Part 5 — CHAPTER V (continued 2)

From Santiago, spurning the morrow, Spain's ships come steaming, big with black sorrow: Over the ocean, first on our roster, Runs Richard Wainwright, glad on the Gloucester. Boast him, and toast him! Wainwright! The Gloucester! Great ships and gaunt ships, steel-clad and sable, Roll on resplendent, monsters of fable: Crash all our cannon, quick Maxims rattle. Red death and ruin rush through the battle; Red death and dread death Ravage and rattle. Speed on Spain's cruisers, towers of thunder: Calm rides the Gloucester, though the waves wonder; Morro roars at her, enemies looming On their wakes heave her, vast through the glooming; Thunders and wonders Speak from the glooming. Sped are Spain's cruisers; then 'mid the clangor Dart her destroyers, lurid with anger; Shouts Richard Wainwright, quivers the Gloucester: Where the Furor goes Wainwright has crossed her. Boast him, and toast him! Wainwright! The Gloucester! Wide to the westward El Furor flutters; Hid in bright vapors there Wainwright mutters; Under Socapa races the faster, Smiles at Spain's gunners, laughs at disaster; Aiming and flaming Faster and faster. Wide to the westward El Pluton plunges; At her with rapiers now Wainwright lunges! Swords of fierce scarlet, blades blue as lightning; Rapid guns snapping, little guns brightening; Four-pounders, six-pounders, Lunging like lightning. Done the destroyers, blazing and bursting; Berserker Wainwright rides to their worsting; Seethe the Pluton's sides, soon to exhaust her; Flames the Furor's deck, doomed by the Gloucester. Boast him, and toast him! Wainwright! The Gloucester! Where the Pluton lies lifts the red leven— Fire-clouds prodigious dash against Heaven; Where the Pluton lay void swells the ocean; Shattered and sunken, spent her devotion; Waves where wet graves were, Deep in the ocean. Shrieking toward Cuba, agonized, broken, El Furor's hasting, her fate bespoken; There in the shallows 'mid the white surges Her guns, deserted, moan out their dirges; Swelling and knelling Through the white surges. Wainwright in mercy does his endeavor: Some he shall rescue; more rest for ever— Say a prayer for them, one kindly Ave. Spain weeps her wounded, wails a lost navy; Fails them, bewails them, Says them an Ave. Off Santiago, when from beleaguer Rushed forth Cervera, daring and eager, Who stood Spain's onset? Who met and tossed her? Wainwright, the Maine's man, glad on the Gloucester! Boast him, and toast him! Wainwright! The Gloucester! Wallace Rice.

'Twixt clouded heights Spain hurls to doom Ships stanch and brave, Majestic, forth they flash and boom Upon the wave. El Morro raises eyes of hate Far out to sea, And speeds Cervera to his fate With cannonry. The Brooklyn o'er the deep espies His flame-wreathed side: She sets her banners on the skies In fearful pride. On, to the harbor's mouth of fire, Fierce for the fray, She darts, an eagle from his eyre, Upon her prey. She meets the brave Teresa there— Sigh, sigh for Spain!— And beats her clanging armor bare With glittering rain. The bold Vizcaya's lightnings glance Into the throng Where loud the bannered Brooklyn chants Her awful song. Down swoops, in one tremendous curve, Our Commodore; His broadsides roll, the foemen swerve Toward the shore. In one great round his Brooklyn turns And, girdling there This side and that with glory, burns Spain to despair. Frightful in onslaught, fraught with fate Her missiles hiss: The Spaniard sees, when all too late, A Nemesis. The Oquendo's diapason swells; Then, torn and lame, Her portholes turn to yawning wells, Geysers of flame. Yet fierce and fiercer breaks and cries Our rifles' dread: The doomed Teresa shudders—lies Stark with her dead. How true the Brooklyn's battery speaks Eulate knows, As the Vizcaya staggers, shrieks Her horrent woes. Sideward she plunges: nevermore Shall Biscay feel Her heart throb for the ship that wore Her name in steel. The Oquendo's ports a moment shone, As gloomed her knell; She trembles, bursts—the ship is gone Headlong to hell. The fleet Colon in lonely flight— Spain's hope, Spain's fear!— Sees, and it lends her wings of fright, Schley's pennant near. The fleet Colon scuds on alone— God, how she runs!— And ever hears behind her moan The Brooklyn's guns. Our ruthless cannon o'er the flood Roar and draw nigh; Spain's ensign stained with gold and blood, Falls from on high. The world she gave the World has passed— Gone, with her power— Dead, 'neath the Brooklyn's thunder-blast, In one great hour. The bannered Brooklyn! gallant crew, And gallant Schley! Proud is the flag his sailors flew Along the sky. Proud is his country: for each star Our Union wears, The fighting Brooklyn shows a scar— So much he dares. God save us war upon the seas; But, if it slip, Send such a chief, with men like these, On such a ship! Wallace Rice.

