The duel of the warring cloudsHath ended with the day;Their scintillant, electric bladesHave ceased their fearful play;The pent up fury of their hateHath found at last release,And o'er the tempest-stricken earthBroods now the hush of peace.
The passing of the hurricaneHath swept the sultry skies;The clearness of the atmosphereBrings jubilant surprise;The mountain peaks are glorifiedWith freshly-fallen snow,And, stealing o'er their coronets,Appears the sunset glow.
An hour since, a torrid heatOppressed the languid frame;The wind was as the khamseen's breath,The solar touch seemed flame;But now the air rejuvenates,The breeze refreshment brings,The lustrous leaves drop diamonds,The lark with rapture sings.
Fear not, dear heart! life's darkest stormsShall likewise end in light;Behind the blackest thundercloudThe sun shines clear and bright;Once more celestial heights shall wearTheir sheen of spotless snow,And on the bravely steadfast soulThe smile of God shall glow.
My country! by our fathers rearedAs champion of the world's opprest;Whose moral force the tyrant feared;Whose flag all struggling freemen cheered;In clutching at an empire's crestThou too art fallen like the rest.
Not in thy numbers, wealth or might,Proud mistress of a continent!For rival nations, at the sightOf thy resources, view with frightThy progress without precedent;Not there is seen thy swift descent.
Reread the story of thy birth!Recall the years in conflict spentTo prove to a despairing earthThat every Government of worthIs really based on free consent;Then view with shame thy present bent!
Thou hadst a place unique, sublime;In many a land beyond the seaThe victims of despotic crimeIn thee, the latest born of Time,Beheld a land from tyrants free,The sacred Ark of Liberty.
But now the Old World's lust for landsInfects thee too; the dread diseaseHath left its plague-spots on thy hands;Thy monster area still expands;For, blind to history's Nemesis,Thou too wouldst alien races seize.
Condemning with profound disdainAll other nations' heartless greed,How couldst thou buy from humbled SpainA people struggling to attainA freedom suited to their need?Why stultify thy boasted creed?
Thine aid to them thou mightst have given,As France her aid once gave to thee;With them thy sons might well have striven,And their blood-rusted fetters riven;But why, in Heaven's name, should weShoot men aspiring to be free?
I tread the fields where thousands sleep,—The blood-soaked fields that freed the slave;What precious memories still they keepFor hearts that mourn and eyes that weep!Yet for the lives those heroes gaveWhat have we that they died to save?
A Union? Yes; outstretched in mightFrom snow to palm, from sea to sea;But pledged to use its strength aright,And evermore to keep alightThe torch of human liberty:Is this the Union that we see?
Where history's Martyr dared to breakThe power that held a race in chains,I see the ghastly lynching-stake,Where brutal mobs their vengeance take,And, since no law their course restrains,Gloat o'er their writhing victim's pains.
Race hatred,—born of groundless fearsAnd narrow prejudice of caste—,Now greets the cultured black with sneersAnd, barring him from high careers,Breaks, like a mad iconoclast,The nation's idols of the past.
No more can we with steadfast eyesProtest, when tortured races moanWith hands uplifted toward the skies;Their tyrants answer with surpriseAnd new-born insolence of tone,—"These are our lynchings; cure your own!"
Yet hope remains! A path retracedIs nobler than persistent wrong;A fault confessed is half effaced;That land alone can be disgracedWhich is not just, however strong,Toward those to whom its "spoils" belong.
My country! Would to God that praiseMight leave my lips, instead of blame!So near the parting of the ways,Subjected to the eager gazeOf millions, jealous of thy fame,Retrace the path that ends in shame!
Watchword sublime of Rome's imperial sage,Tersest of synonyms for self-control,Paramount precept of the Stoic's age,Noblest of mottoes for the lofty soul,—Would thou wert writ in characters of light,At every turn to greet my reverent gaze,And bid me face life's evils, calm, upright,Unspoiled alike by calumny or praise!With all our science we are slaves of Fate;What is to come we know not, cannot know;Grief, suffering, death,—all touch us soon or late,The master question, how to meet the blow.Grant me, ye Gods, through life a steadfast eye,And then, with equanimity, to die!
I woke from dreams of rare delightAnd visions of a joyous land,Where loved ones, long since lost to sight,Walked blithely with me, hand in hand:
Where every brow was free from care,And Youth's sublime ideals shoneLike planets in an Alpine air,And death's sad mystery was known.
I woke,—and like a bird that waits,Uncertain where to wend its flight,My spirit lingered at the gates,Which close upon that realm of light;
Till, slowly, all around grew clear,And once again the light of dayConvinced me that I still was here,Though all my dreams had passed away.
Once more I faced a world of Pain!Of quivering nerves and sure decay,Of helpless brutes, by millions, slainTo feed mankind a single day!
Of shivering children, scarred with blows,Of hunted bird and tortured beast,Of War, whose hideous programme showsIts means of homicide increased.
The same old world of greed and hate,Of selfish act and paltry aim,Of private fraud and venal State,Of deeds and doers steeped in shame!
What marvel if the spirit shrinksFrom plunging in that turbid stream?Or if, on waking thus, one thinksThat life was better in his dream?
Sweet, peaceful dreamland! I awaitThe favored hour, to pass againWithin thine asphodelian gate,Beyond the miseries of men;
To find old pleasures, long since gone,Perchance as vivid as of yore,Or else to sleep,—life's curtains drawn,—And reawaken … nevermore.
O sovereign Rome, still mistress of the heart,As of the world in thy majestic prime,Grand in thy ruins, peerless in thine art,Rich in the memories of a past sublime,
Is thine the fault or mine that thou art changed,And that I tread the new Tiberian shoreConvinced, alas! that we are now estranged,And that for me thy charm exists no more?
