The Journal of the American-Irish Historical Society . nevercan. Are they listening? Yes, and his voice is not so very heart sinks. A flag flaps nearby and I am conscious of achange of the breeze. My heart rises and it beats faster. Thereis applause, and I hear my name. I rise in a sudden emotionalthrill and somehow I am standing there before them all, the proofsof my poem in my hand. The glory of the hour has taken madpossession of me. It comes on me in floods from the sky; iturges me from every white cloud sailing the blue; the mountainsacross the valley are sending me a message, and
The Journal of the American-Irish Historical Society . nevercan. Are they listening? Yes, and his voice is not so very heart sinks. A flag flaps nearby and I am conscious of achange of the breeze. My heart rises and it beats faster. Thereis applause, and I hear my name. I rise in a sudden emotionalthrill and somehow I am standing there before them all, the proofsof my poem in my hand. The glory of the hour has taken madpossession of me. It comes on me in floods from the sky; iturges me from every white cloud sailing the blue; the mountainsacross the valley are sending me a message, and the voice ofAmerica seems to inform it all with an exaltation beyond wordsto describe. My lungs swell with an indrawn breath as near toecstasy as man can measure. I feel intensely that it is my hourto live, to bear living witness there upon the mountain height,above the vale where struggle had been fierce that America mightlive, and where now the peace of the mighty is dwelling in sylvanbeauty made golden in the sun. It is but an instant, but it is. JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE, ESQ., From a snap shot taken during the reading of the dedicatory poem at Battle Mountain, August 29th, 1912. Reproduction by Anna Frances Levins FIELD DAY, 1912. 225 the summit of life for me, and worth the toil of years to havethat rapturous draught at my lips and to drink it in. Sympathetic faces are looking up at me from the vast throng,and I launch my verses in a burst of joy that finds quick response. . and so to the end. It is well to have your hand shaken, to hear pleasant wordsfrom those about you, but I am scarcely conscious of it all. Iam in the daze of the mountain delight, and a child might leador a giant smite and it would be all one to me now and until thesun has set. A handsome young priest is uttering a benedictionand a prayer. His warm round tones have a bell-like sound. Ifeel that my replies to those about me sound hollow and faraway and are unconvincing to me. Rather would I stand aloneon^th
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