They held her South to Magellan's mouth, Then East they steered her, forth Through the farther gate of the crafty strait, And then they held her North. Six thousand miles to the Indian Isles! And the Oregon rushed home, Her wake a swirl of jade and pearl, Her bow a bend of foam. And when at Rio the cable sang, "There is war!—grim war with Spain!" The swart crews grinned and stroked their guns And thought on the mangled Maine. In the glimmered gloom of the engine-room There was joy to each grimy soul, And fainting men sprang up again And piled the blazing coal. Good need was there to go with care: But every sailor prayed Or gun for gun, or six to one To meet them, unafraid. Her goal at last! With joyous blast She hailed the welcoming roar Of hungry sea-wolves curved along The strong-hilled Cuban shore. Long nights went by. Her beamèd eye, Unwavering, searched the bay Where trapped and penned for a certain end The Spanish squadron lay. Out of the harbor a curl of smoke— A watchful gun rang clear. Out of the channel the squadron broke Like a bevy of frightened deer. Then there was shouting for "steam, more steam!" And fires glowed white and red; And guns were manned, and ranges planned, And the great ships leaped ahead. Then there was roaring of chorusing guns, Shatter of shell, and spray; And who but the rushing Oregon Was fiercest in chase and fray! For her mighty wake was a seething snake; Her bow was a billow of foam; Like the mailèd fists of an angry wight Her shot drove crashing home! Pride of the Spanish navy, ho! Flee like a hounded beast! For the Ship of the Northwest strikes a blow For the Ship of the far Northeast! In quivering joy she surged ahead, Aflame with flashing bars, Till down sunk the Spaniard's gold and red And up ran the Clustered Stars. "Glory to share"? Aye, and to spare; But the chiefest is hers by right Of a rush of fourteen thousand miles For the chance of a bitter fight! Arthur Guiterman.

A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold, And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told! They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great shells roar and screech— And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they preach: But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons, The men below who batter the foe—the men behind the guns! Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more, When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore; And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat— Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys—the lads who serve the guns. But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on, Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don," Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell; Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps—the men behind the guns! Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death, And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith! The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil, And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil— But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs, Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns! John Jerome Rooney.

Hail to thee, gallant foe! Well hast thou struck thy blow— Hopeless of victory— Daring unequal strife, Valuing more than life Honor and chivalry. Forth from the harbor's room Rushing to meet thy doom, Lit by the day's clear light. "Out to the waters free! Out to the open sea! There should a sailor fight." Where the red battle's roar Beats on the rocky shore, Thunders proclaiming How the great cannon's breath Hurls forth a dreadful death, Smoking and flaming. While her guns ring and flash, See each frail vessel dash, Though our shots rend her, Swift through the iron rain, Bearing the flag of Spain, Scorning surrender. Hemmed in 'twixt foe and wreck, Blood soaks each slippery deck, Still madly racing, Till their ships burn and reel, Crushed by our bolts of steel, Firing and chasing. Driven to the rocks at last, Now heels each shattered mast, Flames the blood drinking, Each with her load of dead, Wrapped in that shroud of red, Silenced and sinking. Vanquished! but not in vain: Ancient renown of Spain, Coming upon her. Once again lives in thee, All her old chivalry, All her old honor. Ever her past avers, When wealth and lands were hers, Though she might love them, Die for their keeping, yet Spain, in her pride, has set Honor above them. Bertrand Shadwell.