I have grown older, but am not blasé,My hair has whitened, but my heart is young,Still thrills my pulse the tomb-girt Appian Way,Still stirs my soul the ancient Latin tongue.
Whence then this transformation, that pervadesRome's very air, and leaves its blighting traceAlike upon the Pincio's colonnadesAnd on the Mausoleum's rugged face?
The fault, dear Rome, is neither thine nor mine,But that of vandals nurtured on thy breast,Who, mad as "modern citizens" to shine,Have fashioned thee like cities of the west.
Thy time-worn face, and figure deeply bowedBy countless sufferings for two thousand years,Whose proper garment seemed to be a shroud,Commanding reverence, sympathy and tears,
Are now bedecked with tawdry gems of paste;Parisian robes thy withered limbs conceal;Thy wrinkled cheeks are rouged; in vulgar tasteA modern watch-fob holds the Caesar's seal!
Where once imperial Triumphs proudly passed,Electric cars roll thundering through thy streets;In Raphael's groves the automobile's blastExpels the Muses from their calm retreats.
Through sinuous miles of shops with worldly waresBewildered pilgrims reach St. Peter's shrine;Some modern stamp each old piazza, bears;And freed from weeds, thy burnished ruins shine!
Near Hadrian's massive bridge of sculptured stone,The Tiber surges 'neath an iron frame,Across whose ugly beams the tramcars groan,And brand the river with a bar of shame.
Gods of Olympus, can ye not restoreTo outraged Rome her dignity of old?'Twere better Jove and Juno to adoreThan in their stead to worship only Gold!
Thy glorious statues, cruelly defaced,Thy crumbling shrines, thy marbles burnt to lime,The lone Campagna's fever-stricken waste,Where lizards bask on columns once sublime,—
The Flavian Amphitheatre's gaping wounds,The Baths of Caracalla's roofless walls,The Forum's multitude of ruined mounds,The royal Palatine's abandoned halls,—
All these indeed create a hopeless pain,When fancy strives to reconstruct the whole,Yet pathos, wakened by a wreck-strewn plain,Inspires at least nobility of soul.
But where a Syndic's greed hath left its trailThe picturesque and beautiful take flight;The Past's inspiring influences fail,As stars are hidden by electric light.
Yet protests meet derision and disdain;The fatal madness spreads from land to land;Peace, Art, and Beauty everywhere are slainBy greedy Traffic's hard, rapacious hand.
We laugh at lessons taught by others' fate,We see no ending to our prosperous day;Forgetting that, in turn, each ancient StateHath passed through bud and flower to decay.
Behold the retrogression of those landsWhence painting, sculpture and the drama sprung;See starved Trinacria's outstretched, empty hands,And all the classic shores by Homer sung!
In what have we surpassed them? We are taughtTheir art, their ethics, and their rythmic speech;Both Greece and Asia still control our thought,Their grandest works still far beyond our reach.
The breathless transfer of men, thoughts, and things,Improved designs for vaster fratricide,—Are these the leading gifts this century brings,The twentieth, too, since Christ was crucified?
Yet thoughts that most have influenced mankindWere not sent broadcast with the lightning's speed;Nor do the works of Plato lag behindThe myriad books and papers that we read!
And thou, Italia, that for ages playedA role whose majesty can ne'er be told,Hast thou, like all the rest, thy trust betrayed,Adored the New, and sacrificed the Old?
Wilt thou for fashion make thy Past forlorn?Waste precious substance upon useless ships?Transport to Africa thine eldest born,And let gaunt hunger blanch thy peasants' lips?
Make poorly paid officials banded knaves?Drive starving sons by thousands from thy shore,Or let them rot in Abyssinian graves,And hide the cancer festering at thy core?
If so, 'tis certain thou must dearly payFor playing thus the war-lord's pompous part,And thou shalt feel at no far-distant dayThe people's dagger driven through thy heart.
Fain would I find some peaceful Pagan shrineUnspoiled as yet by vandals of to-day,Around whose shafts the sweet, wild roses twine,And on whose marble walls the sunbeams play;
There would I dream of days when life was sweetWith poetry, art, and myths devoid of dread,When all the Gods in harmony could meet,And no eternal torment vexed the dead.
Our vaunted age is one of feverish haste,Of racial hatred and of loathsome cant,Of gross corruption and of tawdry taste,Of monster fortunes, with a world in want.
I am not of it, and I will not be!Its social strife and slavery I despise;Gone is its shore; I sail the open seaO'er tranquil waters and 'neath cloudless skies!
I tread the vast deserted stageWhereon the Caesars lived and died;The relics of Rome's golden ageLie strewn about me far and wide,Mementoes of an empire's pride,The homes of men once deified.
What are they now? Stupendous pilesOf mouldering corridors and walls,On which alike the sunshine smilesAnd cold the rain of winter falls;A wilderness of roofless hallsWhose tragic history appalls!
Below me, like an opened grave,The Forum's excavations lie,Where column, arch and architraveIn solemn grandeur greet the eye,Still guarding 'neath Italia's skyThe glory that can never die.
And here, above me and around,In part still shrouded by the soil,A stony chaos strews the ground,Where patient students delve and toilTo bring to light Time's buried spoil,And History's tangled threads uncoil.
Halt! where thou standest Rome was born!These stones by Romulus were placed,When, on that far-off April morn,Two snow-white bulls the furrow tracedFor Rome's first wall, which, firmly based,Two thousand years have not effaced.
From these rude blocks how vast the boundTo that huge, labyrinthine massThrough which the secret pathways wound,Where emperors, if alarmed, could pass;Yet even there could find, alas!The poignard or the poisoned glass.
What ghastly crimes these rooms recall!Here Nero watched his brother drainThe fatal draught, then lifeless fall;Here, too, Caligula was slain,When, shrieking, with disordered brain,He pleaded for his life in vain.
