Behold the myriads at the gate
Who from the Old World saw thy light,
Thy hand is strong to bless or smite
These pilgrims, and thy " yea " is fate.

They as our fathers come from far;
From shores where blazes Dante's sun,
And from the bleak dominion
Where fall the lashes of the Czar.

Their strong untiring arms have hewn
A path o'er Alpine mountain-crest,
Them England nurtured at her breast,
And over them rose Erin's moon.

Yet though their necks for menial toil
Are bent to build our empire, they

Nor life nor death had any peace for thee,
Seeing thy mother cast thee forth, a prey
To wind and water, till we bade thee stay
And rest, a pilgrim weary of the sea.
But now it seems that on thine effigy
Thy very host an impious hand would lay:
Go then and wander, praising on thy way
The proud Republic's hospitality!

Yet oft with us wreathed brow must suffer wrong,
The sad Enchanter of the land of Weir
Is still uncrowned, unreverenced, and we fear
The Lords of Gold above the Lords of Song

Surely we stumble toward an evil day,
For us of late is freedom's path too steep,
Her words perverted in our mouths; we keep
Our bondage willing, aye, endure the sway
Of trickster's hands and redder hands that slay:
Yet this no season to lament or weep,
But to arise and with tempestuous sweep
Hurl the false idols from their seat of clay.

Thou whom the people's voice acclaims their own,
Thou their defender, shalt approach the throne
Of the blind goddess with the awful rod,
And she will know thee victor without flaw,

Aware of Wonder
were all immortal ...
Helios shines rejoiced
glares with new life;
Ares admires his armor,
Anadiomena her smile;
and decorum of her figure
Artemis topless.
Pan feels that the earth trembles;
Poseidon the sea is stirred
as when Aphrodite was born.
Sweet peace, strong in war,
appears to the Greek ideal,
before the spill under your
and on which your thanks rains
white and pure as snow
and blazing like flame.

Is she embodies the thought! ...
Is it the pursuing

She speaks:

I DREAMED a dream of how the red sun fell,
And on the plain beyond the city spread
A joyous crowd, by Love and Laughter led;
When sudden came, but faintly audible,
A leper's voice, and then the warning bell:
Then passion paled — seized with a speechless dread,
They tarried not to spit at him, but fled,
As if that beggar were a thing from hell.

And so if once our love were known, O sweet!

It was in the days, in the days of the roses,
When under your kisses my sorrow was sped,
Now autumn blossoms the field encloses,
And autumn blossoms enwreath our head —
And Love and rejoicing and May are dead,
And the world is windy and waste and wide:
The days of the roses have long since fled,
And the scarlet flower of love has died.

Once thought I your lips with unperishing kisses

For peter Pan

Spring came carolling through the land,
Roses and laughter on every hand;
But I was gazing with steadfast eye
Where Christ was nailed on high.

Hawthorn blossoms were white and gay,
Promise of fruit in the laden spray —
Only the tree of the Cross bare naught
Save the ruin that death had wrought!

Spring passed on, and a breath of bloom
Swept through the casement, filled the room.

This is my singing season, and the dearth
Of music ended; I am pregnant thus
With sound and colour, and melodious
Mine unborn poems clamour after birth.
Perchance, arising from the tuneless earth
To bring sweet gifts of cadence unto us,
Some vocal brother to Theocritus
Inspires my lips with his diviner worth.

Or yet, some ghostly elder singer's breath
Is floating to me, and strange voices ring
On my soul's ear with sound that quickeneth:
" Build now or never, " say they, and they bring
The premonition of an early death

I stood upon the threshold; musical
Reverberant footsteps ghostlike came and went,
And my lips trembled as magnificent
Before me rose a vision of that hall
Whereof great Milton is the mighty wall,
Shakespeare the dome with incense redolent,
Each latter singer precious ornament,
And Holy Writ the groundwork, bearing all.

" Lord, " sobbed I, " take Thy splendid gift of youth
For the one boon that I have craved so long:
Mould Thou my stammering accents and uncouth,
With awful music raise and make me strong;

Beyond the sea a land of heroes lies,
Of fairy heaths and rivers, mountains steep,
O'ergrown with vine — her memory I shall keep
Most dear, her heritage most dearly prize.
But lo, a lad, I left her, and mine eyes
Fell on the sea-girt mistress of the deep,
What time my boy's heart heard as in a sleep
The choral walls of rhythmic beauty rise.

O lyric England, thee I call mine own;
With lyre and lute and wreath I come to thee;
The realm is thine of song and of the sea,
And thy mouth's speech is heard from zone to zone: