Wherever the white man’s feet have trod (Oh far does the white man stray) A bold road rifles the virginal sod, And the forest wakes out of its dream of God, To yield him the right of way. For this is the law: _By the power of thought_, _For worse_, _or for better_, _are miracles wrought_. Wherever the white man’s pathway leads, (Far, far has that pathway gone) The Earth is littered with broken creeds— And alway the dark man’s tent recedes, And the white man pushes on. For this is the law: _Be it good or ill_, _All things must yield to the stronger will_. Wherever the white man’s light is shed, (Oh far has that light been thrown) Though Nature has suffered and beauty bled, Yet the goal of the race has been thrust ahead, And the might of the race has grown. For this is the law: _Be it cruel or kind_, _The Universe sways to the power of mind_. A MOORISH MAID Above her veil a shrouded Moorish maid Showed melting eyes, as limpid as a lake; A brow untouched by care; a band of jetty hair, And nothing more. The all-concealing haik Fell to her high arched instep. At her side An old duenna walked; her withered face Half covered only, since no lingering grace Bespoke the beauty once her master’s pride. Above her veil, the Moorish maid beheld The modern world, in Paris-decked Algiers; Saw happy lad and lass, in love’s contentment pass, Or in sweet wholesome friendship, free from fears. She saw fair matrons, walking arm-in-arm With life-long lovers, time-endeared, and then She saw the ardent look in eyes of men, And thrilled and trembled with a vague alarm. Above her veil she saw the stuccoed court That led to dim secluded rooms within. She followed, dutiful, the dame unbeautiful, Who told her that the Christian world means sin. Some day, full soon, she would go forth a bride— Of one whose face she never had beheld. Something within her, wakened, and rebelled; She flung aside her veil, and cried, and cried. LINCOLN When God created this good world A few stupendous peaks were hurled From His strong hand, and they remain The wonder of the level plain. But these colossal heights are rare, While shifting sands are everywhere. So with the race. The centuries pass And nations fall like leaves of grass. They die, forgotten and unsung; While straight from God some souls are flung, To live immortal and sublime. So lives great Lincoln for all time. I KNOW NOT Death! I know not what room you are abiding in, But I will go my way, Rejoicing day by day, Nor will I flee or stay For fear I tread the path you may be hiding in.