Poems (Hardy)/Ode for forefather's day

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ODE FOR FOREFATHERS' DAY

[Read at the celebration in Oakland, December, 1887.]

I
The heights at which we dwell we choose;Horizon lines of prospect widen at the will,Or, narrowing, frame the acre-land we till;The far-spread blue illimitable smiles,Or bends a pent-house dome above the dewsThat bead our garden-plots; miles and miles,The soul of fancy takes her soaring way;With inchworm spans slows on the thing of clay.
Had he (saith one) the vision that could catchTrue glimpse of sequence, overarching cause,Then would he dare to make his doing matchHis fair ideals; nor turn back, nor pauseFor hindrances, nor faint to miss applause,Until, one day, the towers of his idealShould rise above their city, tangible and real.His aspirations should not fade and die,Or, ineffectual, scorned to mere opinion, lie.
Had he (saith one) no clog of fate-imposèd care,He need not shame the truth and compromiseWith what is false, and, dumb with self-despair,Let live the lie that brings him bread, nor riseTo some great glow of spirit, and, self-disdaining, showHis coward heart what highway it must henceforth know.
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II
Not so those oceanic men who wroughtA track for conscience, laid its beams upon the sea;With faith, large-limbed, held man-made strictures naught,And scorned the metes and bounds that said "Ye are not free."'What to them were clog, or hindrance—end still undescried?And what were self, or calm, or peace unsanctified? They saw the line of truth and duty  In rhythmic monotone move on, And knew it for that line of beauty  For eyes of men divinely drawn.This they chose, and, upward led, they sawGlimpses far of Freedom's snow-clad height,Of Liberty's blue dome and stars of awe,And dawns celestial white.
Then seemed their limits narrower than the mind;Then seemed a mortal lack in their own bread,Sprouted from so thin a rindOf juiceless Old World soil,Of word-bound, dark-age thought,That miserly repaid their toil,With husks their hunger fed,And, asking all, gave naught.
III
And so they left the landNo longer dearAbove the beatings of the heart,No longer dearAbove the labor of the hand, ​ No longer dearAbove that dearest partOf human heritage,In every clime, in every age—The freedom of the soul,Supreme and whole.
IV
     And so they cameIn beautiful Liberty's beautiful name.     And has no storial handKept note of how the waiting landHailed the new-type man, square to the New World's need,Who thought no thought into a deedThat had no warrant in his creed?Nay, none. Yet never symphony so grandCame from the heart of man to menAs this that was their welcome then:
The winds their trumpets blew,The white foam flew,And far by sandy reach,Along the icy beach,A still-renewing cadence drew;The dark waves dashed,And the rocks their cymbals clashed,And, permeant, the undertoneOf the diapason, deep and lone,Of the all-including ocean overboreThe leafless diapente sounding evermoreFrom the forest on the shore.Apotheosis of lamentation!Restless, longing lamentationMade the pæan of the planting of a nation!
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V
O symphony of symphonies!O eloquence of earth and seas,Beyond the reach of poet's rhyme!Yet voices more sublimeAnswered fitly there,In the unison of prayer:"Father of all,  Out of the sea  We cry to thee! Oh, hear our call!Out of the winter's coldAnd the storm-wind's foldWe lift our hearts away to thee,Into the warmth and lightOf thy love and care,Thanks and praise we bear.Thou hast brought us out of NightInto Liberty's sweet air.Father of all, ourselves we giveThat thy truth may live."
Outer wall and corner-stone of prayer!Surely, temple edified so fairThe centuries will spare!
VI
As Homer saw the Prospect Wide, nor knewThe bounds by Nature set, nor dreamed nor thought to dreamHow great man's mind should one day make it seem,The Pilgrim Heroes, from their mount of vision, drew,With eyes of faith, a far perspective, true ​To God-given promise, yet to them too dimFor all surmise, except obedience to Him.In a land they did not know, transplanted side by side,Their love and hope and faith, these three, till now abide.
VII
They wrought—not thinking of themselves they wrought!—What strong twists in the cables of the State,What pure runs in the blood of Western thought;Whatever makes us permanent and greatEntered with them at Plymouth's stormy gate;Praise to their names and to their great deeds glory!The Golden Gate shall be their salvatory.What honor to their memory can we bringIn these far days, in this far summer land?What were our gold, or songs that we might sing?Ah, more unto their honor, should we standFulfilling what they toiled for, worthy, heart and hand,To bear their names and add our deeds to the story—The Golden Gate shall be their salvatory!
"Hail to them, thrice hail!" the west sea chimes,Like morning bells upon the warm west shore,And we, in these new years, these good new times,Recount their deeds, pronounce their names once more;Ay, proudly so, until our new land's loreShall weave this golden thread with her own glory,And the Golden Gate shall be their salvatory!
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