aps of ripeness,--that mine eyes behold,
Invoking thee; for these are mere shore-sand
To the broad ocean of thy spirit grand,
Forming for man a new world for the old.

'Tis Liberty, to whose most blessed birth
The stars all lead, rejoicing, which souls thee
With God's compassion for humanity,--
That I invoke; and, now, when all the earth
Bears palms and chants hosannas--what! shall she,
The most devout, be shut from Freedom's mirth?

BRITISH GLORY IN KIPLING'S "BOOTS"

All English glory is in "Kipling's Boots."
O English People! read that poem true,
And answer,--are those maddening men not you?
Oh, not yea few, who gather all the loots,
But yea vast legions, lured to be recruits
To march, march, march and march with naught in view
But boots, boots, boots with blood and mud soaked through,--
And, after ages, with out rest, or fruits!

"Boots, boots, boots, and no discharge from war,"--
That is the Empire's anthem. Brass it out,
Ye Orchestras! But oh, leave not in doubt
Its import, Kipling,--that 'tis maelstrom roar--
'Tis England's streams of home-life, world about
And down a gulf, for Greed and Pride on shore!

TO THE ENGLISH PEOPLE

If deaf to Shelley's loudest sky-lark strain,
His rage at tyrants, and to Byron's thong,
Nerve-proof, how wake the English to the wrong
Done their true selves, no less than to the slain,
When willing weapons for Ambition's gain?
Aye, weapons only; for, to whom belong
The minds of England, and treed fields of song--
Nay, all but grave-ground, grudged by hill and plain?

O English People, whom the crafty class
Has huddled into graves from sight and sound
Of what God hands you, and, with pence, or pound,
Lids down your wild dead stare,--wake! why so crass?
See in the Celts spring-burst from underground,
The Human Resurrection come to pass.

SHAKESPEARE

Oh, what are England's lines of lords and kings,
Shakespeare, to thine, a-throb with thought and feeling?
In thine, imagination shines, revealing
The soul's convictions, swift on dawn-ward wings
From beastly life and such Hell-smelling things,
As wealth and pomp from church and abbey stealing,--
And hearts in hopes high Belfries, Heavenward pealing,
As Time, his Sun and Starry censor, swings.

Would thou wert England's