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Of the poor wanderer. What! your peace admits
Of outside anguish while it keeps at home?
I loathe to take its name upon my tongue, —

'Tis nowise peace; 'tis treason, stiff with doom,— "Tis gagged despair and inarticulate wrong,

O Lord of Peace, who art Lord of Righteousness, Constrain the anguished worlds from sin and grief, Pierce them with conscience, purge them with redress, And give us peace which is no counterfeit!

WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN New York Harbor, August 20, 1898

GUY WETMORE CARRYL

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,

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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 those 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

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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!

A SONG FOR PEACE

JOAQUIN MILLER

As a tale that is told, as a vision,
Forgive and forget; for I say

That the true shall endure the derision
Of the false till the full of the day;

Ay, forgive as you would be forgiven;
Ay, forget, lest the ill you have done
Be remember'd against you in heaven
And all the days under the sun.

For who shall have bread without labor? And who shall have rest without price? And who shall hold war with his neighbor With promise of peace with the Christ?

The years may lay hand on fair heaven; May place and displace the red stars; May stain them, as blood stains are driven At sunset in beautiful bars;

May shroud them in black till they fret us
As clouds with their showers of tears;
May grind us to dust and forget us,
May the years, O, the pitiless years!

But the precepts of Christ are beyond them; The truths by the Nazarene taught,

With the tramp of the ages upon them, They endure as though ages were naught;

The deserts may drink up the fountains,
The forests give place to the plain,
The main may give place to the mountains,
The mountains return to the main;

Mutations of worlds and mutations
Of suns may take place, but the reign
Of Time, and the toils and vexations
Bequeath them, no, never a stain.

Go forth to the fields as one sowing,
Sing songs and be glad as you go,

There are seeds that take root without showing,
And bear some fruit whether or no.

And the sun shall shine sooner or later,

Though the midnight breaks ground on the morn, Then appeal you to Christ, the Creator,

And to gray-bearded Time, His first-born.

ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING OF THE
INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION

ALFRED TENNYSON

UPLIFT a thousand voices full and sweet,

In this wide hall with earth's invention stored, And praise the invisible universal Lord, Who lets once more in peace the nations meet, Where Science, Art, and Labor have outpour'd Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet.

O silent father of our Kings to be,
Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee,

For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee!

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