Collected Works (Vol. I)

138 AN APPEAL TO THE AMERICAN REPUBLIC Priestcraft and tyranny in this defeat Shake, and the walls of hell with fear re- sound ; The sun laughs gladlier on the heavier wheat, Because the fates must weave a winding- sheet At last for Fear. Who will deliver. brake, Lone wood, and sleepy lake, Are peopled with bright shapes that sing for freedom’s sale. Deliverers are found Mountain, stream, and Rocks, and pale fountains, and tall trees that quiver, And all the clouds that deck the sunset sky Move like the music of a mighty river Where ripples break, and rapids gleam and shiver, And calm rebuilds her empire by-and- by. For joy of this alliance all the earth Forgets her day of dearth, In her new birth forgets, and maddens into mirth, The stars swing censers of pale gold to God, Whose incense is the love-song of the free; Angels with mercy and with beauty shod Move in the mazes of an Eden, trod Not by the seemly spirits of the sea, But by brave men built wholly of desire And freedom’s mystic fire, To clothe its habitants with glorious attire. Clasp hands, O fair republic of the west, And leave the kingdoms to their sudden fate. With new-born love and ardour unrepressed, Let Lethe steep in its unquiet rest The old years whose red hands have made us great. O fair republic, strong and swift, unbind The shackles of thy mind: More than our kin ye are; henceforth not less than kind. Bind on the splendid sandals, and unloose The burning horses, and fling widethe reins ! From cold Archangel unto Syracuse Iurope shall see and tremble and ask truce, And new blood pour through Asia’s wasted veins. Our Empire from Guiana to Hong Kong, In your new love made strong, Shall last while earth is glad because of sun and song. And QO! ye desert places of the sea, Ye plains and mountains rugged with the wind, And all ye hollow caverns whence there flee Foam-heads and blusterous waves, give ear to me, And O thou thunder, follow hard behind ! O womb of night, reverberate these chords, Ye clouds, ye stormy lords, With clamour and shrill voice as of ten thousand swords. Swords that clang sharp on heaven’s anvil, white With heat of God’s own forehead that be- holds The building broken that is made of might, Nor builded firm on justice’ iron height, Nor is not cast in mercy’s silver mould :— Swords sharp to slay, when vengeance must its fill Drink of the bloody rill Wherein men lave their mouths, arise and smite and kill. Listen, all lands, and wonder! For the night Rolls back her beaten iron, and the day Breaks, and the passionate heralds of the light, Armoured with love for panoply of might, Rush on the portals of the falling way. The lamps of heaven are dim while swords strike fire From rocks whose crests higher :— At their assault hell’s dogs gasp, totter, and expire. burn