Yes, yes, my boy, there's no mistake, You put the contract through! You lads with Shafter, I'll allow, Were heroes tried and true; But don't forget the men who fought About Manila Bay, And don't forget brave McIlrath Who died at Malate. The night was black, save where the forks Of tropic lightning ran, When, with a long deep thunder-roar, The typhoon storm began. Then, suddenly above the din, We heard the steady bay Of volleys from the trenches where The Pennsylvanias lay. The Tenth, we thought, could hold their own Against the feigned attack, And, if the Spaniards dared advance Would pay them doubly back. But soon we marked the volleys sink Into a scattered fire— And now we heard the Spanish guns Boom nigher yet and nigher! Then, like a ghost, a courier Seemed past our picket tossed, With wild hair streaming in his face— "We're lost—we're lost—we're lost!" "Front, front—in God's name—front!" he cried: "Our ammunition's gone!" He turned a face of dazed dismay— And through the night sped on! "Men, follow me!" cried McIlrath, Our acting sergeant then; And when he gave the word he knew He gave the word to men! Twenty there—not one man more— But down the sunken road We dragged the guns of Battery H, Nor even stopped to load! Sudden, from the darkness poured A storm of Mauser hail— But not a man there thought to pause, Nor any man to quail! Ahead, the Pennsylvanias' guns In scattered firing broke; The Spanish trenches, red with flame, In fiercer volleys spoke! Down with a rush our twenty came— The open field we passed— And in among the hard-pressed Tenth We set our feet at last! Up, with a leap, sprang McIlrath, Mud-spattered, worn and wet, And, in an instant, there he stood High on the parapet! "Steady, boys! we've got 'em now— Only a minute late! It's all right, lads—we've got 'em whipped— Just give 'em volleys straight!" Then, up and down the parapet With head erect he went, As cool as when he sat with us Beside our evening tent! Not one of us, close sheltered there Down in the trench's pen, But felt that we would rather die Than shame or grieve him then! The fire so close to being quenched In panic and defeat, Leaped forth, by rapid volleys sped, In one long deadly sheet! A cheer went up along the line As breaks the thunder-call— But, as it rose, great God, we saw Our gallant sergeant fall! He sank into our outstretched arms Dead—but immortal grown; And Glory brightened where he fell, And valor claimed her own! John Jerome Rooney.

To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea, On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free, And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, Breaker and beach cry each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!" Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm, Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time Home! And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest, The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars! Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade, Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade, And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace." Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go,— How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear, South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered, "Here!" For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong, Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod, Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God! Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free, To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea, To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait, To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:— But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home, And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam, And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win! Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in! Guy Wetmore Carryl.

Spain drew us proudly from the womb of night, A lusty man-child of the Western wave,— Who now, full-grown, smites the old midwife down, And thrusts her deep in a dishonored grave. John White Chadwick.

