Alas for the woman of Albion’s isle!
She may simper; as well as she can she
may smile;
She may wear pantalettes and an air of
repose—
But my lord of the future will talk through
his nose.
AN INVOCATION.
[Read at the Celebration of Independence
Day in San
Francisco, in 1888.]
Goddess of Liberty! O thou
Whose tearless eyes behold
the chain,
And look unmoved upon the
slain,
Eternal peace upon thy brow,—
Before thy shrine the races press,
Thy perfect favor to implore—
The proudest tyrant asks no
more,
The ironed anarchist no less.
Thine altar-coals that touch the lips
Of prophets kindle, too, the
brand
By Discord flung with wanton
hand
Among the houses and the ships.
Upon thy tranquil front the star
Burns bleak and passionless
and white,
Its cold inclemency of light
More dreadful than the shadows are.
Thy name we do not here invoke
Our civic rites to sanctify:
Enthroned in thy remoter sky,
Thou heedest not our broken yoke.
Thou carest not for such as we:
Our millions die to serve
the still
And secret purpose of thy
will.
They perish—what is that to
thee?
The light that fills the patriot’s
tomb
Is not of thee. The shining
crown
Compassionately offered down
To those who falter in the gloom,
And fall, and call upon thy name,
And die desiring—’tis
the sign
Of a diviner love than thine,
Rewarding with a richer fame.
To him alone let freemen cry
Who hears alike the victor’s
shout,
The song of faith, the moan
of doubt,
And bends him from his nearer sky.
God of my country and my race!
So greater than the gods of
old—
So fairer than the prophets
told
Who dimly saw and feared thy face,—
Who didst but half reveal thy will
And gracious ends to their desire,
Behind the dawn’s advancing
fire
Thy tender day-beam veiling still,—
To whom the unceasing suns belong,
And cause is one with consequence,—
To whose divine, inclusive sense
The moan is blended with the song,—
Whose laws, imperfect and unjust,
Thy just and perfect purpose serve:
The needle, howsoe’er it swerve,
Still warranting the sailor’s trust,—
God, lift thy hand and make us free
To crown the work thou hast designed.
O, strike away the chains that bind
Our souls to one idolatry!
The liberty thy love hath given
We thank thee for. We thank
thee for
Our great dead fathers’ holy
war
Wherein our manacles were riven.
We thank thee for the stronger stroke
Ourselves delivered and incurred
When—thine incitement
half unheard—
The chains we riveted we broke.