This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting

on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower,

more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an entertainment

on the evening of Washington's Birthday.

Dawn this morning burned all red

Watching them in wonder.

There I saw our spangled flag

Divide the clouds asunder.

Then there followed Washington.

Ah, he rode from glory,

Cold and mighty as his name

And stern as Freedom's story.

Unsubdued by burning dawn

Led his continentals.

Vast they were, and strange to see

In gray old regimentals: --

Marching still with bleeding feet,

Bleeding feet and jesting --

Marching from the judgment throne

With energy unresting.

How their merry quickstep played --

Silver, sharp, sonorous,

Piercing through with prophecy

The demons' rumbling chorus --

Behold the ancient powers of sin

And slavery before them! --

Sworn to stop the glorious dawn,

The pit-black clouds hung o'er them.

Plagues that rose to blast the day

Fiend and tiger faces,

Monsters plotting bloodshed for

The patient toiling races.

Round the dawn their cannon raged,

Hurling bolts of thunder,

Yet before our spangled flag

Their host was cut asunder.

Like a mist they fled away. . . .

Ended wrath and roaring.

Still our restless soldier-host

From East to West went pouring.

High beside the sun of noon

They bore our banner splendid.

All its days of stain and shame

And heaviness were ended.

Men were swelling now the throng

From great and lowly station --

Valiant citizens to-day

Of every tribe and nation.

Not till night their rear-guard came,

Down the west went marching,

And left behind the sunset-rays

In beauty overarching.

War-god banners lead us still,

Rob, enslave and harry

Let us rather choose to-day

The flag the angels carry --

Flag we love, but brighter far --

Soul of it made splendid:

Let its days of stain and shame

And heaviness be ended.

Let its fifes fill all the sky,

Redeemed souls marching after,

Hills and mountains shake with song,

While seas roll on in laughter.

The Black Hawk War of the Artists

Written for Lorado Taft's Statue of Black Hawk at Oregon, Illinois

To be given in the manner of the Indian Oration and the Indian War-Cry.

Hawk of the Rocks,

Yours is our cause to-day.

Watching your foes

Here in our war array,

Young men we stand,

Wolves of the West at bay.

*Power, power for war

Comes from these trees divine;

Power from the boughs,

Boughs where the dew-beads shine,

Power from the cones --

Yea, from the breath of the pine!*

Power to restore

All that the white hand mars.

See the dead east

Crushed with the iron cars --

Chimneys black

Blinding the sun and stars!

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