Free are the Muses, and where freedom is They follow, as the thrushes follow spring, Leaving the old lands songless there behind; Parnassus disenchanted suns its woods, Empty of every nymph; wide have they flown; And now on new sierras think to set Their wandering court, and thrill the world anew, Where the Republic babbling waits its speech; For but the prelude of its mighty song As yet has sounded. Therefore, would I woo Apollo to the land I love, 'tis vain; Unknown he spies on us; and if my verse Ring not the empyrean round and round, 'Tis that the feeble oat is few of stops. The noble theme awaits the nobler bard. Then how all air will quire to it, and all The great dead listen, America!—For lo, Diana of the nations hath she lived Remote, and hoarding her own happiness In her own land, the land that seemed her first An exile, where her bark was cast away, Till maiden grew the backward-hearted child, And on that sea whose waves were memories Turned her young shoulder, looked with steadfast eyes Upon her wilderness, her woods, her streams; Inland she ran, and gathering virgin joy Followed her shafts afar from humankind. And if sometimes her isolation drooped And yearning woke in her, she put it forth With a high boast and with a sick disdain; Actæons fleeing, into antlers branched The floating tresses of her fancy, and far Her arrows smote them with a bleeding laugh. O vain and virgin, O the fool of love! Now children not her own are at her knee. For stricken by her path lay one that vexed Her maiden calm; she reached a petulant hand; And the old nations drew sharp breath and looked. The two-edged sword, how came it in her hand? The sword that slays the holder if he withhold, That none can take, or having taken drop, The sword is in thy hand, America! The wrath of God, that fillets thee with lightnings, America! Strike then; the sword departs. Ah God, once more may men crown drowsy days With glorious death, upholding a great cause! I deemed it fable; not of them am I. Yet if they loved thee on the loud May-day Who with unexultant thunder wreathed the flag, With thunder and with victory, if they Who on the third most famous of our Fourths Along the seaboard mountains swept, a storm Unleashed, whose tread spurned not the wrecks of Spain, If these thy sons have loved thee, and have set Santiago and Manila like new stars Crowding thy field of blue, new terror perched Like eagles on thy banners, oh, not less I love thee, who but prattle in the prime Of birds of passage over river and wood Thine also, piping little charms to lure, Uncaptured and unflying, the wings of song. Joseph Russell Taylor.

God is shaping the great future of the Islands of the Sea; He has sown the blood of martyrs and the fruit is liberty; In thick clouds and in darkness He has sent abroad His word; He has given a haughty nation to the cannon and the sword. He has seen a people moaning in the thousand deaths they die; He has heard from child and woman a terrible dark cry; He has given the wasted talent of the steward faithless found To the youngest of the nations with His abundance crowned. He called her to do justice where none but she had power; He called her to do mercy to her neighbor at the door; He called her to do vengeance for her own sons foully dead; Thrice did He call unto her ere she inclined her head. She has gathered the vast Midland, she has searched her borders round; There has been a mighty hosting of her children on the ground; Her search-lights lie along the sea, her guns are loud on land; To do her will upon the earth her armies round her stand. The fleet, at her commandment, to either ocean turns; Belted around the mighty world her line of battle burns; She has loosed the hot volcanoes of the ships of flaming hell; With fire and smoke and earthquake shock her heavy vengeance fell. O joyfullest May morning when before our guns went down The Inquisition priesthood and the dungeon-making crown, While through red lights of battle our starry dawn burst out, Swift as the tropic sunrise that doth with glory shout! Be jubilant, free Cuba, our feet are on thy soil; Up mountain road, through jungle growth, our bravest for thee toil; There is no blood so precious as their wounds pour forth for thee; Sweet be thy joys, free Cuba,—sorrows have made thee free. Nor Thou, O noble Nation, who wast so slow to wrath, With grief too heavy-laden follow in duty's path; Not for ourselves our lives are; not for Thyself art Thou; The Star of Christian Ages is shining on Thy brow. Rejoice, O mighty Mother, that God hath chosen Thee To be the western warder of the Islands of the Sea; He lifteth up, He casteth down, He is the King of Kings, Whose dread commands o'er awe-struck lands are borne on eagle's wings. George Edward Woodberry.

Time was he sang the British Brute, The ruthless lion's grasping greed, The European Law of Loot, The despot's devastating deed; But now he sings the heavenly creed Of saintly sword and friendly fist, He loves you, though he makes you bleed— The Ethical Expansionist! He loves you, Heathen! Though his foot May kick you like a worthless weed From that wild field where you have root, And scatter to the winds your seed; He's just the government you need; If you object, why, he'll insist, And, on your protest, "draw a bead"— The Ethical Expansionist! He'll take you to him coûte que coûte! He'll win you, though you fight and plead. His guns shall urge his ardent suit, Relentless fire his cause shall speed. In time you'll learn to write and read (That is, if you should then exist!), You won't, if you his course impede— The Ethical Expansionist!

