Part 3 — CHAPTER XI HOW TO READ POETRY (continued 3)

O the long and dreary Winter! O the cold and cruel Winter! Ever thicker, thicker, thicker, Froze the ice on lake and river, Ever deeper, deeper, deeper Fell the snow o’er all the landscape, Fell the covering snow, and drifted Through the forest, round the village. Hardly from his buried wigwam Could the hunter force a passage; With his mittens and his snow-shoes Vainly walked he through the forest, Sought for bird or beast and found none, Saw no track of deer or rabbit, In the snow beheld no footprints, In the ghastly, gleaming forest Fell, and could not rise from weakness, Perished there from cold and hunger. O the famine and the fever! O the wasting of the famine! O the blasting of the fever! O the wailing of the children! O the anguish of the women! All the earth was sick and famished; Hungry was the air around them, Hungry was the sky above them, And the hungry stars in heaven Like the eyes of wolves glared at them! Into Hiawatha’s wigwam Came two other guests, as silent As the ghosts were, and as gloomy; Waited not to be invited, Did not parley at the doorway, Sat there without word of welcome In the seat of Laughing Water; Looked with haggard eyes and hollow At the face of Laughing Water. And the foremost said: “Behold me! I am Famine, Bukadawin!” And the other said: “Behold me! I am Fever, Ahkosewin!” And the lovely Minnehaha Shuddered as they looked upon her, Shuddered at the words they uttered, Lay down on her bed in silence, Hid her face, but made no answer; Lay there trembling, freezing, burning At the looks they cast upon her, At the fearful words they uttered. Forth into the empty forest Rushed the maddened Hiawatha; In his heart was deadly sorrow, In his face a stony firmness; On his brow the sweat of anguish Started, but it froze and fell not. Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting, With his mighty bow of ash-tree, With his quiver full of arrows, With his mittens, Minjekahwun, Into the vast and vacant forest On his snow-shoes strode he forward. “Gitche Manito, the Mighty!” Cried he with his face uplifted In that bitter hour of anguish, “Give your children food, O Father! Give us food, or we must perish! Give me food for Minnehaha, For my dying Minnehaha!” Through the far-resounding forest, Through the forest vast and vacant Rang that cry of desolation, But there came no other answer Than the echo of his crying, Than the echo of the woodlands, “Minnehaha! Minnehaha!” All day long roved Hiawatha In that melancholy forest, Through the shadow of whose thickets, In the pleasant days of Summer, Of that ne’er forgotten Summer, He had brought his young wife homeward From the land of the Dacotahs; When the birds sang in the thickets, And the streamlets laughed and glistened, And the air was full of fragrance, And the lovely Laughing Water Said with voice that did not tremble, “I will follow you, my husband!” In the wigwam with Nokomis, With those gloomy guests, that watched her, With the Famine and the Fever, She was lying, the Beloved, She, the dying Minnehaha. “Hark!” she said; “I hear a rushing, Hear a roaring and a rushing, Hear the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to me from a distance!” “No, my child!” said old Nokomis, “’Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!” “Look!” she said; “I see my father Standing lonely at his doorway, Beckoning to me from his wigwam In the land of the Dacotahs!” “No, my child!” said old Nokomis, “’Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!” “Ah!” said she, “the eyes of Pauguk Glare upon me in the darkness, I can feel his icy fingers Clasping mine amid the darkness! Hiawatha! Hiawatha!” And the desolate Hiawatha, Far away amid the forest, Miles away among the mountains, Heard that sudden cry of anguish, Heard the voice of Minnehaha Calling to him in the darkness, “Hiawatha! Hiawatha!” Over snow-fields waste and pathless, Under snow-encumbered branches, Homeward hurried Hiawatha, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing: “Wahonowin! Wahonowin! Would that I had perished for you, Would that I were dead as you are! Wahonowin! Wahonowin!” And he rushed into the wigwam, Saw the old Nokomis slowly Rocking to and fro and moaning, Saw his lovely Minnehaha Lying dead and cold before him, And his bursting heart within him Uttered such a cry of anguish, That the forest moaned and shuddered, That the very stars in heaven Shook and trembled with his anguish. Then he sat down, still and speechless, On the bed of Minnehaha, At the feet of Laughing Water, At those willing feet, that never More would lightly run to meet him, Never more would lightly follow. With both hands his face he covered, Seven long days and nights he sat there, As if in a swoon he sat there, Speechless, motionless, unconscious Of the daylight or the darkness. Then they buried Minnehaha; In the snow a grave they made her, In the forest deep and darksome, Underneath the moaning hemlocks; Clothed her in her richest garments, Wrapped her in her robes of ermine; Covered her with snow, like ermine; Thus they buried Minnehaha. And at night a fire was lighted, On her grave four times was kindled, For her soul upon its journey To the Islands of the Blessed. From his doorway Hiawatha Saw it burning in the forest, Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; From his sleepless bed uprising, From the bed of Minnehaha, Stood and watched it at the doorway, That it might not be extinguished, Might not leave her in the darkness. “Farewell,” said he, “Minnehaha! Farewell, O my Laughing Water! All my heart is buried with you, All my thoughts go onward with you! Come not back again to labor, Come not back again to suffer, Where the Famine and the Fever Wear the heart and waste the body. Soon my task will be completed, Soon your footsteps I shall follow To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the Land of the Hereafter!”

Upon the field of Gettysburg The summer sun was high, When Freedom met her haughty foe Beneath a northern sky. Among the heroes of the North That swelled her grand array, And rushed like mountain eagles forth From happy homes away, There stood a man of humble fame,— A sire of children three,— And gazed within a little frame His pictured ones to see: And blame him not if, in the strife, He breathed a soldier’s prayer,— “O Father! shield the soldier’s wife, And for his children care.” Upon the field of Gettysburg, When morning shone again, The crimson cloud of battle burst In streams of fiery rain: Our legions quelled the awful flood Of shot and steel and shell, While banners, marked with ball and blood, Around them rose and fell: And none more nobly won the name Of Champion of the Free Than he who pressed the little frame That held his children three; And none were braver in the strife Than he who breathed the prayer,— “O Father! shield the soldier’s wife, And for his children care.” Upon the field of Gettysburg The full moon slowly rose,— She looked, and saw ten thousand brows All pale in death’s repose; And down beside a silver stream, From other forms away, Calm as a warrior in a dream, Our fallen comrade lay; His limbs were cold, his sightless eyes Were fixed upon the three Sweet stars that rose in memory’s skies To light him o’er death’s sea. Then honored be the soldier’s life, And hallowed be his prayer,— “O Father! shield the soldier’s wife, And for his children care.”

Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! All rivers seaward wend. Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! Weep for the nation’s friend. Every home and hall was shrouded, Every thoroughfare was still; Every brow was darkly clouded, Every heart was faint and chill. Oh! the inky drop of poison In our bitter draught of grief! Oh! the sorrow of a nation Mourning for its murdered chief! Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! Bound in the reaper’s sheaf— Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! All mortal life is brief. Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! Weep for the nation’s chief! Bands of mourning draped the homestead, And the sacred house of prayer; Mourning folds lay black and heavy On true bosoms everywhere: Yet there were no tear-drops streaming From the deep and solemn eye Of the hour that mutely waited Till the funeral train went by. Oh! there is a woe that crushes All expression with its weight! There is pain that numbs and hushes Feeling’s sense, it is so great. Strongest arms were closely folded, Most impassioned lips at rest; Scarcely seemed a heaving motion In the nation’s wounded breast; Tears were frozen in their sources, Blushes burned themselves away; Language bled through broken heart-threads, Lips had nothing left to say. Yet there was a marble sorrow In each still face, chiseled deep; Something more than words could utter, Something more than tears could weep. Selfishly the nation mourned him, Mourned its chieftain and its friend; Eye no traitor mist could darken, Arm no traitor power could bend; Heart that gathered the true pulses Of the land’s indignant veins, And, with their tempestuous spurning, Broke the slave’s tear-rusted chains: Heart that tied its iron fibers Round the Union’s starry band; Martyr’s heart, that upward beating, Broke on hate’s assassin hand! Oh! the land he loved will miss him, Miss him in its hour of need! Mourns the nation for the nation Till its tear-drops inward bleed. There is one whose life will mourn him, With a deep, unselfish woe; One who owned him chief and master Ere the nation named him so. That the land he loved will miss him Does she either think or care? No! the chieftain’s heart is shrouded, And her woman’s world was there. No! the nation was her rival; Let its glory shine or dim, He hath perished on its altar— What were many such to him? Toll! Toll! Toll! Toll! Never again—no more— Comes back to earth the life that goes Hence to the Eden shore! Let him rest!—it is not often That his soul hath known repose; Let him rest!—they rest but seldom Whose successes challenge foes. He was weary—worn with watching; His life-crown of power hath pressed Oft on temples sadly aching— He was weary, let him rest. Toll, bells at the Capital! Bells of the land, toll! Sob out your grief with brazen lungs— Toll! Toll! Toll!

