You sit and quarrel all your life,
And blame the moving world at large:
You fail to enter in the strife,
To sail in fortune's happy barge.

Get up my man and do the " stuff "
That leads to blazing glory's fame:
Hold on, and be like good Macduff,
And damn the man who'd foil you' name.

Let the haughty smile, the low defame,
The heartless worldling mock;
I thank my God my fathers came
Of the good old Pilgrim stock!

I thank my God, through this heart bounds
Blood from that hero band;
That my sire first opened his young eyes
Where Northern plains expand;
That my mother's first breath was the air
Of Putnam's glorious land!

Our own brave Putnam! worthy thou

The Rhodesian East Wind

I

Injasi, sea-born, sweeps the heat away;
West, with the westering sun, low-voiced she flies
Waking cool airs to rouse the lazy day,
Wafting the grass-smoke from the laden skies.

Injasi of the ocean cools the plains,
And clears the valleys where the fevers lurk,
And brings new vigour as the mid-heat wanes,
Where, on the shaft-sunk slopes, the White Men work.

Injasi from the Eastward brings the breeze
That billows-out the long grass on the hills,

I'm not as educated, sir, as thee,
But God Almighty's sun I see,
And you may treat me very hard for this,
But I His Holy Hand shall kiss.
I have no nation, none as great as yours
That kills and grabs beyond the shores;
I have no selfish laws to keep men down
And then upon them ever frown.
You have the wealth of land and sea and sky,
You boast as if you'd never die:
How great you are, my mighty earthly king,
So great that I must tribute bring!
But, sir, one day you'll surely be in Hell,
And then a story I will tell;

Yes, all is well. The cloud hath passed away
That hung above our friendship's path awhile;
For truth hath pierced it with a golden ray,
And love's own sunshine bathed it in a smile.

Yes, all is well, my brother. See, I place
My hand upon my late tumultuous heart,
And its soft pulses speak the calm of peace,
Which sweetest is just after storms depart.

Now let our friendship flow, like gentle river,
With no dark stream its silver waves to stain;
And, O, let no cold wintry iceberg ever
Come floating down its summer tide again!

The Church of God on Earth to-day
Is scandal of the King;
It teaches men to sing and pray,
For golden wealth to bring.
It sanctifies the cause of war,
And winks at evil deeds;
It sends its — saints — and men, afar,
To preach the victor's creeds.
The Blacks and Weaker Sets of Men
Are robbed and killed galore;
The Church looks o'er Commandments ten,
As tyrants kill some more.
The lands that God gave men to dwell
Are taken by the sword
As preachers go, their creeds to sell,
To those who heed their word.

I heard a cry from underneath,
It was the death pang of a slave;
A white man's sword was from its sheath,
And he to all the world was brave.

He slew the blackman for his wealth,
Although the victim had no arms;
At home his friends all drink his health
For deeds of courage he performs.

This is the boasted pride of men
Who roam the world for selfish gain:
The earth shall be the Devil's den,
So long as evil spirits reign.

The Cinemas delight the crowd
In deeds of hellish human crime;
Of this the nations now are proud,

Old Europe is a camp of armed men,
Of creatures cold and blue;
They live to kill, and yet pretend
They're friends to me and you.

America no better off,
Is watching Asia, too,
And all, combined, are mad,
Because of love untrue.

The human fellowship in God
Is lost to Europe's blood,
For man is but an angry beast,
Who spoils, like Noah's flood.

The Light of all the world must come,
To save the human race,
For Europe is a den of wolves,
Unfit to see God's face.

The World is Hell as man shows it;
The creatures are of steel;
To live is of superior wit,
To fail is thus to feel.

No smile is genuine my friend,
Its all a pleasing lie;
Be ever ready to defend
Or shape your mind to die.

FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTÆUS .

Shake off slumber — Men, arise!
Dare you meet the scorner's eyes?
War is safety, peace is fear,
Life is only in the spear.
Though ye perish, let the dart
Quiver in the slayer's heart!
Falling, dying, battle still, —
Glory 's in the warrior-will!
Death must strike us soon or late,
'T is the stern decree of fate:
Heroes, onwards, — press the targe
Close to the burning heart, and charge!
Push the spear! — Not Jove could save
His offspring from the common grave: