Means more than gratitude for glories fled;
  For every noble man that she hath bred,
    Lives in the bronze and marble that we raise,
    Immortalized by art's immortal praise,
  To lead our sons as he our fathers led.

  These monuments of manhood strong and high
    Do more than forts or battle-ships to keep
  Our dear-bought liberty. They fortify
    The heart of youth with valour wise and deep;
  They build eternal bulwarks, and command
  Eternal strength to guard our native land.

IN PRAISE OF POETS

MOTHER EARTH

  Mother of all the high-strung poets and
      singers departed,
  Mother of all the grass that weaves over their
      graves the glory of the field,
  Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-
      bosomed, patient, impassive,
  Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sor-
      rows!
  Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth
      below thy breast,
  Issued in some Strange way, thou lying motion-
      less, voiceless,
  All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate,
      yearning,
  Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth
      returning.

  Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time
      to these measures,
  Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly,
      irresistibly
  Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down,
      down
  Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in
      the sand.

  But the souls of the singers have entered into
      the songs that revealed them,—
  Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and
      grief and love and longing:
  Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they
      echo above thee:
  Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those
      that love thee?

  Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by
      some old enchantment
  Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speech-
      less,
  Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy
      Lord and Lover
  Working within thee awakened the man-child to
      breathe thy secret.
  All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flow-
      ing waters
  Are but enchanted forms to embody the life of
      the spirit;
  Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and
      meadow and ocean,
  Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and
      emotion.

MILTON

I

  Lover of beauty, walking on the height
       Of pure philosophy and tranquil song;
       Born to behold the visions that belong
  To those who dwell in melody and light;
  Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright!
    What drew thee down to join the Roundhead
        throng
    Of iron-sided warriors, rude and strong,
  Fighting for freedom in a world half night?

  Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou,
    Above all beauty bright, all music clear:
  To thee she bared her bosom and her brow,
    Breathing her virgin promise in thine ear,
  And bound thee to her with a double vow,—
    Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier!

II

  The cause, the cause for which thy soul resigned
    Her singing robes to battle on the plain,
    Was won, O poet, and was lost again;
  And lost the labour of thy lonely mind
  On weary tasks of prose. What wilt thou find
    To comfort thee for all the toil and pain?
    What solace, now thy sacrifice is vain
  And thou art left forsaken, poor, and blind?

  Like organ-music comes the deep reply:
    "The cause of truth looks lost, but shall be
        won.
  For God hath given to mine inward eye
    Vision of England soaring to the sun.
  And granted me great peace before I die,
    In thoughts of lowly duty bravely done."

III

  O bend again above thine organ-board,
    Thou blind old poet longing for repose!
    Thy Master claims thy service not with those
  Who only stand and wait for his reward.
  He pours the heavenly gift of song restored
    Into thy breast, and bids thee nobly close
    A noble life, with poetry that flows
  In mighty music of the major chord.

  Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic
        strain,
    Surpassing all thy youthful lyric grace,
  To sing of Paradise? Ah, not in vain
    The griefs that won at Dante's side thy place,
  And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain,
    The loftiest poet of the Saxon race!

WORDSWORTH

  Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls
        Among the mountains, and thy song is fed
        By living springs far up the watershed;
  No whirling flood nor parching drought controls
  The crystal current; even on the shoals
    It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed
    Darkens below mysterious cliffs of dread,
  Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls.

  But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress
    Of passion, and hast trod despair's dry ground
      Beneath black thoughts that wither and de-
          stroy.
  Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness
    Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found
      The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy.

KEATS

  The melancholy gift Aurora gained
       From Jove, that her sad lover should not
          see
    The face of death, no goddess asked for thee,
  My Keats! But when the crimson blood-drop
        stained
  Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained,—
    Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy!
    And then,—a shadow fell on Italy:
  Thy star went down before its brightness waned.

  Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed:
    Never to feel the pain of growing old,
      Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth,
  But with the ardent lips that music kissed
    To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew
        cold,
      Become the Poet of Immortal Youth.

SHELLEY

  Knight-errant of the Never-ending
      Quest,
    And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire;
    For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre
  To some unearthly music, and possessed
  With painful passionate longing to invest
    The golden dream of Love's immortal fire
    In mortal robes of beautiful attire,
  And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast!

  What wonder, Shelley, if the restless wave
    Should claim thee and the leaping flame con-
        sume
      Thy drifted form on Viareggio's beach?
  Fate to thy body gave a fitting grave,