I knew he was morose that day Because he did not speak to me, But now I know he was away Upon the hills of Italy. He showed me once long months before The picture of a dark-eyed girl Within a locket that he wore— A little keepsake wrought of pearl. His life had known no counter gale, He had the aid of wind and tide, And dreamed that soon a snowy sail Should bear him to his future bride. ’Twas but a letter—nothing much— A scrap of paper sent to him, Yet something he did clutch and clutch The while his dusky eyes grew dim. And oh, how eagerly he scanned Each syllable that formed her name! He crushed the letter in his hand And fed it to the driftwood flame. As in a dream he sat and stared At night’s black pall around us hung; I would have spoken if I’d dared, But silence had a gentler tongue. He did not curse as men will do, Of grief he gave no outward sign; That bitter draught of myrrh and rue He drank as though it had been wine. With joyless heart he crooned a song Of love and hope, as day by day We hauled our heavy seine along The pebbled beaches of the bay. At last—ah, Christ, I’ll not forget! I never saw the like before! An empty boat—we, chilled and wet, And ten leagues from our cabin door! Ten leagues—a stormy row! But fishermen know naught of fear; Had we ere this not faced the snow When winter nights were dark and drear? Had we not braved the Storm-king’s glee When winds were shrill and waves were high, Been battered by a raging sea And swung below a ragged sky? “Oho! Cheer up!” I cried, “We’ve dared the seas before, my mate, What matter if ill luck betide?— Why, we were born to laugh at fate!” He grasped his oar with one long sigh, Nor spoke he any word to me; And so together, he and I, Put out upon the angry sea. And side by side, with steady stroke; We fought against the veering flaw; In flakes of froth the billows broke— The wildest wolves I ever saw! Ah, how the cutting north wind blew, And in our faces dashed the spray! The sullen twilight round us grew, The green shore faded into gray. “Cheer up! Cheer up! A merry row We’ll have ere dawn of day!” laughed I; “And what care we how winds may blow?” The Sea’s voice only made reply. A silent man he left the shore, Nor yet a single word had said; A silent man he dipped his oar As though it were a thing of lead. The night came down and still we toiled, The tumult fiercer grew, and now The swirling tide-rip foamed and boiled, And ghostly seas swept o’er the prow. The air was filled with flying spume, Cloud-galleons sailed down the sky, Strange forms groped toward us in the gloom, Pale phantoms glided swiftly by. Afar, at times, a lonely loon Sent quavering laughter through the night, While from a filmy sheath the moon Drew forth a sabre, keen and bright. Oh, it was weird!—the seabird’s screech, The distant buoy’s warning bell, The white palms lifting high to reach A loosened star that downward fell! Within my breast each moment grew A fear of more than wind-blown sea; And lo! that mute man, laughing, threw Aside his oar and leered at me. That moonlit face! It haunts me still! The eyes that spoke the maddened brain! That moonlit face! it sent a thrill Of terror through my every vein! “Aha! You thought me dead, you cur!”— His breath blew hot against my cheek; “Aha! You coward, you lied to her!”— I felt my limbs grow strangely weak. “Lorenzo! Look! The boat! The boat!”— But how can mad men understand? My God! He leaped to clutch my throat, A wicked dagger in his hand! That lifted knife! Ah, yet I feel A horror of the deadly thing! The long, keen blade of polished steel Against the white stars quivering. I upward sprang—I grasped somehow The hand that held the hilt of bone; With panther strength he struggled now, A demon I must fight—alone! He strove to slay, and I to save His life and mine if such might be, And in the trough and on the wave Like beasts we grappled savagely. To plead were vain; I could not hear My voice above the tempest’s breath, I only knew my feet were near The awful, icy edge of Death. We fought until the dark became A glare of crimson to my eyes, Until the stars were snakes of flame That writhed along the lurid skies. We fought I know not how—to me All things of that mad night appear As vague as when in dreams you see The ghouls that haunt the coast of Fear. We fought—we fought and then—and then— A leap—a cry—and he was gone! And I alone pulled shoreward when The East had grown the flower of dawn. ... I knew he was morose that day Because he did not speak to me, But now I know he was away Upon the hills of Italy.

