I had not had the will to go
  Outside the olive-bordered path
  Of peace to cut the birch of wrath,
And strip your body for the blow.

Behold how dark the war-clouds rise
  About the mother of our race! 
  The lightnings gild her tranquil face
And glitter in her patient eyes.

Her children throng the hither flood
  And lean intent above the beach. 
  Their beating hearts inhibit speech
With stifling tides of English blood.

“Their skies, but not their hearts, they change
  Who go in ships across the sea”—­
  Through all centuries to be
The strange new land will still be strange.

The Island Mother holds in gage
  The souls of sons she never saw;
  Superior to law, the law
Of sympathetic heritage.

Forgotten now the foolish reign
  Of wrath which sundered trivial ties. 
  A soldier’s sabre vainly tries
To cleave a spiritual chain.

The iron in our blood affines,
  Though fratricidal hands may spill. 
  Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill,
Yet Love abide at Seven Pines?

A CULINARY CANDIDATE

A cook adorned with paper cap,
  Or waiter with a tray,
May be a worthy kind of chap
      In his way,
But when we want one for Recorder,
Then, Mr. Walton, take our order.

THE OLEOMARGARINE MAN

Once—­in the county of Marin,
Where milk is sold to purchase gin—­
Renowned for butter and renowned
For fourteen ounces to the pound—­
A bull stood watching every turn
Of Mr. Wilson with a churn,
As that deigning worthy stalked
About him, eying as he walked,
El Toro’s sleek and silken hide,
His neck, his flank and all beside;
Thinking with secret joy:  “I’ll spread
That mammal on a slice of bread!”

Soon Mr. Wilson’s keen concern
To get the creature in his churn
Unhorsed his caution—­made him blind
To the fell vigor of bullkind,
Till, filled with valor to the teeth,
He drew his dasher from its sheath
And bravely brandished it; the while
He smiled a dark, portentous smile;
A deep, sepulchral smile; a wide
And open smile, which, at his side,
The churn to copy vainly tried;
A smile so like the dawn of doom
That all the field was palled in gloom,
And all the trees within a mile,
As tribute to that awful smile,
Made haste, with loyalty discreet,
To fling their shadows at his feet. 
Then rose his battle-cry:  “I’ll spread
That mammal on a slice of bread!”

To such a night the day had turned
That Taurus dimly was discerned. 
He wore so meek and grave an air
It seemed as if, engaged in prayer
This thunderbolt incarnate had
No thought of anything that’s bad: 
This concentrated earthquake stood
And gave his mind to being good. 
Lightly and low he drew his breath—­
This magazine of sudden death! 
All this the thrifty Wilson’s glance
Took in, and, crying, “Now’s my chance!”
Upon the bull he sprang amain
To put him in his churn.  Again
Rang out his battle-yell:  “I’ll spread
That mammal on a slice of bread!”