Friends gave his proffered hand their coldest clasp,
    Or took it not at all; and Poverty,
  That bruised his body with relentless grasp,
    Grinned, taunting, when he struggled to be free. 
  But though with helpless hands he beat the air,
  His need extreme yet found no voice in prayer.

  Then he prevailed; and forthwith snobbish Fate,
    Like some whipped cur, came fawning at his feet;
  Those who had scorned forgave and called him great—­
    His friends found out that friendship still was sweet. 
  But he, once obdurate, now bowed his head
  In prayer, and trembling with its import, said: 

  “Mere human strength may stand ill-fortune’s frown;
    So I prevailed, for human strength was mine;
  But from the killing pow’r of great renown,
    Naught may protect me save a strength divine. 
  Help me, O Lord, in this my trembling cause;
  I scorn men’s curses, but I dread applause!”

THE CONQUERORS

THE BLACK TROOPS IN CUBA

  Round the wide earth, from the red field your valour has won,
  Blown with the breath of the far-speaking gun,
          Goes the word. 
  Bravely you spoke through the battle cloud heavy and dun. 
  Tossed though the speech toward the mist-hidden sun,
          The world heard.

  Hell would have shrunk from you seeking it fresh from the fray,
  Grim with the dust of the battle, and gray
          From the fight. 
  Heaven would have crowned you, with crowns not of gold but of bay,
  Owning you fit for the light of her day,
          Men of night.

  Far through the cycle of years and of lives that shall come,
  There shall speak voices long muffled and dumb,
          Out of fear. 
  And through the noises of trade and the turbulent hum,
  Truth shall rise over the militant drum,
          Loud and clear.

  Then on the cheek of the honester nation that grows,
  All for their love of you, not for your woes,
          There shall lie
  Tears that shall be to your souls as the dew to the rose;
  Afterward thanks, that the present yet knows
          Not to ply!

ALEXANDER CRUMMELL—­DEAD

  Back to the breast of thy mother,
  Child of the earth! 
  E’en her caress can not smother
  What thou hast done. 
  Follow the trail of the westering sun
  Over the earth. 
  Thy light and his were as one—­
  Sun, in thy worth. 
  Unto a nation whose sky was as night,
  Camest thou, holily, bearing thy light: 
  And the dawn came,
  In it thy fame
  Flashed up in a flame.