The Reckoning

  I

  _His muscle to the ax and plow, His calm eye to the rifle sight, Or at his country's beck and bow, Setting the fiery cross alight, Or, in the city's pageantry, Serving the Cause in secrecy,-- Behold him now, haranguing kings While through the shallow court there rings The light laugh of the courtezan; This the New Yorker, this the Man!_

  II

  _Standing upon his blackened land, He saw the flames mount up to God, He saw the death tracks in the sand, And the dead children on the sod, He saw the half-charred door, unbarred, The dying hound he left on guard, And that still thing he once had wed Sprawled on the threshold dripping red: Dry-eyed he primed his rifle pan; This the New Yorker, this the Man!_

  III

  He plowed the graveyard of his dead And sowed the grain to feed a host; In silent lands untenanted Save by the Sachems' painted ghost He set the ensign of the sun; A thousand axes rang as one In the black forest's falling roar, And through the glade the plowshare tore Like God's own blade in Freedom's van; This the New Yorker, and the Man!

  R. W. C.