(To the Czar, on a woman, a political prisoner, being flogged to death in Siberia.)
How many drops must gather to the skiesBefore the cloud-burst comes, we may not know;How hot the fires in under hells must glowEre the volcano's scalding lavas rise,Can none say; but all wot the hour is sure!Who dreams of vengeance has but to endure!He may not say how many blows must fall,How many lives be broken on the wheel,How many corpses stiffen 'neath the pall,How many martyrs fix the blood-red seal;But certain is the harvest time of Hate!And when weak moans, by an indignant worldRe-echoed, to a throne are backward hurled,Who listens, hears the mutterings of Fate!
How many drops must gather to the skiesBefore the cloud-burst comes, we may not know;How hot the fires in under hells must glowEre the volcano's scalding lavas rise,Can none say; but all wot the hour is sure!Who dreams of vengeance has but to endure!He may not say how many blows must fall,How many lives be broken on the wheel,How many corpses stiffen 'neath the pall,How many martyrs fix the blood-red seal;But certain is the harvest time of Hate!And when weak moans, by an indignant worldRe-echoed, to a throne are backward hurled,Who listens, hears the mutterings of Fate!
Philadelphia, February, 1890.
Why do you clothe me with scarlet of shame?Why do you point with your finger of scorn?What is the crime that you hissingly nameWhen you sneer in my ears, "Thou bastard born?"Am I not as the rest of you,With a hope to reach, and a dream to live?With a soul to suffer, a heart to knowThe pangs that the thrusts of the heartless give?I am no monster! Look at me—Straight in my eyes, that they do not shrink!Is there aught in them you can seeTo merit this hemlock you make me drink?This poison that scorches my soul like fire,That burns and burns until love is dry,And I shrivel with hate, as hot as a pyre,A corpse, while its smoke curls up to the sky?Will you touch my hand? It is flesh like yours;Perhaps a little more brown and grimed,For it could not be white while the drawers' and hewers',My brothers, were calloused and darkened and slimed.Yet touch it! It is no criminal's hand!No children are toiling to keep it fair!It is free from the curse of the stolen land,It is clean of the theft of the sea and air!It has set no seals to a murderous law,To sign a bitter, black league with death!No covenants false do these fingers drawIn the name of "The State" to barter Faith!It bears no stain of the yellow goldThat earth's wretches give as the cost of heaven!No priestly garment of silken foldI wear as the price of their "sins forgiven"!Still do you shrink! Still I hear the hissBetween your teeth, and I feel the scornThat flames in your gaze! Well, what is this,This crime I commit, being "bastard born"?What! You whisper my "eyes are gray,"The "color of hers," up there on the hill,Where the white stone gleams, and the willow sprayFalls over her grave in the starlight still!My "hands are shaped like" those quiet hands,Folded away from their life, their care;And the sheen that lies on my short, fair strandsGleams darkly down on her buried hair!My voice is toned like that silent toneThat might, if it could, break up through the sodWith such rebuke as would shame your stone,Stirring the grass-roots in their clod!And my heart-beats thrill to the same strong chords;And the blood that was hers is mine to-day;And the thoughts she loved, I love; and the wordsThat meant most to her, to me most say!She was my mother—I her child!Could ten thousand priests have made us more?Do you curse the bloom of the heather wild?Do you trample the flowers and cry "impure"?Do you shun the bird-songs' silver shower?Does their music arouse your curling scornThat none but God blessed them? The whitest flower,The purest song, were but "bastard born"!This is my sin,—I was born of her!This is my crime,—that I reverence deep!God, that her pale corpse may not stir,Press closer down on her lids—the sleep!Would you have me hate her? Me, who knewThat the gentlest soul in the world looked there,Out of the gray eyes that pitied youE'en while you cursed her? The long brown hairThat waved from her forehead, has brushed my cheek,When her soft lips have drunk up my salt of grief;And the voice, whose echo you hate, would speakThe hush of pity and love's relief!And those still hands that are folded nowHave touched my sorrows for years away!Would you have me question her whence and howThe love-light streamed from her heart's deep ray?Do you question the sun that it gives its gold?Do you scowl at the cloud when it pours its rainTill the fields that were withered and burnt and oldAre fresh and tender and young again?Do you search the source of the breeze that sweepsThe rush of the fever from tortured brain?Do you ask whence the perfume that round you creepsWhen your soul is wrought to the quick with pain?She was my Sun, my Dew, my Air,The highest, the purest, the holiest;Peace—was the shade of her beautiful hair,Love—was all that I knew on her breast!Would you have me forget? Or rememberingSay that her love had bloomed from Hell?ThenBlessed be Hell! And let Heaven sing"Te Deum laudamus," until it swellAnd ring and roll to the utterest earth,That the damned are free,—since out of sinCame the whiteness that shamed all ransomed worthTill God opened the gates, saying "Enter in!"What! In the face of the witness I bearTo her measureless love and her purity,Still of your hate would you make me to share,Despising that she gave life to me?You would have me stand at her helpless grave,To dig through its earth with a venomed dart!This is Honor! and Right! and Brave!To fling a stone at her pulseless heart!This is Virtue! To blast the lipsSpeechless beneath the Silence dread!To lash with Slander's scorpion whipsThe voiceless, defenseless, helpless dead!God! I turn to an adder now!Back upon you I hurl your scorn!Bind the scarlet upon your brow!Yeit is, who are "bastard born"!Touch me not! These hands of mineDespise your fairness—the leper's white!Tanned and hardened and black with grime,They are clean beside your souls to-night!Basely born! 