Part 7 (2/2)

On this earth so rough we know quite enough, And, I sometimes fancy, a little too much; The sage may be wiser than clown or than kaiser, Is he more to be envied for being such?

Neither more nor less, in his idleness The sage is doom'd to vexation sure; The kaiser may rule, but the slippery stool, That he calls his throne, is no sinecure; And as for the clown, you may give him a crown, Maybe he'll thank you, and maybe not, And before you can wink he may spend it in drink-- To whom does it profit?--We ripe and rot!

Yet under the sun much work is done By clown and kaiser, by serf and sage; All sow and some reap, and few gather the heap Of the garner'd grain of a by-gone age.

By sea or by soil man is bound to toil, And the dreamer, waiting for time and tide, For awhile may s.h.i.+rk his share of the work, But he grows with his dream dissatisfied; He may climb to the edge of the beetling ledge, Where the loose crag topples and well-nigh reels 'Neath the las.h.i.+ng gale, but the tonic will fail-- What does it profit?--Wheels within wheels!

Aye! work we must, or with idlers rust, And eat we must our bodies to nurse; Some folk grow fatter--what does it matter?

I'm blest if I do--quite the reverse; 'Tis a weary round to which we are bound, The same thing over and over again; Much toil and trouble, and a glittering bubble, That rises and bursts, is the best we gain; And we murmur, and yet 'tis certain we get What good we deserve--can we hope for more?-- They are roaring, those waves, in their echoing caves-- To whom do they profit?--Let them roar!

Bellona

Thou art moulded in marble impa.s.sive, False G.o.ddess, fair statue of strife, Yet standest on pedestal ma.s.sive, A symbol and token of life.

Thou art still, not with stillness of languor, And calm, not with calm boding rest; For thine is all wrath and all anger That throbs far and near in the breast Of man, by thy presence possess'd.

With the brow of a fallen archangel, The lips of a beautiful fiend, And locks that are snake-like to strangle, And eyes from whose depths may be glean'd The presence of pa.s.sions, that tremble Unbidden, yet s.h.i.+ne as they may Through features too proud to dissemble, Too cold and too calm to betray Their secrets to creatures of clay.

Thy breath stirreth faction and party, Men rise, and no voice can avail To stay them--rose-tinted Astarte Herself at thy presence turns pale.

For deeper and richer the crimson That gathers behind thee throws forth A halo thy raiment and limbs on, And leaves a red track in the path That flows from thy wine-press of wrath.

For behind thee red rivulets trickle, Men fall by thy hands swift and lithe, As corn falleth down to the sickle, As gra.s.s falleth down to the scythe, Thine arm, strong and cruel, and shapely, Lifts high the sharp, pitiless lance, And rapine and ruin and rape lie Around thee. The Furies advance, And Ares awakes from his trance.

We, too, with our bodies thus weakly, With hearts hard and dangerous, thus We owe thee--the saints suffered meekly Their wrongs--it is not so with us.

Some share of thy strength thou hast given To mortals refusing in vain Thine aid. We have suffered and striven Till we have grown reckless of pain, Though feeble of heart and of brain.

Fair spirit, alluring if wicked, False deity, terribly real, Our senses are trapp'd, our souls tricked By thee and thy hollow ideal.

The soldier who falls in his harness, And strikes his last stroke with slack hand, On his dead face thy wrath and thy scorn is Imprinted. Oh! seeks he a land Where he shall escape thy command?

When the blood of thy victims lies red on That stricken field, fiercest and last, In the sunset that gilds Armageddon With battle-drift still overcast-- When the smoke of thy hot conflagrations O'ershadows the earth as with wings, Where nations have fought against nations, And kings have encounter'd with kings, When cometh the end of all things--

Then those who have patiently waited, And borne, unresisting, the pain Of thy vengeance unglutted, unsated, Shall they be rewarded again?

Then those who, enticed by thy laurels, Or urged by thy promptings unblest, Have striven and stricken in quarrels, Shall they, too, find pardon and rest?

We know not, yet hope for the best.

The Song of the Surf

White steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar On the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathom's length from the sh.o.r.e, Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild refrain, When speech the harshest and roughest is seldom studied in vain?

My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary monotone, In a hieroglyphic 'tis written--'tis spoken in a tongue unknown; Gathering, growing, and swelling, and surging, and s.h.i.+vering, say!

What is the tale you are telling? What is the drift of your lay?

You come, and your crests are h.o.a.ry with the foam of your countless years; You break, with a rainbow of glory, through the spray of your glittering tears.

Is your song a song of gladness? a paean of joyous might?

Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs you never can right?

For the empty seat by the ingle? for children 'reft of their sire?

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