The dismal labyrinths of doubt

Mother-Land
by Clinton Scollard

O young and mighty Mother-Land,
Set, sovereign-wise, 'twixt sea and sea,
Before men's eyes I view thee stand,
The home and hope of liberty!

Was it not here that Freedom woke, —
She that was shackled fast so long, —
Her ancient chains of bondage broke,
And sang anew her morning song?

Not in such fierce and fateful guise
As by the sad, ensanguined Seine,
With severance of human ties
In awful holocausts of slain;

But with an equipoise austere
No rabble outcry could dethrone,
Proclaiming, like a solemn seer,
That man at last should have his own.

Yet ah, the travail that was seen,
The snares about the pathway set,
From Lexington's immortal green
To Yorktown's bloody parapet!

The dismal labyrinths of doubt,
And treason, with its shameful gorge;
The shadow of retreat and rout,
And the long night of Valley Forge!

O Mother-Land, what sons were thine,
And ours what self-forgetful sires!
They poured their precious blood like wine
Before thy sacred altar-fires!

They sleep their long and dreamless sleep,
Northward by cruel Lundy's Lane,
South where Chapultepec's grim steep
Frowns upon MONTEZUMA'S plain.

Their dust upon the wind is blown
Where Lookout Mountain seeks the stars;
Their bones beneath the grass are strown
Where Gettysburg lies gashed with scars.

Whether they wore the grey or blue,
O Mother-Land, what matters now?
Each fought for what he thought was true,
So laurel every fallen brow!

And laurel every dauntless one
Who marched on death with level eyes
Beneath the scorching Cuban sun, —
The Philippines' unpitying skies!

Nor spare the woven immortelles
For many and many a gallant soul
Who rests in the unfathomed dells
O'er which the long blue combers roll;—

The sailor lads who faced the foe
In the old valorous viking vein,
From those who fell off Flareborough
Down to the last hale hero slain!

We who enjoy such heritage,
Lo, what a strenuous task is ours!—
To meet the swiftly broadening age
With keen and undiminished powers;

To guard lest Mammon's vulturous lust
Prove both to be our bane and ban;
To keep our fathers' simple trust
In something godlier than man;

To hold with rapt remembrancing
The memory of glories gone,
Yet, like the firstling flowers of spring,
To set our faces toward the dawn!

If but the, sons unswerving stand,
Of heroes dead the worthy peers,
Then shalt thou march, O Mother-Land,
Triumphant through the crowding years!