Alas for the woman of Albion’s isle! 
  She may simper; as well as she can she may smile;
  She may wear pantalettes and an air of repose—­
  But my lord of the future will talk through his nose.

AN INVOCATION.

  [Read at the Celebration of Independence Day in San
  Francisco, in 1888.]

  Goddess of Liberty!  O thou
    Whose tearless eyes behold the chain,
    And look unmoved upon the slain,
  Eternal peace upon thy brow,—­

  Before thy shrine the races press,
    Thy perfect favor to implore—­
    The proudest tyrant asks no more,
  The ironed anarchist no less.

  Thine altar-coals that touch the lips
    Of prophets kindle, too, the brand
    By Discord flung with wanton hand
  Among the houses and the ships.

  Upon thy tranquil front the star
    Burns bleak and passionless and white,
    Its cold inclemency of light
  More dreadful than the shadows are.

  Thy name we do not here invoke
    Our civic rites to sanctify: 
    Enthroned in thy remoter sky,
  Thou heedest not our broken yoke.

  Thou carest not for such as we: 
    Our millions die to serve the still
    And secret purpose of thy will. 
  They perish—­what is that to thee?

  The light that fills the patriot’s tomb
    Is not of thee.  The shining crown
    Compassionately offered down
  To those who falter in the gloom,

  And fall, and call upon thy name,
    And die desiring—­’tis the sign
    Of a diviner love than thine,
  Rewarding with a richer fame.

  To him alone let freemen cry
    Who hears alike the victor’s shout,
    The song of faith, the moan of doubt,
  And bends him from his nearer sky.

  God of my country and my race! 
    So greater than the gods of old—­
    So fairer than the prophets told
  Who dimly saw and feared thy face,—­

  Who didst but half reveal thy will
   And gracious ends to their desire,
   Behind the dawn’s advancing fire
  Thy tender day-beam veiling still,—­

  To whom the unceasing suns belong,
   And cause is one with consequence,—­
   To whose divine, inclusive sense
  The moan is blended with the song,—­

  Whose laws, imperfect and unjust,
   Thy just and perfect purpose serve: 
   The needle, howsoe’er it swerve,
  Still warranting the sailor’s trust,—­

  God, lift thy hand and make us free
   To crown the work thou hast designed. 
   O, strike away the chains that bind
  Our souls to one idolatry!

  The liberty thy love hath given
   We thank thee for.  We thank thee for
   Our great dead fathers’ holy war
  Wherein our manacles were riven.

  We thank thee for the stronger stroke
   Ourselves delivered and incurred
   When—­thine incitement half unheard—­
  The chains we riveted we broke.