At every turn some pallid ghostWith haggard features seems to riseTo join the long-drawn, murdered hostThat moves with sad, averted eyes,Like victims to a sacrifice,To where the Via Sacra lies.
Behold the mighty Judgment Hall,Where Nero with indifferent airRemarked the pleading of St. Paul,Nor dreamed the man before him thereWould soon be read and reverenced whereThe Roman empire had no share!
Where are they all,—those men of prideWhose palace was the Palatine,From Romulus the fratricideTo Hadrian, and Constantine,The last of all the western lineOf Caesars who were deemed divine?
And all the millions who were swayedBy those who dwelt upon this hill,And who in humble awe obeyedThe dictates of their sovereign will,—Are they self-conscious beings still,Or are their minds and bodies … Nil?
I watch our planet's god declineBehind the tomb-girt Appian Way;The old, imperial PalatineGrows purple 'neath the sun's last ray;Shades of the Caesars, if ye may,The mystery of death portray!
Are there in truth Elysian Fields?And is there life beyond the grave?Or are the years that Nature yieldsConfined this side the Stygian wave?For those who more existence craveIs there a Power to help and save?
Alas! no answer; on their hillThe murdered Caesars make no sign;Their myriad subjects, too, are still,—Mute as the voiceless Palatine;Yet overhead the fixed stars shine,And bid us trust in the Divine!
Stately court of Fontainebleau,Nine and ninety years agoOn thy spacious esplanade,Ranged in formal dress parade,Stood the Emperor's grenadiersWith their bronzed cheeks wet with tears,Waiting once again to showLove for him at Fontainebleau.
Noon had struck above the square,When adown the Horse Shoe stairIn his well-known coat of gray,Worn on many a hard-fought day,Came the man adored by allAs their "Little Corporal,"Forced by Europe now to goFar from royal Fontainebleau.
In the ranks a sudden stirSwelled to shouts of Vive l'Empereur;Then deep silence reigned, save whereOn the peaceful summer airChoking sobs, but half suppressed,Came from many a faithful breastAt the overwhelming blowDealt them here at Fontainebleau.
Could the rumor, then, be true?Would he say to them adieu?Would their idol and their pride,He whom they had deified,Leave his royal grenadiers,Veteran troops of twenty years?Hark! he speaks in accents lowTo his Guard at Fontainebleau:—
"Comrades, brothers, we must part";(How his lov'd tones thrilled each heart!)"It were wrong to you and France,Did I once more say 'Advance';On the ruins of my StateI at last must abdicate,And with you no more can knowHappy days at Fontainebleau.
"Valiant soldiers of my Guard,Thus to part is doubly hard;Did you silence Prussian guns,March beneath Italian suns,Enter Moscow and Madrid,Fight beside the Pyramid,And survive grim Russia's snow,—Thus to yield at Fontainebleau?
"Heroes of great wars, farewell!You have heard my empire's knell,Yet no hostile world's decreeCan estrange your hearts from me;Exiled to a tiny isle,Through your tears you well may smileAt the realm my foes bestow,—Elba … after Fontainebleau!
"Now of all who once were trueI can count alone on you;Would that each might take the placeOf the eagle I embrace!Let the tears which on it fallMove the souls of one and all!Never have I loved you soAs to-day at Fontainebleau."
Hushed his voice; a moment more,At the passing carriage doorGleamed Napoleon's mournful eyes,—Smouldering flames of sacrifice;Then his pallid, classic faceVanished ghostlike into space,And a dreary sense of woeSettled over Fontainebleau.
Dead are now those grenadiers;Quelled are Europe's anxious fears;By the Seine the Emperor sleeps;France her watch beside him keeps;But the lonely Horse Shoe stairStill preserves its sombre air,For the light of long agoFalls no more on Fontainebleau.
The son of a Japanese lord am I,—A Prince of the olden time;My hair is white, though black as nightIn my youth and early prime;And again and again I ask myself,As the past I sadly scan,Are we better or worse? Was it blessing or curseThat foreigners brought Japan?
It is barely two score years and tenSince the epoch-making dayWhen a foreign fleet, through the summer heat,Came sailing up our bay;Still ring in my ears my father's words,As we watched it breast the waves,—"If strangers land on Nippon's strand,We may one day be their slaves."
But the strangers landed, and asked for tradeAnd a permanent "Open Door,"And we deemed it best to grant the WestA foothold on our shore;Their slaves in truth we have not become,Yet who can fail to findThat Japan obeys in a thousand waysThe will of the western mind?
We sent our sons across the seasTo learn from the Western PowersTheir modes of life and their modes of strife,And have made them largely ours;But before all else have we learned from themThat our first great aim, must beTo possess a fleet that can defeatAll rivals on the sea.
Hence, all that the West hath yet devisedFor the slaughter of men en masseWe have copied or bought, and have stopped at naughtTo make our fleet "first class";And lest this might not quite suffice,Should an enemy come in sight,We have made each man throughout JapanA soldier trained to fight!
But alas for the change that hath been wroughtIn the millions in our fields!For the costly ships take from their lipsThe food that the harvest yields;They were always poor, but their load was light,Compared with their load to-day,For thousands of hands that worked the landsAre drafted now away.
And sad are the scenes in the sphere of ArtIn which we had won such fame;The fingers left are not so deftAs they were when the strangers came;For then we toiled for Beauty's sake,And by time were we never paid;But now we have sold our art for goldAnd the western market's trade.
I never look at the goods now sent,—So worthless do they seem,—Without a sigh for the standard highWhich prevailed in the old regime;When even the hilt of a Daimio's swordWas a work of months or years,And the highest reward for a triumph scoredWas praise from the artist's peers.
