Poems (Spofford)/The Blue
THE BLUE.
Lads of our land, the flower of youth, Loitering the vext Havana through,Shot down like dogs, because, forsooth, The ribbon at their throats is blue! The Spaniard will not brook the blue!
And not a regent of our power Hurls its hot lightnings, swift and true!No navies make the place, this hour, A blot upon the ocean's blue! The Spaniard will not brook the blue!
O war-ships, in the tropic seas, Idling with each impatient crew,Strike the bright flag that flouts the breeze, And from its splendor tear the blue! The Spaniard will not brook the blue!
Ye spirits, in your shining crowds, That on this sphere God's bidding do,Call the four winds, and call the clouds, And out of heaven wash the blue! The Spaniard will not brook the blue!