Heathen, you must, you shall be freed! It's really useless to resist; To save your life, you'd better heed The Ethical Expansionist! Hilda Johnson.

Shoot down the rebels—men who dare To claim their native land! Why should the white invader spare A dusky heathen band? You bought them from the Spanish King, You bought the men he stole; You bought perchance a ghastlier thing— The Duke of Alva's soul! "Freedom!" you cry, and train your gun On men who would be freed, And in the name of Washington Achieve a Weyler's deed. Boast of the benefits you spread, The faith of Christ you hold; Then seize the very soil you tread And fill your arms with gold. Go, prostitute your mother-tongue, And give the "rebel" name To those who to their country clung, Preferring death to shame. And call him "loyal," him who brags Of countrymen betrayed— The patriot of the money-bags, The loyalist of trade. Oh, for the good old Roman days Of robbers bold and true, Who scorned to oil with pious phrase The deeds they dared to do— The days before degenerate thieves Devised the coward lie Of blessings that the enslaved receives Whose rights their arms deny! I hate the oppressor's iron rod, I hate his murderous ships, But most of all I hate, O God, The lie upon his lips! Nay, if they still demand recruits To curse Manila Bay, Be men; refuse to act like brutes And massacre and slay. Or if you will persist to fight With all a soldier's pride, Why, then be rebels for the right By Aguinaldo's side! Ernest Crosby.

Streets of the roaring town, Hush for him, hush, be still! He comes, who was stricken down Doing the word of our will. Hush! Let him have his state. Give him his soldier's crown. The grists of trade can wait Their grinding at the mill, But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown. Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone. Toll! Let the great bells toll Till the clashing air is dim, Did we wrong this parted soul? We will make it up to him. Toll! Let him never guess What work we set him to. Laurel, laurel, yes; He did what we bade him do. Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good; Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's blood. A flag for the soldier's bier Who dies that his land may live; Oh, banners, banners here, That he doubt not nor misgive! That he heed not from the tomb The evil days draw near When the nation, robed in gloom, With its faithless past shall strive. Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island mark, Home to the heart of his sinning land where she stumbled and sinned in the dark. William Vaughn Moody.

In Paco town and in Paco tower, At the height of the tropic noonday hour, Some Tagal riflemen, half a score, Watched the length of the highway o'er, And when to the front the troopers spurred, Whiz-z! whiz-z! how the Mausers whirred! From the opposite walls, through crevice and crack, Volley on volley went ringing back Where a band of regulars tried to drive The stinging rebels out of their hive; "Wait, till our cannon come, and then," Cried a captain, striding among his men, "We'll settle that bothersome buzz and drone With a merry little tune of our own!" The sweltering breezes seemed to swoon, And down the calle the thickening flames Licked the roofs in the tropic noon. Then through the crackle and glare and heat, And the smoke and the answering acclaims Of the rifles, far up the village street Was heard the clatter of horses' feet, And a band of signalmen swung in sight, Hasting back from the ebbing fight That had swept away to the left and right. "Ride!" yelled the regulars, all aghast, And over the heads of the signalmen, As they whirled in desperate gallop past, The bullets a vicious music made, Like the whistle and whine of the midnight blast On the weltering wastes of the ocean when The breast of the deep is scourged and flayed. It chanced in the line of the fiercest fire A rebel bullet had clipped the wire That led, from the front and the fighting, down To those that stayed in Manila town; This gap arrested the watchful eye Of one of the signalmen galloping by, And straightway, out of the plunge and press, He reined his horse with a swift caress And a word in the ear of the rushing steed; Then back with never a halt nor heed Of the swarming bullets he rode, his goal The parted wire and the slender pole That stood where the deadly tower looked down On the rack and ruin of Paco town. Out of his saddle he sprang as gay As a schoolboy taking a holiday; Wire in hand up the pole he went With never a glance at the tower, intent Only on that which he saw appear As the line of his duty plain and clear. To the very crest he climbed, and there, While the bullets buzzed in the scorching air Clipped his clothing, and scored and stung The slender pole-top to which he clung, Made the wire that was severed sound, Slipped in his careless way to the ground, Sprang to the back of his horse, and then Was off, this bravest of signalmen. Cheers for the hero! While such as he, Heedless alike of wounds and scars, Fight for the dear old Stripes and Stars, Down through the years to us shall be Ever and ever the victory! Clinton Scollard.

