There's a love supreme in the great hereafter,The buds of earth are blooms in heaven;The smiles of the world are ripples of laughterWhen back to its Aidenn the soul is given:And the tears of the world, though long in flowing,Water the fields of the bye-and-bye;They fall as dews on the sweet grass growingWhen the fountains of sorrow and grief run dry.Though clouds hang over the furrows now sowingThere's a harvest sun-wreath in the After-sky!No love is wasted, no heart beats vainly,There's a vast perfection beyond the grave;Up the bays of heaven the stars shine plainly,The stars lying dim on the brow of the wave.And the lights of our loves, though they flicker and wane, theyShall shine all undimmed in the ether-nave.For the altars of God are lit with soulsFanned to flaming with love where the star-wind rolls.
There's a love supreme in the great hereafter,The buds of earth are blooms in heaven;The smiles of the world are ripples of laughterWhen back to its Aidenn the soul is given:And the tears of the world, though long in flowing,Water the fields of the bye-and-bye;They fall as dews on the sweet grass growingWhen the fountains of sorrow and grief run dry.Though clouds hang over the furrows now sowingThere's a harvest sun-wreath in the After-sky!
No love is wasted, no heart beats vainly,There's a vast perfection beyond the grave;Up the bays of heaven the stars shine plainly,The stars lying dim on the brow of the wave.And the lights of our loves, though they flicker and wane, theyShall shine all undimmed in the ether-nave.For the altars of God are lit with soulsFanned to flaming with love where the star-wind rolls.
St. Johns, Michigan, 1889.
Quiet they lie in their shrouds of rest,Their lids kissed close 'neath the lips of peace;Over each pulseless and painless breastThe hands lie folded and softly pressed,As a dead dove presses a broken nest;Ah, broken hearts were the price of these!The lips of their anguish are cold and still,For them are the clouds and the gloom all past;No longer the woe of the world can thrillThe chords of those tender hearts, or fillThe silent dead-house! The "people's will"Has mapped asunder the strings at last."The people's will!" Ah, in years to come,Dearly ye'll weep that ye did not save!Do ye not hear now the muffled drum,The tramping feet and the ceaseless hum,Of the million marchers,—trembling, dumb,In their tread to a yawning, giant grave?And yet, ah! yet there's a rift of white!'Tis breaking over the martyrs' shrine!Halt there, ye doomed ones,—it scathes the night,As lightning darts from its scabbard brightAnd sweeps the face of the sky with light!"No more shall be spilled out the blood-red wine!"These are the words it has written there,Keen as the lance of the northern morn;The sword of Justice gleams in its glare,And the arm of Justice, upraised and bare,Is true to strike, aye, 'tis strong to dare;It will fall where the curse of our land is born.No more shall the necks of the nations be crushed,No more to dark Tyranny's throne bend the knee;No more in abjection be ground to the dust!By their widows, their orphans, our dead comrades' trust,By the brave heart-beats stilled, by the brave voices hushed,We swear that humanity yet shall be free!
Quiet they lie in their shrouds of rest,Their lids kissed close 'neath the lips of peace;Over each pulseless and painless breastThe hands lie folded and softly pressed,As a dead dove presses a broken nest;Ah, broken hearts were the price of these!
The lips of their anguish are cold and still,For them are the clouds and the gloom all past;No longer the woe of the world can thrillThe chords of those tender hearts, or fillThe silent dead-house! The "people's will"Has mapped asunder the strings at last.
"The people's will!" Ah, in years to come,Dearly ye'll weep that ye did not save!Do ye not hear now the muffled drum,The tramping feet and the ceaseless hum,Of the million marchers,—trembling, dumb,In their tread to a yawning, giant grave?
And yet, ah! yet there's a rift of white!'Tis breaking over the martyrs' shrine!Halt there, ye doomed ones,—it scathes the night,As lightning darts from its scabbard brightAnd sweeps the face of the sky with light!"No more shall be spilled out the blood-red wine!"
These are the words it has written there,Keen as the lance of the northern morn;The sword of Justice gleams in its glare,And the arm of Justice, upraised and bare,Is true to strike, aye, 'tis strong to dare;It will fall where the curse of our land is born.
No more shall the necks of the nations be crushed,No more to dark Tyranny's throne bend the knee;No more in abjection be ground to the dust!By their widows, their orphans, our dead comrades' trust,By the brave heart-beats stilled, by the brave voices hushed,We swear that humanity yet shall be free!
Pittsburg, 1889.
("We are the birds of the coming storm."—August Spies.)
("We are the birds of the coming storm."—August Spies.)
The tide is out, the wind blows off the shore;Bare burn the white sands in the scorching sun;The sea complains, but its great voice is low.Bitter thy woes, O People,And the burdenHardly to be borne!Wearily grows, O People,All the achingOf thy pierced heart, bruised and torn!But yet thy time is not,And low thy moaning.Desert thy sands!Not yet is thy breath hot,Vengefully blowing;It wafts o'er lifted hands.The tide has turned; the vane veers slowly round;Slow clouds are sweeping o'er the blinding light;White crests curl on the sea,—its voice grows deep.Angry thy heart, O People,And its bleedingFire-tipped with rising hate!Thy clasped hands part, O People,For thy prayingWarmed not the desolate!God did not hear thy moan:Now it is swellingTo a great drowning cry;A dark wind-cloud, a groan,Now backward veeringFrom that deaf sky!The tide flows in, the wind roars from the depths,The whirled-white sand heaps with the foam-white waves;Thundering the sea rolls o'er its shell-crunched wall!Strong is thy rage, O People,In its furyHurling thy tyrants down!Thou metest wage, O People.Very swiftly,Now that thy hate is grown:Thy time at last is come;Thou heapest anguish,Where thou thyself wert bare!No longer to thy dumbGod clasped and kneeling,Thou answerest thine own prayer.
The tide is out, the wind blows off the shore;Bare burn the white sands in the scorching sun;The sea complains, but its great voice is low.
Bitter thy woes, O People,And the burdenHardly to be borne!Wearily grows, O People,All the achingOf thy pierced heart, bruised and torn!But yet thy time is not,And low thy moaning.Desert thy sands!Not yet is thy breath hot,Vengefully blowing;It wafts o'er lifted hands.
The tide has turned; the vane veers slowly round;Slow clouds are sweeping o'er the blinding light;White crests curl on the sea,—its voice grows deep.
Angry thy heart, O People,And its bleedingFire-tipped with rising hate!Thy clasped hands part, O People,For thy prayingWarmed not the desolate!God did not hear thy moan:Now it is swellingTo a great drowning cry;A dark wind-cloud, a groan,Now backward veeringFrom that deaf sky!
The tide flows in, the wind roars from the depths,The whirled-white sand heaps with the foam-white waves;Thundering the sea rolls o'er its shell-crunched wall!
Strong is thy rage, O People,In its furyHurling thy tyrants down!Thou metest wage, O People.Very swiftly,Now that thy hate is grown:Thy time at last is come;Thou heapest anguish,Where thou thyself wert bare!No longer to thy dumbGod clasped and kneeling,Thou answerest thine own prayer.
Sea Isle City, N. J., August, 1889.
[A]Since the death of the author this poem has been put to music by the young American composer, George Edwards.
[A]Since the death of the author this poem has been put to music by the young American composer, George Edwards.