The Sword of Gideon, Sword of God Be with ye, Boers. Brave men of peace Ye hewed the path, ye brake the sod, Ye fed white flocks of fat increase Where Saxon foot had never trod; Where Saxon foot unto this day Had measured not, had never known Had ye not bravely led the way And made such happy homes your own. I think God’s house must be such home. The priestess Mother, choristers Who spin and weave nor care to roam Beyond this white God’s house of hers, But spinning sing and spin again. I think such silent shepherd men Most like that few the prophet sings-- Most like that few stout Abram drew Triumphant o’er the slaughtered Kings. Defend God’s house! Let fall the crook. Draw forth the plowshare from the sod And trust, as in the Holy Book, The Sword of Gideon and of God; God and the right! Enough to fight A million regiments of wrong. Defend! Nor count what comes of it. God’s battle bides not with the strong; And pride must fall. Lo, it is writ! Great England’s Gold! how stanch she fares Fame’s wine cup pressing her proud lips-- Her checkerboard of battle squares Rimmed round by steel-built battleships! And yet meanwhiles ten thousand miles She seeks ye out. Well, welcome her! Give her such welcome with such will As Boston gave in battle’s whir That red, dread day at Bunker Hill. SAN FRANCISCO, September, 1899. TO YE FIGHTING LORDS OF LONDON TOWN. CHRISTMAS MORNING, 1899. “_The equipment of the Maine hospital ship by our American cousins warrants us in saying at least that they wish us well._” We wish you well in all that’s well, Would bind your wounds, would clothe, would feed-- Lay flowers where your brave men fell In desert lands, exalt each deed Of sacrifice; would beg to lay White lilies by the gray hearthstone Where, bowed in black this Christmas day, She wails her brave dead far away And weeps, so more than all alone: Weeps while the chime, the chilly chime, Drops on her heart, drops all the time As one might drop a stone. But you, ye lords and gentlemen High throned, safe housed at home, fat fed, When ye say we approve ye, when Ye say this blood so bravely shed Is shed with our consent, take care, Lest Truth may take ye unaware; Lest Truth be heard despite these chimes. This hearthstone, brother’s blood that cries To God is Freedom’s blood. Take care Lest all sweet earth these piteous times Not only hate ye for your crimes, But scorn ye for your lies! We would forgive could we forget: We could forget all wrongs we knew Had ye stayed hand some little yet-- Left to their own that farmer few So like ourselves that fateful hour Ye forced our farmers from the plow To grapple with your tenfold power. They guessed your greed, we know it now; And now we ward ye from this hour! Now, well awake no more we sleep, But keep and keep and ever keep To Freedom’s high watchtower.