No, the soul of my people is not the same;It was formerly sweet and kind,And happiness reigned in hearts restrainedBy an unspoiled, gentle mind;But now the lusts of the outer worldFor power, and lands, and gold,Our sons deprave, till they madly craveWhat others have and hold.
We have borrowed many things from the West,But one have we left alone;Of its Christian creed we had no need,And have thus far kept our own;For each of its numerous sects affirmsThat it has the only way,And that all the rest should be suppressed,For they lead mankind astray.
But worse than the claims of rival sectsAnd the war of clashing creeds,Is the gulf,—heaven-wide! which we descriedBetween their words and deeds;For He whose sacred name they bearWas known as the Prince of Peace,And what He taught, in practice wrought,Would cause all wars to cease.
They say with truth that we used to fightFor our Lords on sea and coast,But our soldiers then were as one to ten,Not a permanent armored host!Nor do we claim to obey the GodThey worship in the West;But, since they do, is it not trueThat they mock at His first behest?
His words were "Love your enemies!"And never a hostile actTo friend or foe should Christians show,By whomsoever attacked;But they are really the best preparedTo attack and to resist;And the Kaiser who prays is the Kaiser who says,—"Go! Strike with the mailed fist!"
We look abroad, and everywhereThe spirit of Christ is dead;Men call Him Lord, but they draw the swordIn defiance of what He said;And the haughty, white-skinned Christian raceHates men of a different hue,And robs and slays in a thousand ways,With excuses ever new.
In the North and South, in the East and WestIn vain do the natives plead;By the Congo's waves are countless graves,Where the Paleface gluts his greed;And China's fate looms dark and grim,As its people note the meansThat Christians take, when gold's at stake,From the Rand to the Philippines.
We have had to choose between the ruleOf the Sermon on the MountAnd the brutal fact that nations actWith an eye to their bank-account!And we see that the only way to shunThe clutch of the Western PowersIs to learn to kill with Christian skill,And to make their weapons ours.
For we will not, like the others, bendOur necks to the white man's yoke;And poor Japan, to her latest man,Will answer stroke with stroke;So I watch to-night a solemn sightOn the breast of the moonlit bay,As our gallant host for a hostile coastPrepares to sail away.
It is life or death for my native land,And I fear I may never seeThose ships again, with their noble men,Return from victory;And well I know in my heart of hearts,As the past I sadly scan,That we are worse, and it was a curseThat foreigners brought Japan.
1904.
[The great temple at Miyagi in Japan was recently the scene of grand funeral observances for the horses slain in the late war with Russia, the Buddhist priests reading prayers and conducting services of a most solemn character.]
Hark! how the Orient's bells are proclaimingObsequies strange to the shrines of the west—Services Christendom's cruelties shaming—Taught by the merciful, Buddha the blest.
Peace on Manchuria's plains has descended;Tall waves the grass where the chivalrous bled;Murder and massacre finally ended,Sadly the living remember their dead.
Requiem masses and prayers without numberPlead for the souls of the Muscovite brave,While of the Japanese, wrapt in death's slumber,Tender memorials honor each grave.
But in Gautama's compassionate teachingLove is not limited merely to man;Kindness to animals formed in his preachingNo less a part of his merciful plan.
Hence by the Buddhists, in counting the corsesHeaping with horror the death-trampled plain,Not unremembered are thousands of horses,Left unattended to die with the slain.
What did war seem to these poor, driven cattle?What was their part in the horrible fraySave to be shot in the fury of battle,Or from exhaustion to fall by the way?
Dragging huge guns over rocks and through mire,Trembling with weakness, yet straining each nerve,Fated at last in despair to expire,Uncomprehending, yet willing to serve!
Nothing to them were the hopes of a nation;"Czar" and "Mikado" were meaningless sounds;None of the patriot's deep inspirationSoftened the agony caused by their wounds.
Not for these martyrs the skill of physician,Ether for anguish or lint for a wound;Theirs but to lie in their crippled condition,Thirsting and starving on shelterless ground.
Hail to these quadrupeds, dead without glory!Honor to him who their valor reveres!Spare to these heroes, unmentioned in story,Something of sympathy, something of tears.
Into my garden sweet and fairBrightly the sun at noonday shines,Melting the frost from the wintry air,Warming the trellis of leafless vines.
Basking there in the genial heat,South of my sheltering vineyard wall,Strolling, I dream in my lov'd retreat,—The smile of the sun-god over all.
Far too early a shadow dark,Cast by the neighboring mountain's crest,Stealthily creeps across the park,Bringing a chill from the sombre west.
Little by little my sunlit spaceShrinks to a narrowing path of light;Further and further with dread I traceThe sure advance of approaching night.
Soon will arrive its twilight pall;Then, as the potent change is felt,The fountain's drops will cease to fallAnd feathery films refuse to melt.
But still in the solar warmth I wait,The hand of my lov'd one clasped in mine;Is that a tear? It is growing late,And she asks how long the sun will shine.
O joyous idler in the sun,In pity slacken here thy pace!A lad, whose course is nearly run,Is watching thee with wistful face.
The glow of health upon thy cheek,The youthful ardor in thy gait,Appear to him, so frail and weak,The bitter irony of Fate.
Thou art to him the vision fairOf all he once had hoped to be;What wonder, then, that in despairHis longing glances follow thee?
Let not the gulf too deep appearBetween thy fortune and his own!Thou didst not see that falling tear,Nor hear his low, half-stifled moan.
The pang of age compared with youth,Or hunger with the spendthrift's wealth,Gnaws not with such a cruel toothAs that of pain confronting health.
Yet must the strong ship breast the wave,The wreck lie rotting on the shore;O hopes that perish in the grave!O youthful dreams that come no more!
