To Colonel Goethals and the Other Laborers in the Canal
In lazy laughing Panama— O flutter of ribbon 'twixt the seas!— The low-roofed houses lie afloat,
White foam-drift of the Caribbees.
Under lithe palms that fan the sky Down in each drowsy plaza there,
Brown-footed girls go glancing by With red hibiscus in their hair.
Low mountains, trailing veils of cloud,
In the two oceans dip their feet,
And hear the proud tides roaring loud Where Andes with Sierras meet.
O Panama!
O ribbon-twist That ties the continents together,
Now East and West shall slip your tether And keep their ancient tryst.
What are you doing here,
Young men, with your engines vast?
Sons of the pioneer Who conquered wastes austere And from ocean to ocean passed;
Sons of the men who made Reaper and telegraph,
Steamer and aeroplane— All the iron-handed things,
Swift feet and tongues and wings,
That would make the old gods laugh For the bitter games they played With the secrets they kept in vain:
What are you doing here,
Young men, with your dredges and drills That level the ancient hills Into a path for ships?
Open your eyes and lips— What do you see and hear? "Oh, we build you the world's last wonder,
The thing not made with hands.
Our steel beasts gnaw asunder The locked and laboring lands.
We choke the torrent's rage,
And bid him his wrath
By drowning the jungle deep.
In steel-locked chambers
We hold his floods at bay,
On wide blue lakes asleep.
Now shall the brave ships
Over the crouching
From eager tide to tide,
That so we may
The iron century's will;
That so our country, maker of tools sublime,
The nations may
With this last gift of the grand old workman,
Time;
His prodigy powerful, delicate, sentient, wise,
Perfect in strange completeness, strong to obey,
Strong to compel the world along its way And praise man's triumph in its mighty rhyme." But what are you doing here,
Young men, with your flags?— With your glamour of joy severe With your villages up the hill,
The screened little houses gay,
Where the good of all is the will Of each in a grand new way?
Sons of the men who founded New states in the wilds, to be Garden and range unbounded For young Democracy;
Sons of the heroes dear Who fought for liberty,
What are you doing here? "Look, it's the same old fight Out of the dark to the light;
Never the end shall be Till the last slave is free!
Here while we dig the Ditch We would build you a perfect state,
Where service makes men great And the great scorn to be rich;
Where each man has his place And a measure more than his meed—.
A banner of joy to grace The strength of the daily deed;
Where Disease, trapped in his
With Squalor and Want and Care,
Is slain with the poison
He loosed for the proud world's doom;
Where the Work is a marching
Sung by us all together,
Bearing the race
Through good and evil weather.
Oh tell them, shout it through the halls of time !—When the Big Chief unrolls his glorious plan,
Draws hearts and hands together in perfect rhyme,
Nothing shall be impossible to Man!" But what are you doing here,
Young men, with your gates?
With your bells and beacons clear Where the hope of the whole world waits?
With your call across the seas To the ships that circle afar,
To the nations that burn and freeze Each under her separate star?
Who followed the Truth austere,
Of poets and prophets grave— What are you doing here? "Hush! we wait at the gate Till the dream shall be the law.
He gave us our beacons and bells Who first the vision saw,
And the fleets of the world in state Shall follow his caravels.
Ghost-led, our ships shall sail West to the ancient East.
Once more the quest of the Grail,
And the greatest shall be the least.
We shall circle the earth around With peace like a garland fine;
The warring world shall be bound With a girdle of love divine.
What build we from coast to coast?
It's a path for the Holy Ghost.
Oh Tomorrow and Yesterday At its gate clasp hands, touch lips;
They shall send men forth in ships To find the perfect way. "All that was writ shall be fulfilled at last.
Come—till we round the circle, end the story.
The west-bound sun leads forward to the past The thundering cruisers and the caravels.
Tomorrow you shall hear our song of glory Rung in the chime of India's temple bells."O lazy laughing Panama!
O flutter of ribbon 'twixt the seas!
Pirate and king your colors wore And stained with blood your golden keys.
Now what strange guest, on what mad quest,
Lifts up your trophy to the breeze!
O Panama,
O ribbon-twist That ties the continents together,
Now East and West shall slip your tether And keep their ancient tryst.
