Читать книгу Shapes of Clay - Ambrose Bierce - Страница 20

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[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.

We thank thee that beyond the sea

The people, growing ever wise,

Turn to the west their serious eyes

And dumbly strive to be as we.

As when the sun's returning flame

Upon the Nileside statue shone,

And struck from the enchanted stone

The music of a mighty fame,

Let Man salute the rising day

Of Liberty, but not adore.

'Tis Opportunity—no more—

A useful, not a sacred, ray.

It bringeth good, it bringeth ill,

As he possessing shall elect.

He maketh it of none effect

Who walketh not within thy will.

Give thou or more or less, as we

Shall serve the right or serve the wrong.

Confirm our freedom but so long

As we are worthy to be free.

But when (O, distant be the time!)

Majorities in passion draw

Insurgent swords to murder Law,

And all the land is red with crime;

Or—nearer menace!—when the band

Of feeble spirits cringe and plead

To the gigantic strength of Greed,

And fawn upon his iron hand;—

Nay, when the steps to state are worn

In hollows by the feet of thieves,

And Mammon sits among the sheaves

And chuckles while the reapers mourn;

Then stay thy miracle!—replace

The broken throne, repair the chain,

Restore the interrupted reign

And veil again thy patient face.

Lo! here upon the world's extreme

We stand with lifted arms and dare

By thine eternal name to swear

Our country, which so fair we deem—

Upon whose hills, a bannered throng,

The spirits of the sun display

Their flashing lances day by day

And hear the sea's pacific song—

Shall be so ruled in right and grace

That men shall say: "O, drive afield

The lawless eagle from the shield,

And call an angel to the place!"