Had I but lived when music-loving PanStill played his flute amid the whispering reeds,When through Arcadian groves the dryads ran,And—symbolizing well man's earlier creeds—A host of sculptured forms, divinely fair,Portrayed the gods, and led men's thoughts to prayer,
I would have sought some beautiful retreat,Remote from cities and the din of men,—Some tranquil shore where lake and forest meetBy limpid stream or flower-lit, sylvan glen,And would have reared, where none could e'er intrude,A shrine to thee, O precious Solitude!
How hath a heedless world neglected thee,Thou coy divinity, too shy and proudTo sue for followers from those who seeAttraction merely in the strenuous crowd!For only those can know thee, as thou art,Who wisely seek and study thee … apart.
No rapt enthusiast, or mystic sage,No Asian founder of a faith divine,No bard, or writer of inspired pageHath ever failed to worship at thy shrine,O Nourisher of steadfast self-control,Of noble thoughts, of loftiness of soul!
Yet no continuous homage dost thou crave,No anchorite's seclusion wouldst thou ask,Thou lov'st no misanthrope or sullen slave,But only those who, faithful to life's task,Must yet at times look upward from the clod,And seek through thee acquaintanceship with God.
From the bitter fight I have made my wayTo the peaceful crest of a lonely hill,But the noise and heat of the deadly frayAnd the smart of wounds are with me still.
No recreant I to a noble cause,Nor traitor base to a leader bold;'Twas a fight where he won most applauseWho captured most of his neighbor's gold;
Where the wounded crawled away to die,Or, hopeless, ate their bread with tears,And the only cries that rent the skyWere the shouts of frenzied financiers.
Alas for the prematurely gray,Who struggle there through joyless livesTo win the means of more displayFor thankless children, thoughtless wives!
Alas for those whose spirits yearnFor leisure, books, and sunlit fields,Who yet can never pause to learnThe joy that a life of culture yields!
Still sway the mad crowds to and fro!I hear their groans and panting breath,The hideous impacts, blow on blow,The moans of those who are crushed to death!
None stoop to lift up those who fall;A thousand leap for a vacant place,Thrust weaker thousands to the wall,And trample many an upturned face!
But I, however the fight may go,Have turned my back on the sordid fray,To face the tranquil sunset-glow,And hope for the dawn of a better day.
Stand forth, my soul, and take thine own!Though all should blame thee, have no fear!Self-poised and steadfast, dare aloneThy self-elected course to steer.
Before thee lies the open sea;Beyond it is the wished-for shore;The route that seemeth best to theeSelect, and hesitate no more!
For he who lives the timorous slaveOf social plaudits or disdain,Drags feebly to a nameless graveA craven's ever-lengthening chain.
Are thy plans noble, just, and fair?Pursue them bravely to the end,Nor pause to question or to careWhat says thy foe, or what thy friend.
Succeed, and thou shalt surely findThat those who longed to see thee fail,And, lingering hopelessly behind,Spat venom on thine upward trail,
Shall run to reach thee on thy path,To grasp thy hand and say "'Twas well";Or, distant, gnaw their lips in wrath,Their envious hearts a living hell.
Forever, flint-like, set thy faceAgainst the loss of self-control;Compel the world to keep its place;Be thou the captain of thy soul!
You thought me sunk in lethargy, too deeply drugged with sleepTo notice how your armored fleets kept creeping o'er the deep,Too indolent to organize, too feeble to resist,Too timid to return the blow of Europe's mailèd fist;And Asia's conquest seemed to you a matter of such easeThat all your kings knew perfectly the part which each would seize.Of such a "sluggish, inert mass" why should you be afraid?You wanted ports and provinces for purposes of trade,And monster "spheres of influence", whose wealth could be controlledAnd plundered by your Governments to fill their vaults with gold;Hence, since it seemed so probable that none of us would fight,Why should you even hesitate to prove that Might makes Right?
And yet perhaps it had been well, before you formed your plan,To study Asia's history from Persia to Japan;For though the sleeping Orient, like grain before the blast,May bow its head, it rights itself when once the storm is past.How often has the Occident invaded our domainsAnd boasted of its victories! Yet of them what remains?Seems India exceptional? Fools, judge not by a day!The horologe of centuries moves slowly in Cathay.The brilliant son of Macedon saw, crushed and pale with fear,The vanquished East from Babylon to Egypt and Cashmere;But though the conquered Orient lay helpless, as his slave,Of Alexander's influence how much survived his grave?Of Rome's prodigious armaments, to Asian conquests led,Where is there now a souvenir save relics of the dead?And of the vast Crusading hosts, which in their madness roseAnd hurled themselves repeatedly upon their Moslem foes,—What is to-day the net result? A thousand years have passed,But none of all their vaunted gains proved great enough to last;The Saviour's tomb, Jerusalem, and all the sacred landsConnected with the Christian faith are still in Asian hands!
We needed rude awakening to rouse us from our sloth;It came among our northern isles, whose heroes, nothing loth,Unbarred their ports to modern fleets, their ancient life forswore,And learned from greedy foreigners the Christians' art of war.Behold! the world in fifty years is breathless with surprise,And Europe's greatest Government has sought us for allies!That little section of our mass aroused itself, and lo!Your largest Occidental Power has reeled beneath the blow;And while our living troops receive men's rapturous acclaim,Our fallen heroes have attained the Pantheon of fame.Yet think not we deceive ourselves; you praise, but really dreadThe valour of the Orient, if this awakening spread;Behind this movement of the East you think you hear the low,Long murmur of the Asians,—"The foreigner must go"!What wonder that we hate you all? You look on us to-dayAs lions look on antelopes,—their heaven-appointed prey;You know you have no lawful right to lands that you possess;You gained them all through violence, or lying and finesse;Your cursed opium alone, despite our prayers and tears,Has ruined millions of our race for more than two score years,And when we rose indignantly to right that bitter wrong,Your heavy guns bombarded us, and you annexed … Hong Kong!You force yourselves on us, and ask concessions, favors, mines,Protection for your mission schools, and grants of railway lines,But when we cross the seas to you, an entry you refuse,And curse, illtreat, and harry us with loathing and abuse.Japan has shown the only way of keeping for our ownThe fertile fields which rightfully belong to us alone;We do not wish to arm ourselves, and fighting we abhor,But self-protection forces us to learn and practise war.
