5 The waters know their own, and draw Unto the soul of pure delight. The stars come nightly to the sky; The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, 10 155 HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT Hats off! AMERICA, 1863 The Flag Goes By Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, The flag is passing by! Blue and crimson and white it shines, Hats off! The colors before us fly; But more than the flag is passing by. THE FLAG GOES BY Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, Fought to make and to save the State: Weary marches and sinking ships; Cheers of victory on dying lips; Days of plenty and years of peace; March of a strong land's swift increase; Equal justice, right and law, Stately honor and reverend awe; Sign of a nation, great and strong all Live in the colors to stand or fall. Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; The flag is passing by! 87 5 10 15 10 The birds have hid, the winds are low, No bee on the clover, The heavy beetle spreads her wings The toad has the road, the cricket sings: No bee on the clover, The day is over, II It is that pale, delaying hour When nature closes like a flower, 15 And on the spirit lies, The silence of the earth and skies. 1 From "Poems," published by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., Boston. 89 EVENING SONGS The world has thoughts she will not own When shade and dream with night have flown; Makes golden guesses what they are. III Now is Light, sweet mother, down the west, She took him up, all tired with play, And fondly bore him far away. While he sleeps, one wanders in his stead, Leaving behind low, rippling laughter. IV Behind the hilltop drops the sun, The bird is silent overhead, Below the beast has laid him down; The lonely steeple guards the town. 15 220 The south wind feels its amorous course To cloistered sweet in thickets found; And stir 'twixt silence and a sound. 5 BLISS CARMAN CANADA, 1861 A Vagabond Song1 There is something in the Autumn that is native to my blood Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry 10 Of bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills. There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; 15 When from every hill of fame She calls and calls each vagabond by name. 1 From "Songs from Vagabondia," by Bliss Carman. Used by the courteous permission of the author and the publishers, Messrs. Small, Maynard, & Co. |