When you speak of dauntless deeds, When you tell of stirring scenes, Tell this story of the isles Where the endless summer smiles,— Tell of young Lieutenant Miles In the far-off Philippines! 'Twas the Santa Ana fight!— All along the Tagal line From the thickets dense and dire Gushed the fountains of their fire; You could mark their rifles' ire, You could hear their bullets whine. Little wonder there was pause! Some were wounded, some were dead "Call Lieutenant Miles!" He came, In his eyes a fearless flame. "Yonder blockhouse is our aim!" The battalion leader said. "You must take it—how you will; You must break this damnèd spell!" "Volunteers!" cried Miles. 'Twas vain, For that narrow tropic lane 'Twixt the bamboo and the cane Was a very lane of hell. There were five stood forth at last; God above, but they were men! "Come!" exultantly he saith!— Did they falter? Not a breath! Down the path of hurtling death The Lieutenant led them then. Two have fallen—now a third! Forward dash the other three; In the onrush of that race Ne'er a swerve or stay of pace. And the Tagals—dare they face Such a desperate company? Panic gripped them by the throat,— Every Tagal rifleman; And as though they seemed to see In those charging foemen three An avenging destiny, Fierce and fast and far they ran. So a salvo for the six! So a round of ringing cheers! Heroes of the distant isles Where the endless summer smiles,— Gallant young Lieutenant Miles And his valiant volunteers! Clinton Scollard.

When arms and numbers both have failed To make the hunted patriot yield, Nor proffered riches have prevailed To tempt him to forsake the field, By spite and baffled rage beguiled, Strike at his mother and his child. O land where freedom loved to dwell, Which shook'st the despot on his throne, And o'er the beating floods of hell Hope's beacon to the world hast shown, How art thou fallen from thy place! O thing of shame!—O foul disgrace! Thy home was built upon the height Above the murky clouds beneath, In the blue heaven's freest light, Thy sword flashed ever from its sheath, The weak and the oppressed to save— To smite the tyrant—free the slave. Thy place was glorious—sublime. What devil tempts thee to descend To conquest, robbery and crime? O shameful fate! Is this the end? Thy hands have now the damning stain Of human blood—for love of gain. With weak hypocrisy's thin veil, Seek not in vain to blind thine eyes; Nor shall deceitful prayers prevail. Pray not—for fear the dead should rise From 'neath their conquered country's sod And cry against thee unto God. Bertrand Shadwell.

There are twenty dead who're sleeping near the slopes of Bud Dajo, 'Neath the shadow of the crater where the bolos laid them low, And their comrades feel it bitter, and their cheeks grow hot with shame, When they read the sneering comments which have held them up to blame. They were told to scale the mountain and they stormed its beetling crest, Spite of all the frantic Moros, though they did their level best, Though the bullets whistled thickly, and the cliff was lined with foes, Though the campilans were flashing and the kriss gave deadly blows. There was little time for judging ere they met in deadly strife What the sex might be that rushing waved aloft the blood-stained knife; For the foe was drunk with frenzy and the women in the horde Thought that paradise was certain could they kill first with the sword. They'd been freely offered mercy, but they'd scorned the proffered gift, For their priests had told them Allah promised victory sure and swift. They were foolish and their folly cost the lives of wife and son, But they fought their fight like heroes; there were none that turned to run. Though they'd robbed and slain and ravaged, though their crimes had mounted high, Though 'tis true that naught became them like the death they chose to die, One would think to read the papers that the troops who scaled their fort Were a lot of brutal ruffians shooting girls and babes for sport. More than one who's sleeping soundly 'neath the shade of Bud Dajo Lost his life while giving succor to the one who dealt the blow, Yet his comrades feel more bitter and they give a far worse name To the men who dubbed them "butchers" and have smirched the army's fame. Alfred E. Wood.

