Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/159

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"Hear! Hear ye, men of a pagan faith!Forsake the idols of the heathen fathers,The too-many ghosts that walk upon the earth.For there lie pain and sorrow, yea, and death!
"Hear! Hear ye, men of a pagan faith!And grasp the friendly hands we offer youIn kindly fellowship, warm hands and tender,Yea, hands that ever give and never take.Forswear the demon-charms of medicine-men;Shatter the drums of conjuring Chée-sah-kée—Yea, beyond these walls lie bitterness and death!
"Pagans!—ye men of a bastard birth!—bend,Bow ye, proud heads, before this hallowed shrine!Break!—break ye the knee beneath this roof,For within this house lives God! Abide ye here!Here shall your eyes behold His wizardry;Here shall ye find an everlasting peace."
Ah, Joe the pagan, son of a bastard people,Child of a race of vanquished, outlawed children,Small wonder that you drooped your weary head,Blinding your eyes to the suns of elder days;For hungry bellies look for new fat gods,And heavy heads seek newer, softer pillows.With you again I hear the eerie chantsFloating from out the primal yesterdays—The low sweet song of the doctor's flute, the slowResonant boom of the basswood water-drum,The far voice of the fathers, calling, calling.I see again the struggle in your eyes—The hunted soul of a wild young grouse, afraid,Trembling beneath maternal wings, yet luredBy the shrill whistle of the wheeling hawk.I see your shuffling limbs, hesitant, falteringAlong the aisle—the drag of old bronzed handsUpon your moccasined feet, the forward tugOf others, soft and white and very tender,

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