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New York Harbor, August 20, 1898
TO eastward ringing, to westward winging, o’er mapless miles of sea, | |
| On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free; | |
| And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, | |
| Breaker and beach, cry each to each, “’Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!” | |
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| Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm, | 5 |
| Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, | |
| Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, | |
| Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home! | |
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| And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest; | |
| The black cloud dies in the August skies and deep in the golden west | 10 |
| Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, | |
| And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars! | |
| Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade, | |
| Peace at last! is the bugle-blast the length of the long blockade; | |
| And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, | 15 |
| From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is “Peace! Thank God for peace!” | |
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| Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show | |
| The sons of those who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go; | |
| How, when the stirring summons smote on her children’s ear, | |
| South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered “Here!” | 20 |
| For the soul of the soldier’s story and the heart of the sailor’s song | |
| Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong, | |
| Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod, | |
| Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country’s God! | |
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| Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free, | 25 |
| To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea, | |
| To see the day steal up the bay, where the enemy lies in wait, | |
| To run your ship to the harbor’s lip and sink her across the strait:— | |
| But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home, | |
| And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam, | 30 |
| And the people wait at the haven’s gate, to greet the men who win! | |
| Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in! | |
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