To Foreign Lands 141 To Thee Old Cause 142 For You O Democracy 143 Thou Mother with Thy Equal Brood 144 What Best I See in Thee 153 As I Walk These Broad Majestic Days 154 The United States to Old World Critics 156 Years of the Modern 157 O Star of France 158 Thoughts 161 By Blue Ontario's Shore 164 EPILOGUE: Rise O Days from Your Fathomless Deeps 191 I POEMS OF WAR THICK-SPRINKLED BUNTING Thick-sprinkled bunting! flag of stars! Long yet your road, fateful flag--long yet your road, and lined with bloody death, For the prize I see at issue at last is the world, All its ships and shores I see interwoven with your threads greedy banner; Dream'd again the flags of kings, highest borne, to flaunt unrival'd? O hasten flag of man--O with sure and steady step, passing highest flags of kings, Walk supreme to the heavens mighty symbol--run up above them all, Flag of stars! thick-sprinkled bunting! BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! Through the windows--through doors--burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, Into the school where the scholar is studying; Leave not the bridegroom quiet--no happiness must he have now with his bride, Not the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, So fierce you whirr and pound you drums--so shrill you bugles blow. Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! Over the traffic of cities--over the rumble of wheels in the streets; Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, No bargainers' bargains by day--no brokers or speculators--would they continue? Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker, heavier drums--you bugles wilder blow. Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! Make no parley--stop for no expostulation, Mind not the timid--mind not the weeper or prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties, Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump O terrible drums--so loud you bugles blow. CITY OF SHIPS