Opening of the Pacific Railroad
What was it the Engines said,
Pilots touching,-head to head
Facing on the single track,
Half a world behind each back?
This is what the Engines said,
Unreported and unread.
With a prefatory screech,
In a florid Western speech,
Said the engine from the West,
"I am from Sierra's crest;
And, if altitude's a test,
Why, I reckon, it's confessed,
That I've done my level best."
Said the Engine from the East,
"They who work best talk the least.
S'pose you whistle down your brakes;
What you've done is no great shakes,—
Pretty fair, but let our meeting
Be a different kind of greeting.
Let these folks with champagne stuffing,
Not their Engines, do the puffing.
"Listen! Where Atlantic beats
Shores of snow and summer heats;
Where the Indian autumn skies
Paint the woods with wampum dies,—
I have chased the flying sun,
Seeing all he looked upon,
Blessing all that he has blest,
Nursing in my iron breast
All his vivifying heat,
All his clouds about my crest;
And before my flying feet
Every shadow must retreat."
Said the Western Engine, "Phew!"
And a long, low whistle blew.
"Come, now, really that's the oddest Talk for one so very modest.
You brag of your East. You do?
Why, I bring the East to you!
All the Orient, all Cathay,
Find through me the shortest way;
And the sun you follow here
Rises in my hemisphere.
Really, if one must be rude,
Length, my friend, ain't longitude."
Said the Union: "Don't reflect, or
I'll run over some Director."
Said the Central: "I'm Pacific;
But, when riled, I'm quite terrific.
Yet to-day we shall not quarrel,
Just to show these folks this moral,
How two Engines-in their vision-
Once have met without collision."
That is what the Engines said,
Unreported and unread;
Spoken slightly through the nose,
With a whistle at the close.
Wheel me down by the meadow,
Where no step but thine will pass;
Anchor me where the shadow
Skims o'er the billowy grass:
Where the arbutus straggles over
The slope of the spreading hill,
And the souls of hidden violets
Their scented airs distil.
Saint, with your sweet composure,
Lean your cool cheek 'gainst my hair;
My soul's in the fierce exposure
Of fields where the dying are;
And even your hand can never
Quiet this fever and pain,
Or soften the restless longing
To share in the contest again.
O, to be here so idle!
To sit like a clod in this chair, With hands that ache for the bridle, With heart away in the war! Instead of the long roll beating
To hear but the tinkle of vines, For the rush and whirl of the conflict Only the wail of the pines.
Still midst the sounds of summer,
Which freight the soft June air
With tender slumberous murmur,
My soul hears the trumpet's blare.
What have I laid on the altar?
Only a few drops of blood!
Small is the gift to offer
For honor, freedom, God.
While by your side I dally,
Still waits the slave in his chain.
Up, my faint pulse must rally
Once more 'mid the leaden rain.
With kisses on lips, eyes and forehead,
Sign me the sign of the Cross.
If my heart throb its last for our banner,
Greater the gain than the loss.
If we gain-there 'll be time for our wooing,
In paths where the wild roses nod;
If we lose I'll wait for you, dearest,
'Neath the palms by the mount of our God.
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