In mystic, ancient 1889, Wilson with pure learning was allied. Roosevelt gave forth a chirping sound. Stanley found old Emin and his train. Stout explorers sought the pole in vain. To dream of flying proved a man insane. The newly rich were bathing in champagne. Van Bibber Davis, at a single bound Displayed himself, and simpering glory found. John J. Ingalls, like a lonely crane Swore and swore, and stalked the Kansas plain. The Cronin murder was the ages’ stain. Johnstown was flooded, and the whole world cried. We heard not of Louvain nor of Lorraine, Or a million heroes for their freedom slain. Of Armageddon and the world’s birth-pain-- The League of Nations, and the world one posy. We _thought_ the world would loaf and sprawl and mosey. The gods of Yap and Swat were sweetly dozy. We _thought_ the far off gods of Chow had died. The mocking bird was singing in the lane.... Yet ... “East side, west side, all around the town The tots sang: ‘Ring a rosie’ ‘LONDON BRIDGE IS FALLING DOWN.’” And ... John L. Sullivan knocked out Jake Kilrain. BRYAN, BRYAN, BRYAN, BRYAN _The Campaign of Eighteen Ninety-six, as Viewed at the Time by a Sixteen Year Old, etc._ I In a nation of one hundred fine, mob-hearted, lynching, relenting, repenting millions, There are plenty of sweeping, swinging, stinging, gorgeous things to shout about, And knock your old blue devils out. I brag and chant of Bryan, Bryan, Bryan, Candidate for president who sketched a silver Zion, The one American Poet who could sing out doors. He brought in tides of wonder, of unprecedented splendor, Wild roses from the plains, that made hearts tender, All the funny circus silks Of politics unfurled, Bartlett pears of romance that were honey at the cores, And torchlights down the street, to the end of the world. There were truths eternal in the gab and tittle-tattle. There were real heads broken in the fustian and the rattle. There were real lines drawn: Not the silver and the gold, But Nebraska’s cry went eastward against the dour and old, The mean and cold. It was eighteen ninety-six, and I was just sixteen And Altgeld ruled in Springfield, Illinois, When there came from the sunset Nebraska’s shout of joy:-- In a coat like a deacon, in a black Stetson hat He scourged the elephant plutocrats With barbed wire from the Platte. The scales dropped from their mighty eyes. They saw that summer’s noon A tribe of wonders coming To a marching tune.