This is the boast of the Empire Builder Who built not of mouldering clay: That the kingdom He built, not made by hands, Shall never pass away! The mind cannot measure its boundaries, All Space is its outer gate: It is broader than ever a man conceived And more durable than Fate. This is the Empire our brother built, In His little hour of Earth, Thro’ the spirit’s travail of righteous deeds And the spirit’s glad rebirth. He had silenced the boast of the Empire Builder, With his gold and wasted lands, By his deathless kingdom of golden deeds And of things not made by hands. This is the kingdom our brother built: It is good: it hath sufficed;-- For who can measure the glory he keeps With our Elder Brother, Christ? THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS BY JOHN JEROME ROONEY A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here’s to the Captain bold, And never forget the Commodore’s debt when the deeds of might are told! They stand to the deck through the battle’s wreck when the great shells roar and screech-- And never they fear when the foe is near to practice what they preach: But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia’s true-blue sons, The men below who batter the foe--the men behind the guns! Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more, When, with more than enough of the “green-backed stuff,” they start for their leave-o’-shore; And you’d think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce “mustache” to eat-- Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys--the lads who serve the guns. But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on, Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of “Yank” and “Don,” Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell; Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns, You’ll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind the guns! Oh, well they know the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death, And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith! The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil, And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil-- But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns! A THOUGHT FROM CARDINAL NEWMAN[A] BY MATTHEW RUSSELL, S. J.