Volume Iii Part 25 (1/2)
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore!
The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore!
Revile him not,--the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall!
O, dumb be pa.s.sion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night.
Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven!
Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow.
But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make.
Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains,-- A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains.
All else is gone: from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead!
Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
THE LOST LEADER.
Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat-- Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Sh.e.l.ley, were with us,--they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's triumph, and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to G.o.d!
Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, Never glad, confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
ROBERT BROWNING.
THE FALL OF POLAND.
O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and tw.a.n.ged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man.
Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,-- O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!-- Is there no hand on high to s.h.i.+eld the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live--with her to die!
He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death,--the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm.
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!