“For Freedom’s battles once begun,
Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, are ever won.”
—BYRON.
The Sword of Gideon, Sword of God
Be with ye, Boers. Brave men of peace
Ye hewed the path, ye brake the sod,
Ye fed white flocks of fat increase
Where Saxon foot had never trod;
Where Saxon foot unto this day
Had measured not, had never known
Had ye not bravely led the way
And made such happy homes your own.
I think God’s house must be such home.
The priestess Mother, choristers
Who spin and weave nor care to roam
Beyond this white God’s house of hers,
But spinning sing and spin again.
I think such silent shepherd men
Most like that few the prophet sings—
Most like that few stout Abram drew
Triumphant o’er the slaughtered Kings.
Defend God’s house! Let fall the crook.
Draw forth the plowshare from the sod
And trust, as in the Holy Book,
The Sword of Gideon and of God;
God and the right! Enough to fight
A million regiments of wrong.
Defend! Nor count what comes of it.
God’s battle bides not with the strong;
And pride must fall. Lo, it is writ!
Great England’s Gold! how stanch she fares
Fame’s wine cup pressing her proud lips—
Her checkerboard of battle squares
Rimmed round by steel-built battleships!
And yet meanwhiles ten thousand miles
She seeks ye out. Well, welcome her!
Give her such welcome with such will
As Boston gave in battle’s whir
That red, dread day at Bunker Hill.
SAN FRANCISCO, September, 1899.