'Tis ye are base!Ye who would guerdon holy trustWith slavish law to a tyrant race,To sow the earth with the seed of lust.Base! By Heaven! Prate of peace,When your garments are red with the stain of wars.Reeling with passion's mad releaseBy your sickly gaslight damn the stars!Blurred with wine ye behold the snowSmirched with the foulness that blots within!What of purity can ye know,Ye ten-fold children of Hell and Sin?Ye to judge her! Ye to castThe stone of wrath from your house of glass!Know ye the Law, that ye dare to blastThe bell of gold with your clanging brass?Know ye the harvest the reapers reapWho drop in the furrow the seed of scorn?Out of this anguish ye harrow deep,Ripens the sentence: "Ye, bastard born!"Ay, sin-begotten, hear the curse;Not mine—not hers—but the fatal Law!"Who bids one suffer, shall suffer worse;Who scourges, himself shall be scourgèd raw!"For the thoughts ye think, and the deeds ye do,Move on, and on, till the flood is high,And the dread dam bursts, and the waves roar through,Hurling a cataract dirge to the sky!"To-night ye are deaf to the beggar's prayer;To-morrow the thieves shall batter your wall!Ye shall feel the weight of a starved child's careWhen your warders under the Mob's feet fall!"'Tis the roar of the whirlwind ye invokeWhen ye scatter the wind of your brother's moans;'Tis the red of your hate on your own head broke,When the blood of the murdered spatters the stones!"Hark ye! Out of the reeking slums,Thick with the fetid stench of crime,Boiling up through their sickening scums,Bubbles that burst through the crimson wine,"Voices burst—with terrible sound,Crying the truth your dull souls ne'er saw!Weareyoursentence! The wheel turns round!The bastard spawn of your bastard law!"This is bastard: That Man should sayHow Love shall love, and how Life shall live!Setting a tablet to groove God's way,Measuring how the divine shall give!O, Evil Hearts! Ye have maddened me,That I should interpret the voice of God!Quiet! Quiet! O angered Sea!Quiet! I go to her blessed sod!Mother, Mother, I come to you!Down in your grasses I press my face!Under the kiss of their cold, pure dew,I may dream that I lie in the dear old place!Mother, sweet Mother, take me back,Into the bosom from whence I came!Take me away from the cruel rack,Take me out of the parching flame!Fold me again with your beautiful hair,Speak to this terrible heaving Sea!Over me pour the soothing of prayer,The words of the Love-child of Galilee:"Peace—be still!" Still,—could I but hear!Softly,—I listen.—O fierce heart, cease!Softly,—I breathe not,—low,—in my ear,—Mother, Mother—I heard you!—Peace!
Why do you clothe me with scarlet of shame?Why do you point with your finger of scorn?What is the crime that you hissingly nameWhen you sneer in my ears, "Thou bastard born?"
Am I not as the rest of you,With a hope to reach, and a dream to live?With a soul to suffer, a heart to knowThe pangs that the thrusts of the heartless give?
I am no monster! Look at me—Straight in my eyes, that they do not shrink!Is there aught in them you can seeTo merit this hemlock you make me drink?
This poison that scorches my soul like fire,That burns and burns until love is dry,And I shrivel with hate, as hot as a pyre,A corpse, while its smoke curls up to the sky?
Will you touch my hand? It is flesh like yours;Perhaps a little more brown and grimed,For it could not be white while the drawers' and hewers',My brothers, were calloused and darkened and slimed.
Yet touch it! It is no criminal's hand!No children are toiling to keep it fair!It is free from the curse of the stolen land,It is clean of the theft of the sea and air!
It has set no seals to a murderous law,To sign a bitter, black league with death!No covenants false do these fingers drawIn the name of "The State" to barter Faith!
It bears no stain of the yellow goldThat earth's wretches give as the cost of heaven!No priestly garment of silken foldI wear as the price of their "sins forgiven"!
Still do you shrink! Still I hear the hissBetween your teeth, and I feel the scornThat flames in your gaze! Well, what is this,This crime I commit, being "bastard born"?
What! You whisper my "eyes are gray,"The "color of hers," up there on the hill,Where the white stone gleams, and the willow sprayFalls over her grave in the starlight still!
My "hands are shaped like" those quiet hands,Folded away from their life, their care;And the sheen that lies on my short, fair strandsGleams darkly down on her buried hair!
My voice is toned like that silent toneThat might, if it could, break up through the sodWith such rebuke as would shame your stone,Stirring the grass-roots in their clod!
And my heart-beats thrill to the same strong chords;And the blood that was hers is mine to-day;And the thoughts she loved, I love; and the wordsThat meant most to her, to me most say!
