“David waits,” the prophet answers, “In a black, notorious den, In a cave upon the border, With four hundred outlaw men. “He is fair and loved of women, Mighty hearted, born to sing: Thieving, weeping, erring, praying, Radiant, royal rebel-king. “He will come with harp and psaltry, Quell his troop of convict swine, Quell his mad-dog roaring rascals, Witching them with tunes divine. “They will ram the walls of Zion, They will win us Salem hill, All for David, shepherd David, Singing like a mountain rill.” HAIL TO THE SONS OF ROOSEVELT “_Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness._”--_Samson’s riddle._ There is no name for brother Like the name of Jonathan The son of Saul. And so we greet you all: The sons of Roosevelt-- The sons of Saul. Four brother Jonathans went out to battle. Let every Yankee poet sing their praise Through all the days-- What David sang of Saul And Jonathan, beloved more than all. God grant such sons, begot of our young men, To make each generation glad again. Let sons of Saul be springing up again: Out of the eater, fire and power again. From the lost lion, honey for all men. I hear the sacred Rocky Mountains call, I hear the Mississippi Jordan call: “_Stand up, America, and praise them all, Living and dead, the fine young sons of Saul!_” THE SPACIOUS DAYS OF ROOSEVELT These were the spacious days of Roosevelt. Would that among you chiefs like him arose To win the wrath of our united foes, To chain King Mammon in the donjon-keep, To rouse our godly citizens that sleep Till as one soul, we shout up to the sun The battle-yell of freedom and the right-- “Lord, let good men unite.” Nay, I would have you lonely and despised. Statesmen whom only statesmen understand, Artists whom only artists can command, Sages whom all but sages scorn, whose fame Dies down in lies, in synonyms for shame With the best populace beneath the sun. God give us tasks that martyrs can revere, Still too much hated to be whispered here. Would we might drink, with knowledge high and kind The hemlock cup of Socrates the king, Knowing right well we know not anything, With full life done, bowing before the law, Binding young thinkers’ hearts with loyal awe, And fealty fixed as the ever-enduring sun-- God let us live, seeking the highest light, God help us die aright. Nay, I would have you grand, and still forgotten, Hid like the stars at noon, as he who set The Egyptian magic of man’s alphabet; Or that far Coptic, first to dream in pain That dauntless souls cannot by death be slain-- Conquering for all men then, the fearful grave. God keep us hid, yet vaster far than death. God help us to be brave. FIFTH SECTION RHYMES OF THE MIDDLE WEST AND SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS WHEN THE MISSISSIPPI FLOWED IN INDIANA