I Before the living bronze Saint-Gaudens made Most fit to thrill the passer's heart with awe, And set here in the city's talk and trade To the good memory of Robert Shaw, This bright March morn I stand And hear the distant spring come up the land; Knowing that what I hear is not unheard Of this boy soldier and his negro band, For all their gaze is fixed so stern ahead, For all the fatal rhythm of their tread. The land they died to save from death and shame Trembles and waits, hearing the spring's great name, And by her pangs these resolute ghosts are stirred. II Through street and mall the tides of people go Heedless; the trees upon the Common show No hint of green; but to my listening heart The still earth doth impart Assurance of her jubilant emprise, And it is clear to my long-searching eyes That love at last has might upon the skies. The ice is runnelled on the little pond; A telltale patter drips from off the trees; The air is touched with southland spiceries, As if but yesterday it tossed the frond Of pendent mosses where the live oaks grow Beyond Virginia and the Carolines, Or had its will among the fruits and vines Of aromatic isles asleep beyond Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. III Soon shall the Cape Ann children laugh in glee, Spying the arbutus, spring's dear recluse; Hill lads at dawn shall hearken the wild goose Go honking northward over Tennessee; West from Oswego to Sault Saint-Marie, And on to where the Pictured Rocks are hung, And yonder where, gigantic, wilful, young, Chicago sitteth at the northwest gates, With restless violent hands and casual tongue Moulding her mighty fates, The Lakes shall robe them in ethereal sheen; And like a larger sea, the vital green Of springing wheat shall vastly be outflung Over Dakota and the prairie states. By desert people immemorial On Arizonan mesas shall be done Dim rites unto the thunder and the sun; Nor shall the primal gods lack sacrifice More splendid, when the white Sierras call Unto the Rockies straightway to arise And dance before the unveiled ark of the year, Clashing their windy cedars as for shawms, Unrolling rivers clear For flutter of broad phylacteries; While Shasta signals to Alaskan seas That watch old sluggish glaciers downward creep To fling their icebergs thundering from the steep, And Mariposa through the purple calms Gazes at far Hawaii crowned with palms Where East and West are met,— A rich seal on the ocean's bosom set To say that East and West are twain, With different loss and gain: The Lord hath sundered them; let them be sundered yet. IV Alas! what sounds are these that come Sullenly over the Pacific seas,— Sounds of ignoble battle, striking dumb The season's half-awakened ecstasies? Must I be humble, then, Now when my heart hath need of pride? Wild love falls on me from these sculptured men; By loving much the land for which they died I would be justified. My spirit was away on pinions wide To soothe in praise of her its passionate mood And ease it of its ache of gratitude. Too sorely heavy is the debt they lay On me and the companions of my day. I would remember now My country's goodliness, make sweet her name. Alas! what shade art thou Of sorrow or of blame Liftest the lyric leafage from her brow, And pointest a slow finger at her shame? V Lies! lies! It cannot be! The wars we wage Are noble, and our battles still are won By justice for us, ere we lift the gage. We have not sold our loftiest heritage. The proud republic hath not stooped to cheat And scramble in the market-place of war; Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star. Here is her witness: this, her perfect son, This delicate and proud New England soul Who leads despisèd men, with just-unshackled feet, Up the large ways where death and glory meet, To show all peoples that our shame is done, That once more we are clean and spirit-whole. VI Crouched in the sea fog on the moaning sand All night he lay, speaking some simple word From hour to hour to the slow minds that heard, Holding each poor life gently in his hand And breathing on the base rejected clay Till each dark face shone mystical and grand Against the breaking day; And lo, the shard the potter cast away Was grown a fiery chalice, crystal-fine, Fulfilled of the divine Great wine of battle wrath by God's ring-finger stirred. Then upward, where the shadowy bastion loomed Huge on the mountain in the wet sea light, Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage bloomed, Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its deadly seed,— They swept, and died like freemen on the height, Like freemen, and like men of noble breed; And