She was my mother—I her child!Could ten thousand priests have made us more?Do you curse the bloom of the heather wild?Do you trample the flowers and cry "impure"?
Do you shun the bird-songs' silver shower?Does their music arouse your curling scornThat none but God blessed them? The whitest flower,The purest song, were but "bastard born"!
This is my sin,—I was born of her!This is my crime,—that I reverence deep!God, that her pale corpse may not stir,Press closer down on her lids—the sleep!
Would you have me hate her? Me, who knewThat the gentlest soul in the world looked there,Out of the gray eyes that pitied youE'en while you cursed her? The long brown hair
That waved from her forehead, has brushed my cheek,When her soft lips have drunk up my salt of grief;And the voice, whose echo you hate, would speakThe hush of pity and love's relief!
And those still hands that are folded nowHave touched my sorrows for years away!Would you have me question her whence and howThe love-light streamed from her heart's deep ray?
Do you question the sun that it gives its gold?Do you scowl at the cloud when it pours its rainTill the fields that were withered and burnt and oldAre fresh and tender and young again?
Do you search the source of the breeze that sweepsThe rush of the fever from tortured brain?Do you ask whence the perfume that round you creepsWhen your soul is wrought to the quick with pain?
She was my Sun, my Dew, my Air,The highest, the purest, the holiest;Peace—was the shade of her beautiful hair,Love—was all that I knew on her breast!
Would you have me forget? Or rememberingSay that her love had bloomed from Hell?ThenBlessed be Hell! And let Heaven sing"Te Deum laudamus," until it swell
And ring and roll to the utterest earth,That the damned are free,—since out of sinCame the whiteness that shamed all ransomed worthTill God opened the gates, saying "Enter in!"
What! In the face of the witness I bearTo her measureless love and her purity,Still of your hate would you make me to share,Despising that she gave life to me?
You would have me stand at her helpless grave,To dig through its earth with a venomed dart!This is Honor! and Right! and Brave!To fling a stone at her pulseless heart!
This is Virtue! To blast the lipsSpeechless beneath the Silence dread!To lash with Slander's scorpion whipsThe voiceless, defenseless, helpless dead!
God! I turn to an adder now!Back upon you I hurl your scorn!Bind the scarlet upon your brow!Yeit is, who are "bastard born"!
Touch me not! These hands of mineDespise your fairness—the leper's white!Tanned and hardened and black with grime,They are clean beside your souls to-night!
Basely born! 'Tis ye are base!Ye who would guerdon holy trustWith slavish law to a tyrant race,To sow the earth with the seed of lust.
Base! By Heaven! Prate of peace,When your garments are red with the stain of wars.Reeling with passion's mad releaseBy your sickly gaslight damn the stars!
Blurred with wine ye behold the snowSmirched with the foulness that blots within!What of purity can ye know,Ye ten-fold children of Hell and Sin?
Ye to judge her! Ye to castThe stone of wrath from your house of glass!Know ye the Law, that ye dare to blastThe bell of gold with your clanging brass?
Know ye the harvest the reapers reapWho drop in the furrow the seed of scorn?Out of this anguish ye harrow deep,Ripens the sentence: "Ye, bastard born!"
Ay, sin-begotten, hear the curse;Not mine—not hers—but the fatal Law!"Who bids one suffer, shall suffer worse;Who scourges, himself shall be scourgèd raw!
"For the thoughts ye think, and the deeds ye do,Move on, and on, till the flood is high,And the dread dam bursts, and the waves roar through,Hurling a cataract dirge to the sky!
"To-night ye are deaf to the beggar's prayer;To-morrow the thieves shall batter your wall!Ye shall feel the weight of a starved child's careWhen your warders under the Mob's feet fall!
"'Tis the roar of the whirlwind ye invokeWhen ye scatter the wind of your brother's moans;'Tis the red of your hate on your own head broke,When the blood of the murdered spatters the stones!
"Hark ye! Out of the reeking slums,Thick with the fetid stench of crime,Boiling up through their sickening scums,Bubbles that burst through the crimson wine,
"Voices burst—with terrible sound,Crying the truth your dull souls ne'er saw!Weareyoursentence! The wheel turns round!The bastard spawn of your bastard law!"
This is bastard: That Man should sayHow Love shall love, and how Life shall live!Setting a tablet to groove God's way,Measuring how the divine shall give!
O, Evil Hearts! Ye have maddened me,That I should interpret the voice of God!Quiet! Quiet! O angered Sea!Quiet! I go to her blessed sod!
Mother, Mother, I come to you!Down in your grasses I press my face!Under the kiss of their cold, pure dew,I may dream that I lie in the dear old place!
Mother, sweet Mother, take me back,Into the bosom from whence I came!Take me away from the cruel rack,Take me out of the parching flame!
Fold me again with your beautiful hair,Speak to this terrible heaving Sea!Over me pour the soothing of prayer,The words of the Love-child of Galilee:
"Peace—be still!" Still,—could I but hear!Softly,—I listen.—O fierce heart, cease!Softly,—I breathe not,—low,—in my ear,—Mother, Mother—I heard you!—Peace!
Enterprise, Kansas,January, 1891.