Here, in the midnight of the solemn wood, He heard a roar as of a mighty wind,-- The onward rush of waters unconfined Trampling in legions thro’ the solitude. Then lo! before him swept the conquering flood, Free as the freedom of the truth-strong mind Which hills of Doubt could neither hide nor bind, Which, all in vain, the valley mounds withstood! With glowing eye he saw the prancing tide With yellow mane rush onward thro’ the night Into the vastness he had never trod: Nor dreamt of conquest of that kingdom wide As down the flood his spirit took its flight Seeking the long-lost children of his God! THE EMPIRE BUILDER (On the death of a Catholic gentleman) BY JOHN JEROME ROONEY I This is the song of the Empire Builder, Who out of the ends of the earth, Thro’ travail of war and of carnage Brings strange, new realms to birth. This is the boast of the Empire Builder: Give heed to the deeds of his hands And scorn thou not the glory he hath In his gold and his wasted lands. He hath counted his neighbors’ cattle With the cold, gray eye of greed: He hath marked for his own the fields of wheat Where he never had sown the seed: The vine-clad cot by the hillside, Where the farmer’s children play,-- “This shall fit in my plan,” he said; “What use for such as they?” And so, in the dusk of evening, He brought his arméd men, And where had shone the clustering grapes There stretched a waste again. Homeless, the children wandered Thro’ the fields their father won: No more shall they feel his clasp and kiss-- Aye, never beneath the sun. Vex, vex not the Empire Builder, Nor babble of Mercy’s shield; Hath he not his vaster issue-- The linking of field to field? Hath he not noted the boundary That lies ’twixt “mine and thine”? Hath he not said, “’Twere better for thee If thine henceforth be mine”? And so doth the Empire Builder, From out of the ends of the earth, Thro’ travail of war and of carnage Bring strange, new realms to birth-- Realms builded on broken hearthstones, The triumph of Rapine’s hour-- That one may boast in the halls of Fame And sit in the seats of Power! II This is the song of the Empire Builder, Who built not of wasted lands, But who builded a kingdom of golden deeds And of things not made by hands! The fields of the spirit were his to roam, The paths where the love-flowers grew: He felt the breath of the spirits’ spring In every wind that blew: It came not laden with dying groans And homeless orphans’ cries: It blew from the mountains of the Lord And the fields of Paradise.