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The very bats awaken

That hang in clusters in Kentucky caves 175
All winter, breathless, motionless, asleep,
And feel no alteration of the air,
For all year long those vasty caverns keep,
Winter and summer, even temperature;
And yet when April whistles on the hill, 180
Somehow, far in those subterranean naves,
They know, they hear her, they obey her will,
And wake and circle through the vaulted
aisles

To find her in the open where she smiles.

So we are somehow sure,

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Stands by, alert for flight, to bear his lord 215
Into the strange heart of the alien world,
Till he shall live in it as in himself
And know its longing as he knows his own.
Behind a little, where the shadows fall,
Lingers Religion with deep-brooding eyes,
Serene, impenetrable, transpicuous
As the all-clear and all-mysterious sky,
Biding her time to fuse into one act
Those other twain, man's right hand and his
left.

For all the bonds shall be broken and rent in sunder,

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By this dumb turmoil in the soul of man,
Of an impending something. When the

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Rejoicing in the road he journeys on

As much as in the hope of journey done. And the road runs east, and the road runs west,

That his vagrant feet explore;

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And he knows no haste and he knows no rest, And every mile has a stranger zest

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Than the miles he trod before;

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And his heart leaps high in the nascent year
When he sees the purple buds appear;
For he knows, though the great black frost
may blight

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The hope of May in a single night, That the Spring, though it shrink back under the bark,

But bides its time somewhere in the dark,Though it come not now to its blossoming, By the thrill in his heart he knows the Spring:

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And the promise it makes perchance too

soon

It shall keep with its roses yet in June;
For the ages fret not over a day.
And the greater to-morrow is on its way.
Read at Ann Arbor, Michigan.
May 7, 1896.

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY (1869-1910)

Another poet of unfulfilled promise, born in the West and educated in the East,- born in this case in Indiana and educated at Harvard was William Vaughn Moody who at the time of his death at forty-one (a life five years longer than Hovey's) was just coming unto a wide and deserved recognition as a poet and dramatist. Graduating in 1893, he was called two years later to the faculty of Chicago University, as professor of English literature, and remained there until his death. His Masque of Judgment, 1900, and his Poems, made him known to a judicious few, but after his The Great Divide, 1906. a prose drama in which the narrow ideals of the Puritan East are contrasted with the new spirit of the great West, he became widely popular. Another play. The Faith Healer, which followed in 1909, was not so successful. In all of his work despite certain classic influences discernible in his poetic trilogy The Fire Bringer, The Masque of Judgment, and the fragmentary The Death of Eve, there is an intense spirit of Americanism. His task as he conceived it was to interpret the old Puritanism of the New England beginnings, with its self-torturing ideals and its slavery to conscience, and contrast it with the new free conceptions of the great West. His Ode in Time of Hesitation' is his strongest and most sustained poetic composition,- the protest of the conservative and backward looking East against the rising tide of internationalism that seemed from the standpoint of the old Boston régime threatening to sweep over all known landmarks.

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Heedless; the trees upon the Common show
No hint of green; but to my listening heart 16
The still earth doth impart

Assurance of her jubilant emprise,
And it is clear to my long-searching eyes
That love at last has might upon the skies. 20
The ice is runneled on the little pond;
A telltale patter drips from off the trees;
The air is touched with southland spiceries,
As if but yesterday it tossed the frond
Of pendent mosses where the live-oaks grow
Beyond Virginia and the Carolines.

Or had its will among the fruits and vines
Of aromatic isles asleep beyond

Florida and the Gulf of Mexico.

III

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By justice for us, ere we lift the gage.
We have not sold our loftiest heritage.
The proud republic hath not stooped to cheat.
And scramble in the market-place of war;
Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star. 90
Here is her witness: this, her perfect son,
This delicate and proud New England soul
Who leads despised men, with just-un-
shackled feet,

Up the large ways where death and glory meet,

To show all peoples that our shame is done, That once more we are clean and spiritwhole.

VI

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Lies! lies! It cannot be! The wars

we

wage

This mountain fortress for no earthly hold Of temporal quarrel, but the bastion old 125 Of spiritual wrong,

Are noble, and our battles still are won

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Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong,

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Or for the end-all of deep arguments
Intone their dull commercial liturgies -
I dare not yet believe! My ears are shut!
I will not hear the thin satiric praise
And muffled laughter of our enemies,
Bidding us never sheathe our valiant sword
Till we have changed our birthright for a
gourd

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Ah no!

We have not fallen so.

We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know!

'T was only yesterday sick Cuba's cry Came up the tropic wind, 'Now help us, for we die.'

Then Alabama heard,

And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho Shouted a burning word.

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Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred,

And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth, 190
East, west, and south, and north,
Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood

and young

Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan,
By the unforgotten names of eager boys
Who might have tasted girls' love and been

stung

With the old mystic joys

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And starry griefs, now the spring nights

come on,

But that the heart of youth is generous,We charge you, ye who lead us,

Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain! Turn not their new-world victories to gain! One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the bays

Of their dear praise,

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One jot of their pure conquest put to hire,
The implacable republic will require:
With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon,
Or subtly, coming as a thief at night,
But surely, very surely, slow or soon
That insult deep we deeply will requite.
Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity!
For save we let the island men go free,
Those baffled and dislaureled ghosts
Will curse us from the lamentable coasts
Where walk the frustrate dead.
The cup of trembling shall be drainèd quite,
Eaten the sour bread of astonishment, 216
With ashes of the hearth shall be made white
Our hair, and wailing shall be in the tent;

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