  AD BELLONAMMOTHER of Swords! while the river runs, Or the steamer seeks the sea; While the North wind blows from the chill of snows, And the South from the scented Key, So long, so long will live the song That thy lilting bugles sing, As the warship rides down the deep sea tides, Where the green foams white on her armored sides, And the wind'ard gun-shields ring. There be they who sing that the song will cease, The song that thy sons began; That the good old World will loll in peace, In the bond of the Peace of Man. They sing,—and clear 'twixt the notes we hear The clink of the warrior's trade, And the thund'rous call where the hammers fall, And the steam-power shrieks o'er the factory wall, Where the rifled guns are made. The Breath of the Lord may rule the sea, And the Lies of Men the land; And the craft of the tongue may hold in fee The strength of the heavy hand; But though tongues may quicken and strength may sicken, And hands grow soft and small, Year upon year the day draws near Of the unsheathed sword and the shaken spear, That shall make amends for all. When the Armageddon sunrise breaks On the iron-clads' smoking line, When the last dawn lights on that last of fights Where the strength of man shall shine, One great grim day of the world at play, With bugle and tuck of drum, While the red drops beat on the shattered fleet, Till the red sun sinks on the last defeat, Then—let the Millennium come! UNDER the ward of the Polar Star, Where the great auroras snap and blaze, There are crashing blows on the icy bar That is set at the end of the open ways. There are axes ringing across the crest, The sluices shackle the streams that rolled, As the gamesters gather from East and West,— The men that follow the Trail of Gold. A black line crawls o'er the glacier's face, Where the worn pack-horses scrape and slide; The muskeg swallows and leaves no trace, The boats go down in the snow-swelled tide. Blood and bones on the snow and sod, From the caÑons black to the barrens gray, Blaze the trail that the vanguard trod, That those who follow may find the way. There are strange ships west of the lonely isles Where the red volcanoes burn and freeze; There's a fading wake o'er the misty miles, There are smokes that trouble the Smoky Seas. There are corpses swept from the sinking hull, As the steamer dips to the swelling gale, For the rising shark and the wheeling gull That hunt the sea on the Golden Trail. The storm sweeps out from its Polar den, Till the air grows dense with the cutting snow; The North makes mock of the sons of men, As the diggers lie in the drifts below. The workers lie where the last work ceased, The strong men scatter the lifeless wold; And the tall wolves howl at the gathered feast— The hounds that hunt on the Scent of Gold. |
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