Washington’s Monument, February, 1885
Ah, not this marble, dead and cold: Far from its base and shaft expanding—the round zones circling, comprehending, Thou, Washington, art all the world’s, the continents’ entire—not yours alone, America, Europe’s as well, in every part, castle of lord or laborer’s cot, Or frozen North, or sultry South—the African’s—the Arab’s in his tent, Old Asia’s there with venerable smile, seated amid her ruins; (Greets the antique the hero new? ’tis but the same—the heir legitimate, continued ever, The indomitable heart and arm—proofs of the never-broken line, Courage, alertness, patience, faith, the same—e’en in defeat defeated not, the same:) Wherever sails a ship, or house is built on land, or day or night, Through teeming cities’ streets, indoors or out, factories or farms, Now, or to come, or past—where patriot wills existed or exist, Wherever Freedom, pois’d by Toleration, sway’d by Law, Stands or is rising thy true monument.
Of That Blithe Throat of Thine
(More than eighty-three degrees north—about a good day’s steaming distance to the Pole by one of our fast oceaners in clear water—Greely the explorer heard the song of a single snow-bird merrily sounding over the desolation.)
Of that blithe throat of thine from arctic bleak and blank, I’ll mind the lesson, solitary bird—let me too welcome chilling drifts, E’en the profoundest chill, as now—a torpid pulse, a brain unnerv’d, Old age land-lock’d within its winter bay—(cold, cold, O cold!) These snowy hairs, my feeble arm, my frozen feet, For them thy faith, thy rule I take, and grave it to the last; Not summer’s zones alone—not chants of youth, or south’s warm tides alone, But held by sluggish floes, pack’d in the northern ice, the cumulus of years, These with gay heart I also sing.