when the battle fell away at night By hasty and contemptuous hands were thrust Obscurely in a common grave with him The fair-haired keeper of their love and trust. Now limb doth mingle with dissolvèd limb In nature's busy old democracy To flush the mountain laurel when she blows Sweet by the southern sea, And heart with crumbled heart climbs in the rose:— The untaught hearts with the high heart that knew This mountain fortress for no earthly hold Of temporal quarrel, but the bastion old Of spiritual wrong, Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong, Expugnable but by a nation's rue And bowing down before that equal shrine By all men held divine, Whereof his band and he were the most holy sign. VII O bitter, bitter shade! Wilt thou not put the scorn And instant tragic question from thine eyes? Do thy dark brows yet crave That swift and angry stave— Unmeet for this desirous morn— That I have striven, striven to evade? Gazing on him, must I not deem they err Whose careless lips in street and shop aver As common tidings, deeds to make his cheek Flush from the bronze, and his dead throat to speak? Surely some elder singer would arise, Whose harp hath leave to threaten and to mourn Above this people when they go astray. Is Whitman, the strong spirit, overworn? Has Whittier put his yearning wrath away? I will not and I dare not yet believe! Though furtively the sunlight seems to grieve, And the spring-laden breeze Out of the gladdening west is sinister With sounds of nameless battle overseas; Though when we turn and question in suspense If these things be indeed after these ways, And what things are to follow after these, Our fluent men of place and consequence Fumble and fill their mouths with hollow phrase, Or for the end-all of deep arguments Intone their dull commercial liturgies— I dare not yet believe! My ears are shut! I will not hear the thin satiric praise And muffled laughter of our enemies, Bidding us never sheathe our valiant sword Till we have changed our birthright for a gourd Of wild pulse stolen from a barbarian's hut; Showing how wise it is to cast away The symbols of our spiritual sway, That so our hands with better ease May wield the driver's whip and grasp the jailer's keys. VIII Was it for this our fathers kept the law? This crown shall crown their struggle and their ruth? Are we the eagle nation Milton saw Mewing its mighty youth, Soon to possess the mountain winds of truth, And be a swift familiar of the sun Where aye before God's face His trumpets run? Or have we but the talons and the maw, And for the abject likeness of our heart Shall some less lordly bird be set apart?— Some gross-billed wader where the swamps are fat? Some gorger in the sun? Some prowler with the bat? IX Ah no! We have not fallen so. We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know! 'Twas only yesterday sick Cuba's cry Came up the tropic wind, "Now help us, for we die!" Then Alabama heard, And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho Shouted a burning word; Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred, And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth, East, west, and south, and north, Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and young Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan, By the unforgotten names of eager boys Who might have tasted girls' love and been stung With the old mystic joys And starry griefs, now the spring nights come on, But that the heart of youth is generous,— We charge you, ye who lead us, Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain! Turn not their new-world victories to gain! One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the bays Of their dear praise, One jot of their pure conquest put to hire, The implacable republic will require; With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon, Or subtly, coming as a thief at night, But surely, very surely, slow or soon That insult deep we deeply will requite. Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity! For save we let the island men go free, Those baffled and dislaurelled ghosts Will curse us from the lamentable coasts Where walk the frustrate dead. The cup of trembling shall be drainèd quite, Eaten the sour bread of astonishment, With ashes of the hearth shall be made white Our hair, and wailing shall be in the tent: Then on your guiltier head Shall our intolerable self-disdain Wreak suddenly its anger and its pain; For manifest in that disastrous light We shall discern the right And do it, tardily.—O ye who lead, Take heed! Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite. William Vaughn Moody.