Part 2 (1/2)
IX
Ah no!
We have not fallen so.
We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know!
'T was only yesterday sick Cuba's cry Came up the tropic wind, ”Now help us, for we die!”
Then Alabama heard, And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho Shouted a burning word.
Proud state with proud impa.s.sioned state conferred, And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth, East, west, and south, and north, Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and young Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan, By the unforgotten names of eager boys Who might have tasted girls' love and been stung With the old mystic joys And starry griefs, now the spring nights come on, But that the heart of youth is generous,-- We charge you, ye who lead us, Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain!
Turn not their new-world victories to gain!
One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the bays Of their dear praise, One jot of their pure conquest put to hire, The implacable republic will require; With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon, Or subtly, coming as a thief at night, But surely, very surely, slow or soon That insult deep we deeply will requite.
Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity!
For save we let the island men go free, Those baffled and dislaureled ghosts Will curse us from the lamentable coasts Where walk the frustrate dead.
The cup of trembling shall be drained quite, Eaten the sour bread of astonishment, With ashes of the hearth shall be made white Our hair, and wailing shall be in the tent; Then on your guiltier head Shall our intolerable self-disdain Wreak suddenly its anger and its pain; For manifest in that disastrous light We shall discern the right And do it, tardily.--O ye who lead, Take heed!
Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite.
1900.
THE QUARRY
Between the rice swamps and the fields of tea I met a sacred elephant, snow-white.
Upon his back a huge paG.o.da towered Full of bra.s.s G.o.ds and food of sacrifice.
Upon his forehead sat a golden throne, The ma.s.sy metal twisted into shapes Grotesque, antediluvian, such as move In myth or have their broken images Sealed in the stony middle of the hills.
A peac.o.c.k spread his thousand dyes to screen The yellow sunlight from the head of one Who sat upon the throne, clad stiff with gems, Heirlooms of dynasties of buried kings,-- Himself the likeness of a buried king, With frozen gesture and unfocused eyes.
The trappings of the beast were over-scrawled With broideries--sea-shapes and flying things, Fan-trees and dwarfed nodosities of pine, Mixed with old alphabets, and faded lore Fallen from ecstatic mouths before the Flood, Or gathered by the daughters when they walked Eastward in Eden with the Sons of G.o.d Whom love and the deep moon made garrulous.
Between the carven tusks his trunk hung dead; Blind as the eyes of pearl in Buddha's brow His beaded eyes stared thwart upon the road; And feebler than the doting knees of eld, His joints, of size to swing the builder's crane Across the war-walls of the Anakim, Made vain and shaken haste. Good need was his To hasten: panting, foaming, on the slot Came many brutes of prey, their several hates Laid by until the sharing of the spoil.
Just as they gathered stomach for the leap, The sun was darkened, and wide-balanced wings Beat downward on the trade-wind from the sea.
A wheel of shadow sped along the fields And o'er the dreaming cities. Suddenly My heart misgave me, and I cried aloud, ”Alas! What dost thou here? What dost _thou_ here?”
The great beasts and the little halted sharp, Eyed the grand circler, doubting his intent.
Straightway the wind flawed and he came about, Stooping to take the vanward of the pack; Then turned, between the chasers and the chased, Crying a word I could not understand,-- But stiller-tongued, with eyes somewhat askance, They settled to the slot and disappeared.
1900.
ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES
Streets of the roaring town, Hush for him, hush, be still!
He comes, who was stricken down Doing the word of our will.
Hus.h.!.+ Let him have his state, Give him his soldier's crown.
The grists of trade can wait Their grinding at the mill, But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown.
Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone.
Toll! Let the great bells toll Till the clas.h.i.+ng air is dim.
Did we wrong this parted soul?
We will make it up to him.
Toll! Let him never guess What work we set him to.
Laurel, laurel, yes; He did what we bade him do.
Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good; Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's-blood.