A NOON SONG

  There are songs for the morning and songs
     for the night,
   For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;
  But who will give praise to the fulness of light,
    And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
       Oh, the high noon, and the clear noon,
         The noon with golden crest;
        When the sky burns, and the sun turns
         With his face to the way of the west!

  How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength;
    How slowly he crept as the morning wore by;
  Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length
    To the height of his throne in the blue summer
          sky.
        Oh, the long toil, and the slow toil,
          The toil that may not rest,
        Till the sun looks down from his journey's
            crown,
          To the wonderful way of the west!

AN AMERICAN IN EUROPE

  'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up
      and down
  Among the famous palaces and cities of renown,
  To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of
      the kings,—
  But now I think I've had enough of antiquated
      things.

    So it's home again, and home again, America for
      me I
    My heart is turning home again, and there I long to
      be,
    In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean
      bars,
    Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full
      of stars.

  Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in
      the air;
  And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in
      her hair;
  And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great
      to study Rome;
  But when it comes to living there is no place like
      home.

  I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions
      drilled;
  I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing
      fountains filled;
  But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble
      for a day
  In the friendly western woodland where Nature
      has her way!

  I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something
      seems to lack:
  The Past is too much with her, and the people
      looking back.
  But the glory of the Present is to make the
      Future free,—
  We love our land for what she is and what she
      is to be.

    Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for
      me I
    I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the
      rotting sea.
    To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the
      ocean bars,
    Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full
      of stars.

THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS

  Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings
      of America,
  Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of
      royal splendour;
  These are the homes that were built by the brave
      beginners of a nation,
  They are simple enough to be great, and full of
      a friendly dignity.

  I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New
      England valleys,
  Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feather-
      ing over them:
  Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-
      fashioned flowers,
  A fan-light above the door, and little square panes
      in the windows,
  The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and
      hickory ready for winter,
  The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with
      household relics,—
  All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of
      self-reliance.

  I love the look of the shingled houses that front
      the ocean;
  Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides
      are weather-beaten;
  Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full
      of patience and courage.
  They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is
      something indomitable about them:
  Pacing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand
      undaunted,
  While the thin blue line of smoke from the
      square-built chimney rises,
  Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth
      and a cradle.

  I love the stately southern mansions with their
      tall white columns,
  They look through avenues of trees, over fields
      where the cotton is growing;
  I can see the flutter of white frocks along their
      shady porches,
  Music and laughter float from the windows, the
      yards are full of hounds and horses.
  They have all ridden away, yet the houses have
      not forgotten,
  They are proud of their name and place, and
      their doors are always open,
  For the thing they remember best is the pride
      of their ancient hospitality.

  In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil
      Quaker dwellings,
  With their demure brick faces and immaculate
      white-stone doorsteps;
  And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their
      high stoops and iron railings,
  (I can see their little brass knobs shining in the
      morning sunlight);
  And the solid houses of the descendants of the
      Puritans,
  Fronting the street with their narrow doors and
      dormer-windows;
  And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions
      of Charleston,
  Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses
      and magnolias.

  Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my
      eyes they are beautiful;
  For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts
      that have made the nation;
  The glory and strength of America came from
      her ancestral dwellings.

FRANCIS MAKEMIE

(Presbyter of Christ in America, 1683-1708)

  To thee, plain hero of a rugged race,
    We bring the meed of praise too long delayed!
    Thy fearless word and faithful work have made
  For God's Republic firmer path and place
  In this New World: thou hast proclaimed the
        grace
    And power of Christ in many a forest glade,
    Teaching the truth that leaves men unafraid
  Of frowning tyranny or death's dark face.

  Oh, who can tell how much we owe to thee,
    Makemie, and to labour such as thine,
    For all that makes America the shrine
  Of faith untrammeled and of conscience free?
  Stand here, grey stone, and consecrate the sod
  Where rests this brave Scotch-Irish man of God!

NATIONAL MONUMENTS

  Count not the cost of honour to the dead!
    The tribute that a mighty nation pays
    To those who loved her well in former days