Hence, if assailed, we shall not shun a struggle with the West;Not bent on conquest, like yourselves, but, rising to the testOf "Asia for the Asians", defend our threatened farmsBy sending to encounter you a million men in arms.You think yourselves invincible? Learn something from Japan,The fever of whose chivalry now spreads from man to man,Encouraging the Orient to hasten on the dayWhen all enlightened Asians shall cry "Enough! Away!Go exploit helpless Africa, where you have shamed the beast,But understand, your cruel day is over in the East!"You still have many things to learn, base worshippers of gold;When you were wild barbarians, our Governments were old!Your self-conceit and arrogance we therefore laugh to scorn;We had our laws millenniums before your courts were born.You talk by electricity, you ride on wings of steam,You thunder with machinery,—and these you proudly deemThe grandest triumphs of the race, forgetting that mere speedIn transference of men and things is less than one great deed.
You treat us condescendingly, as if our gifts were small,But do you think Almighty God has dowered you with all?Earth's greatest continent is ours; her highest mountains riseIn unapproached sublimity beneath our starry skies;Ours, too, the cradle of the race; and at our Buddha's shrineUnequalled numbers of mankind adore him as divine.How dare you speak of Asian thought with pity or a sneer,When practically all you know originated here?What had you been, if our ideals, in art and faith expressed,Had not come down through Greece and Rome to civilize your West?The great religions of the world are all of Asian birth,And thence went forth resistlessly to dominate the earth.Of six we granted one to you; and you profess its creeds,But what a sorry travesty you make of it in deeds!The Christ taught love to enemies; His followers to-dayHave trained the whole male Christian world their fellow men to slay!The very Bible that you prize was writ by Asian hands;Your prophets, saints, and patriarchs were all of Eastern lands;The Son of God, as you believe, was born a humble Jew;The Virgin Mother equally no other parents knew;Yet you have robbed and tortured Jews, and murdered them at willThrough eighteen Christian centuries,—are killing thousands still!
The "Star of Empire," as you claim, has "westward" made its way;But what if now in Eastern skies it heralds a new day?You fondly dreamed its brilliant course had ended there with you,But on it moves, old lands to greet, and belt the globe anew!Its kindling rays revivify our nations, which have sleptWhile round the world our influence through you has slowly crept.The coming century's great deeds lie not at Europe's doors;A grander stage awaits mankind,—the vast Pacific's shores;And we not only skirt that sea from Tokyo to Saigon,Our coastline fronts the western world from Syria to Ceylon!Again shall we supply to you the part of life you need;Again your slaves of strenuous toil shall live at slower speed;Once more, as pilgrims to a shrine, your chiefs shall come to me,And learn of my philosophy, as children at my knee.You cannot cut me from your past, nor cancel what you oweFor all my sages gave to you two thousand years ago;For after twenty centuries you think, and speak, and prayStill much as I instructed you in Syria and Cathay.Keep you, then, the material, I hold the mental, realm;For you the ship's machinery, for me the guiding helm!
I opened the cage of my pet canary;Timid, it faltered a moment there,Then, at my call, became less wary,And blithely sprang to the buoyant air.
Brief was its dream of freedom's rapture;A window barred its sunward flight;It beat its wings in fear of capture,But found no way to the world of light.
Out in the park two birds were mating,Building together their tiny nest;Keenly the captive watched them, waiting,Pressing the glass with its throbbing breast.
Leaving at length the window-casing,Lighting by chance on a neighboring shelf,It stood before a mirror, facingThe pretty form of its own sweet self.
Falling in love with its own reflection,Thinking it always another bird,Bravely it tried to win affection,Warbling tones I had never heard.
Hopeless alas! its tender wooing,Vainly it trilled its sweetest note,Coldly received was its ardent sueing,Silent the mirrored songster's throat.
Wearied at last, it flew off sadly,Back to the cage's open door,Back to the home it left so gladlyOnly a little hour before.
Dead are the lovers so fondly mated!Gone is their nest; it was blown away!But safe in the narrow cage it hatedThe captive sings on its perch to-day.
Snowy sails, silvery sails,Gleaming in the sun,Leaving scores of jewelled trailsIn the course you run,
On your white wings bear awayAll my care and pain;I would for at least to-dayBe a child again.
Just to thrill with youthful fire,Kindling heart and brain,Just to know the old desireLofty heights to gain;
Just to hold the simple faithInto which I grew,When my God was not a wraith,And all men were true!
Shadowed sails, clouded sails,Life hath made me knowThat you leave no jewelled trails,Proudly though you go;
Drops that floods of diamonds seemAre but dazzling spray,Fleeting as a happy dream,Swift to fade away.
Distant sails, waning sails,Waft me to some shoreWhere corroding care prevailsNever, nevermore!
Where the flotsam of the deepFinds its wanderings cease,And the shipwrecked sink to sleepOn the strand of peace.
Beside my opened window pane,Each morning in this month of MayA blackbird sings in dulcet strainTwo liquid notes, which seem to say"Come again! Come again!"
Alike in sunshine and in rain,Now loud and clear, now soft and low,He warbles forth the same refrain,Which haunts me with its hint of woe,—"Come again! Come again!"
What bird, whose absence gives him pain,Doth he thus tenderly recall?What longed-for joy would he regainBy those two words which rise and fall,—"Come again! Come again!"
