The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The tang and odor of the primal things— The rectitude and patience of the rocks; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The loving-kindness of the wayside well; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking weed As to the great oak flaring to the wind— To the grave’s low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky. And so he came. From prairie cabin up to Capitol, One fair Ideal led our chieftain on. Forevermore he burned to do his deed With the fine stroke and gesture of a king. He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man. So came the Captain with the mighty heart: And when the step of Earthquake shook the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold, He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again The rafters of the Home. He held his place— Held the long purpose like a growing tree— Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a kingly cedar green with boughs Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. In a Corn-field Who was it passed me, his body a-throbbing? Who but Sir Humblebee home from his robbing! What is that crackle of chariots whirling? ‘Tis Cricket Achilles where green smoke is curling. And who is it comes on the bloom-ocean steering? Bold Dragonfly Cortez, a-tacking and veering! The Sower _Written after seeing Millet’s painting with this title_ Soon will the lonesome cricket by the stone Begin to hush the night; and lightly blown Field fragrances will fill the fading blue— Old furrow-scents that ancient Eden knew. Soon in the upper twilight will be heard The winging whisper of a homing bird. Who is it coming on the slant brown slope, Touched by the twilight and her mournful hope— Coming with hero step, with rhythmic swing, Where all the bodily motions weave and sing? The grief of the ground is in him, yet the power Of Earth to hide the furrow with the flower.