth and length. 'Till worlds unite to make the might Of "One Republic's" strength.


The quiet graves of our country's braves Through thirty Junes and Decembers Have solemnly lain under sun and rain, And yet the Nation remembers.

The marching of feet and the flags on the street Told once again this morning, In the voice of the drum how the day had come For those lowly beds' adorning.

Then swiftly back on Time's worn track His three decades seemed driven, And with startled eyes I saw arise, From graves by fancy riven,

The Gray and Blue in a grand review. Oh! vast were the hosts they numbered, As they wheeled and swayed in a dress parade O'er the graves where they long had slumbered.

The colours were not, as when they fought, Ranked one against the other, But a mingled hue of gray and blue, As brother marching with brother.

And a blue flower lay on each coat of gray, Like forget-me-nots on a boulder; And the gray moss lace in its Southern grace Was knotted on each blue shoulder.

The vision fled; but I think our dead, If they could come back with the living, Would clasp warm hands o'er hostile lands, Forgetting old wrongs and forgiving.

'Mong the blossoms of Spring that you gather and bring To graves that though lowly are royal, Let the blue flower prevail, though modest and pale, Since it speaks of the hue that was loyal.

But tie each bouquet with a ribbon of gray And lay it on memory's altar, For the dead who fought for the cause they thought Was right, and who did not falter.


When from our mortal vision Grown men and women go To sail strange fields Elysian And know what spirits know, I think of them as tourists, In some sun-gilded clime, 'Mong happy sights and dear delights We all shall find, in time.

But when a child goes yonder And leaves its mother here, Its little feet must wander, It seems to me, in fear. What paths of Eden beauty, What scenes of peace and rest, Can bring content to one who went Forth from a mother's breast?

In palace gardens, lonely, A little child will roam And weep for pleasures only Found in its humble home. It is not won by splendour, Nor bought by costly toys; To hide from harm on mother's arm Makes all its sum of joys.

It must be when the baby Goes journeying off alone, Some angel (Mary, may be) Adopts it for her own. Yet when a child is taken Whose mother stays below, With weeping eyes, through Paradise, I seem to see it go.

With troops of angels trying To drive away its fear, I seem to hear it crying, "I want my mamma here." I do not court the fancy, It is not based on doubt, It is a thought that comes unsought When baby souls sail out.


I list your prattle, baby boy, And hear your pattering feet With feelings more of pain than joy And thoughts of bitter-sweet.

While touching your soft hands in play Such passionate longings rise For my wee boy who strayed away So soon to Paradise.

You win me with your infant art; But when our play is o'er,

Poems of Sentiment - 10/14

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