Sometimes, when I too long have lainAnd listened to his plaintive air,An impulse I cannot restrainHath moved me too to breathe that prayer,—"Come again! Come again!"
O vanished youth, when faith was plain,When hopes were high, and manhood's yearsShowed dazzling summits to attain;O days, ere eyes grew dim with tears,—"Come again! Come again!"
O friends, whose memory leaves no stain,O dearly loved and early lost!Do you your love for me retainBeyond the silent sea you crossed?"Come again! Come again!"
Alas! sweet bird, all life moves on;The seed becomes the ripened grain,And what is past is gone, is gone!Cease calling, therefore,—'tis in vain—,"Come again! Come again!"
One by one they have slipped from Earth,And vanished into the depths of space,And I, beside my lonely hearth,Find none to take their place.
Never a word of fond farewellFell from their lips ere they were gone;Never a hint since then to tellIf after night came dawn!
Latest of all to thus depart,Still is thy hand-clasp warm in mine;Wilt thou not tell me where thou art?Canst thou impart no sign?
Wild are the winds above thy grave;Cold is the form I loved so well;But what to thee are storms that rave,Or the snow that last night fell?
Out in the awful void of night,Numberless suns and planets roll;Has one of all those isles of lightReceived thy homeless soul?
Mute is the sky as an empty tomb;Trackless the path, and all unknown;What means this journey through its gloom,Which each must make alone?
Vain is the task; I strive no moreTo learn the secret of their fate;Till sounds for me the muffled oar,I can but hope and wait.
But well I know they have gone from meInto the silent depths of space,Across a vast, uncharted sea,Whose shores I cannot trace.
To sleep and to forget,—O blessèd guerdon!The day is waning, and the night draws near;My failing heart grows weary of its burden;Why should I therefore hesitate or fearTo sleep and to forget?
Though bright my skies with transient gleams of gladness,And sweet the breath of many a summer sea,Yet, under all, a haunting note of sadnessForever lures me in its minor keyTo sleep and to forget.
Of petty souls whose joy is defamation,Of malice, envy, cruelty, and greedEach day supplies its sickening revelation,And makes imperative my spirit's needTo sleep and to forget.
Let others bravely plan for death's to-morrow,And crave fresh progress toward a higher goal!Appalled by Earth's long tragedy of sorrow,I humbly ask one favor for my soul,When this life's sun is set,—To sleep and to forget.
She sees our faces bright and gay,Our moving lips, our laughing eyes,But scarce a word of what we sayCan pass the zone that round her lies;—
A zone of stillness,—strange, profound,Invisible to mortal eye,Upon whose verge the waves of soundIn muffled murmurs break and die.
Across that silent void she strainsTo catch at least some wingèd word,And, though she fails, still smiles and feignsThe poor pretence of having heard.
That smile! Its pathos wrings the heartOf many a friend, who yet concealsThe tears that from his eyelids start,The grief and pity that he feels.
And she, aware of our distress,And sadly conscious of her own,Still bravely speaks, nor dares confessThat our real meaning is unknown.
What rapture, when the closing doorShuts out the world and gives release,And on her quivering nerves once moreDescends the benison of peace!
No longer forced to dimly readMen's meanings from their lips and looks,Her greatest joy, her only needThe sweet companionship of books!
Do we thus ever fully knowThe boon of leaving far behindThe world's dull tales of crime and woe,The gossip of its vacant mind?
What if her loss be really gain,That zone of silence a defence,A compensation for her pain,A quickening of her psychic sense?
Perhaps when fall at last awayThe chains which bind her spirit here,A voice divine will gently sayIn tones which reach alone her ear,—
"While others in that world of sinHeard evil things, to thee unknown,Apart from that defiling dinThy spirit grew, in strength, alone.
"They must through other lives returnTo slowly earn thy strength of soul;Through suffering only couldst thou learnThe virtue that hath made thee whole."
San Remo's palms in beauty standBeside the storied sea,Where azure band and golden sandAre wedded ceaselessly;For from the deep, which seems to sleep,The slow waves, long and low,Their journeys done, break one by oneIn rhythmic ebb and flow.
Before me lies a fair retreat,Whose every breath brings balmFrom plants replete with odors sweetAnd many a fronded palm;Hence at its gate I, spellbound, waitTo feast my gladdened eyesOn buds that wake and flowers that makeA perfumed paradise.
Alas, that love could not availTo guard this sweet repose!That strength should fail, and life prove frailAnd fleeting as the rose!So fair! and yet, who can forgetThe heir to Prussia's throne,Who here fought death with labored breath,And faced the great Unknown?
O Spirit of the Fatherland,O love that changeth not,Thy filial hand hath made this strandA consecrated spot;For on the wall, where roses fall,Bronze words recall his fate,—A sceptre won … when life was done,An empire gained … too late!
"Halt, wanderer from a German shore!"(Thus runs the sad refrain,)"Here dwelt thine Emperor, here he boreWith fortitude his pain;Hear'st thou the lone, low monotoneOf billows tempest-tossed?In that long roll the German soulStill mourns for him she lost."
San Remo's stately palms still riseBeside the storied shore;But he now lies 'neath northern skies,At peace forevermore,In that calm, deep, untroubled sleep,Whose secret none may know,While, one by one,—their courses run,—The long waves ebb and flow.
The autumn sun still bravely streamsAlong the tomb-girt Appian Way,And warms the heart of one who dreamsOf all its splendor on the dayWhen Scipio triumphed, bringing homeThe spoils of Africa to Rome.
On this same road the conqueror came,Called "Africanus, the Divine"By thousands who adored his fame,And proudly watched the endless lineOf Punic captives in his train,And trophies, won on Zama's plain.
To-day the vast Campagna rollsIn stately grandeur to the sea,But where are now the countless soulsWhose dwelling-place this used to be,When all its space to Ostia's gateLay peopled and inviolate?
