King Arthur's Men Have Come Again

[Written while a field-worker in the Anti-Saloon League of Illinois.]


    King Arthur's men have come again.
    They challenge everywhere
    The foes of Christ's Eternal Church.
    Her incense crowns the air.
    The heathen knighthood cower and curse
    To hear the bugles ring,
    BUT SPEARS ARE SET, THE CHARGE IS ON,
    WISE ARTHUR SHALL BE KING!

    And Cromwell's men have come again,
    I meet them in the street.
    Stern but in this - no way of thorns
    Shall snare the children's feet.
    The reveling foemen wreak but waste,
    A sodden poisonous band.
    FIERCE CROMWELL BUILDS THE FLOWER-BRIGHT TOWNS,
    AND A MORE SUNLIT LAND!

    And Lincoln's men have come again.
    Up from the South he flayed,
    The grandsons of his foes arise
    In his own cause arrayed.
    They rise for freedom and clean laws
    High laws, that shall endure.
    OUR GOD ESTABLISHES HIS ARM
    AND MAKES THE BATTLE SURE!

Vachel Lindsay

Vachel Lindsay was an American poet known for his innovative performances of his poetry, which combined spoken word with music and theatrics. Born in Springfield, Illinois, Lindsay's work often revolved around American history and culture, reflecting his progressive social views. He played a significant role in the early 20th-century American poetry scene, influencing contemporaries and later poets with his dynamic style and passionate delivery.

Vachel Lindsay

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Here's to the Mice!

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The Merciful Hand

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The Spice-tree

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

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Up to Dunbar our Cromwell went,
Not to invade was his intent;
But they who first King Charles sold
Now turn their backs on friends of old,
And principles they then held dear
Were sacrificed for self, I fear.
Another Stuart they receive,
Who knew too well how to deceive;
The most perfidious of his race,
Corrupt in life, and void of grace,
The menial of the Papacy;
And yet content by oath to free
Himself from Holy See's control,
And covenant to save his soul
By the Scotch Presbyterian mode,
As to the crown this paved the road.
But Cromwell brooked not this control;
He wished man free to save his soul
As conscience may to him dictate,
Without subservience to the State.
He saw also thro' the disguise
Of one well versed in fraud and lies,

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An Ode To Englishmen.

I.

    I who have sung of love and lady bright
    And mirth and music and the world's delight,
    Behold! to-day, I sound a sterner note
    To move the minds of foemen when they fight.


II.

    Have I not said: There is no sweeter thing,
    And none diviner than the wedding-ring?
    And, all intent to make my meaning plain,
    Have I not kiss'd the lips of Love, the King?


III.

    Yea, this is so. But lo! to-day there comes
    The far-off sound of trumpets and of drums;
    And I must parley with the men of toil
    Who rise in ranks exultant from the slums.


IV.

    I must arraign each man; yea, all the host;
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An Argument

            I.    The Voice of the Man Impatient with Visions and Utopias

    We find your soft Utopias as white
    As new-cut bread, and dull as life in cells,
    O, scribes who dare forget how wild we are
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    I'd rather brood in bloody Elsinore
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    Say that our clerks shall venture scorns and death,
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The Last Charge

Now, men of the North! will you join in the strife
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The giant grows blind in his fury and spite, -
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Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning of steel,
And stun him with cannon-bolts, peal upon peal!
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As the hound tracks the wolf and the beagle the hare!

Blow, trumpets, your summons, till sluggards awake!
Beat, drums, till the roofs of the faint-hearted shake!
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Trust not the false herald that painted your shield
True honor to-day must be sought on the field!
Her scutcheon shows white with a blazon of red, -

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When Yankee soldiers reach the barricade
Then Joan of Arc gives each the accolade.

For she is there in armor clad, today,
All the young poets of the wide world say.

Which of our freemen did she greet the first,
Seeing him come against the fires accurst?

Mark Twain, our Chief, with neither smile nor jest,
Leading to war our youngest and our best.

The Yankee to King Arthur's court returns.
The sacred flag of Joan above him burns.

For she has called his soul from out the tomb.
And where she stands, there he will stand till doom.

        .    .    .    .    .

But I, I can but mourn, and mourn again
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Lines - On The Camp Hill, Near Hastings

In the deep blue of eve,
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Where the Norman encamped him of old,
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And his banner all burnished with gold.

At the Conqueror's side
There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand,
In pavilion wide;
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Still the ramparted ground
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On each turf of that mead
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And high-mettled the blood of her veins.

Over hauberk and helm
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