Shapes of Clay. Ambrose Bierce

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Shapes of Clay - Ambrose Bierce

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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.

       Table of Contents

      [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

      

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