Ask of the Claudian arches grayWhich stride toward Rome in broken lines;Ask of the lizards at their playOn relics of the Antonines;Ask of the fever-blighted shore,Where Roman galleys ride no more!
Yet some poor traces still remainOf those who here have lived and died;For underneath this solemn plainThe Christian catacombs still hide,—A city of sepulchral gloom,The martyrs' labyrinthine tomb.
Moreover, in this classic soil,Where sleeps so much of ancient Rome,A simple peasant at his toilDiscovered 'neath the upturned loamThe spot to which I now have come,—A Roman Columbarium.
Down through its modern, open doorA flood of mellow sunshine fallsIn golden waves from roof to floor,Revealing in its moss-grown wallsThe "dove-cotes", where one still discernsThe fragments of old funeral urns.
One vacant niche, whose ampler spaceBetokens special love and care,Contained no doubt a sculptured faceAbove the hallowed ashes there;While, just beneath, faint letters spellA faithful woman's fond farewell.
How often on love's wingèd feetShe doubtless sought this dear recess,To deck with floral offerings sweetHer sepulchre of happiness,Whose script, despite two thousand years,Preserves the memory of her tears!
Rome's annals hint not of the nameOf him whose dust lay treasured here,But could the fleeting breath of fameHave made him to her heart more dear?A word of tenderness outweighsIn woman's soul a world of praise.
What though, remote from pomp and state,At Caesar's court he could not shine?Less blest had surely been his fateUpon the lustful Palatine!And mutual love, wherever viewed,Is life's supreme beatitude.
Alas! the urn no longer standsWithin the little alcove dim;Gone also are the faithful handsThat hung sweet roses on its rim;And vanished even is the bustWhich watched above the sacred dust.
Yet still its words of love surviveThe shocks and tragedies of time,And bid our drooping hearts revive,Inculcating the faith sublimeThat, while the urn in ruin lies,Love soars immortal to the skies.
"Forward, comrades, ever forward"!Shout the leaders in the fight;"Scale the ramparts! Plant the standardOn the citadel of light!
"Break the chains of superstition!Crush corruption! Free the slave!Plant the flowers of love and mercyOn the past's ensanguined grave!
"Toward the strongholds of oppressionLead again the hope forlorn!See! the night is disappearing;Lo! the coming of the morn"!
Bravely said; yet men have spokenJust as bravely long ago,When the hair had raven blacknessWhich is now as white as snow;
And alas! how many thousandsHave responded to that call,Whose forgotten corpses moulderBy the still beleaguered wall!
Forms have changed and words have altered,But the things remain the same;Still doth man enslave his brother,—Always master, save in name.
Still are God's dumb creatures tortured,Racial hatreds never cease,And man's greatest self-delusionIs the shibboleth of "Peace."
Hence, while youth, with hope and courage,Loudly vents its noble rage;Age, profoundly disillusioned,Sad and silent leaves the stage.
Round the classic Inland Ocean,Where the Roman world held sway,Storied shores are iridescentWith the splendor of decay;
Persia, Syria, Egypt, Athens,Proud Byzantium, Carthage, Spain,—In their mournful desolationHear the old sea's sad refrain:—
"Rising, falling, waxing, waning,Men and nations come and go;Reaching glory, then declining,As the ebb succeeds the flow.
"All florescence is but fleeting:Each in turn enjoys its day,Hath its seed-time, bud and flower,And as surely fades away.
"Growth, maturity, decadence,—Form mankind's unchanging role,And the dead past's sombre ruinsAre prophetic of the whole."
"Nay," you cry in bitter protest,"Shall man have no perfect end,No millennial culmination,Toward which all the ages tend?
"Must all races prove decadent?Shall not one produce in timePerfect types of men and womenIn a world devoid of crime?"
Scan the lurid past, and tell usOn what ground you base your hopes!Does an endless line of failuresWarrant brighter horoscopes?
Hath not every race and nationSunk from grandeur to decay?What shall save us, then, from ruin?Are we better men than they?
"Great inventors", say you? Granted;Such material gifts are ours;Every age hath some distinction,Every race its special powers.
But the progress is not lasting,And the special powers decline;Man's advance is never constantIn one grand, unbroken line.
Nor is ground, once lost, recovered;Greece and Rome are not replaced!All the sites of pagan learningStill lie desolate and waste.
What know we,—except in physics—,That the ancients did not know?Are we wiser than the sagesOf two thousand years ago?
More devout than Hebrew prophets?More upright than Antonine?More accomplished than the Grecians,Or than Buddha more divine?
And if such men could not hinderFate's resistless rise and fall,How can we expect exemptionFrom the common lot of all?
Let us frankly face the prospectThat man's progress here may fail;That the race may never triumph,But again descend the scale,
Till the last surviving savageTo his glacial cave retires,And earth's tragic drama closes,As humanity expires!
And why not? All weaker speciesTo the stronger yield their place;May the same law not be neededThrough the boundless realms of space?
By whatever beings peopled,Worlds that fail to meet the testMay like fruitless blossoms perish;God will winnow out the best.
Would you know our planet's value?View the star-strewn dome of night!In that shoreless sea of splendorWhat is one faint wave of light?
Worlds by millions are revolvingThrough that vast, unfathomed main;Should our tiny orb make shipwreck,Worlds by millions would remain;
Where perchance a real advancementMay prevail from pole to pole,Without losses, without lapses,Toward a final, perfect goal.
This at least can not be doubted,—That our globe will one day rollCold and lifeless thro' its orbit,Like a corpse without its soul.
Will mankind have reached perfectionEre that epoch has begun,Or grown bestial, as the heat-wavesIssue feebly from the sun?
None may know. Through blood-stained cyclesWe have thus far made our way:Of the unknown depths beneath usWe are nothing but the spray.