A wind from the south swept down the bay, And pale with anger the waters turned As the ranchman’s wife looked far away To where the lights of the city burned. Like feeble stars on that Christmas eve Were the pulsing lights beyond the tide; “Now play with your dolly and do not grieve,” Said she to the wee one at her side. “Good Santa Claus will come to you This very night if you do not cry,” And she wiped a tear like a drop of dew From the rosy cheek and the anxious eye. “No sail! No sail!” and the sad wife pressed A wan face close to the window-pane, But naught she saw but the sea’s white breast And the long gray lash of the hissing rain. The night fell black and the wild gale played In the chimney’s throat a shrill, weird tune, While into a cloud as if afraid Stole the ghostly form of the groping moon. Then the steeds of the sea all landward came, Each panting courser thundered o’er The rocks of the reef and died in flame Along the utmost reach of shore. Ah, heavy the heart of the ranchman’s wife! And long she listened, yet only heard The voice of breakers in awful strife And the plaintive cry of a frightened bird. So long she waited and prayed for day As the firelight flickered upon the floor, While the prowling wind like a beast of prey Did growl and growl at the cabin door. The gray dawn crept through the weeping wood, The clouds set sail and all was still; With a breast of gold the fair morn stood Above the firs of the eastern hill. The waters slept and the raindrops clung Like shimmering pearls to the maple tree; The sky was clear and the brown birds flung Sweet showers of crystal melody. A splintered mast and a tattered sail Lay out in the sun on the hard brown sands And plainer than words they told a tale To the woman who wept and wrung her hands. And the little girl with the gold-crowned head Looked up with her tear-wet eyes of blue; “Oh, please don’t cry, mamma,” she said, “Old Santa Claus forgot me, too.”

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow: The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth; Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew. And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of “Little Nell.” Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy—for the reader Was youngest of them all— But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall; The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes—o’ertaken As by some spell divine— Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire; And he who wrought that spell?— Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell! Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak, and holly And laurel wreaths entwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly— This spray of Western pine!

Sometimes ’long after supper my grandsire used to sit Where the sunbeams through the window things of beauty liked to knit, And he’d light his pipe and sit there in a sort of waking dream, While to bathe his form in glory seemed the sunlight’s pretty scheme; And then, whatever happened, he didn’t seem to see, And a smile lit up his features that used to puzzle me, And I would often wonder what pleasant inner theme Had caused that strange and tranquil smile when grandpa used to dream. Sometimes, though, when I’d listen I’d hear the good man sigh, And once I’m almost sure I saw the moisture in his eye, But whether he would smile or sigh, he didn’t seem to see The things that happened ’round him, and that’s what puzzled me. With the wreaths of smoke ascending as the twilight gathered there, The shadows crept about him in the old arm chair, And through the evening darkness I could see the fitful gleam From the embers in his lighted pipe when grandpa used to dream. I used to wonder in those days. I wonder now no more, For now I understand the thing that puzzled me of yore, And I know that through the twilight and the shadows gathering fast Came unto my grandsire, dreaming, the visions of the past. The boys who played with him were there within that little room; His mother’s smile no doubt lit up the darkness and the gloom; Again he ran and leaped and played beside an Eastern stream; The ones he loved were there, I know, when grandpa used to dream. And so he smiled—and then she stood, his dearest, at his side, With the glow of youth upon her, red-lipped and laughing eyed, And he told the old, sweet story, and she listened, nothing loth, And dreams of hope were written in the happy hearts of both; And then, by strange transition, he saw her pulseless lie— And ’twas then I viewed the moisture in the corner of his eye. Old friends were gathered round him, though they’d crossed death’s mystic stream, In that hour of smiles and sighing when my grandsire used to dream. Oh, glad, sad gift of memory to call our dear ones back And win them from their narrow homes to Time’s still beaten track! Yours was the power my grandsire held while twilight turned to night; Through you his loved returned again and blessed his longing sight; And I no longer wonder, when his dreaming I recall, At smiles and sighs succeeding while the shadows hid us all, For, while my pencil’s trailing and I’ve half forgot my theme, I, too, am seeing visions, as my grandsire used to dream.

We dwelt in the woods of the Tippe-canoe, In a lone lost cabin, with never a view Of the full day’s sun for a whole year through. With strange half hints through the russet corn We children were hurried one night. Next morn There was frost on the trees, and a sprinkle of snow, And tracks on the ground. Three boys below The low eave listened. We burst through the door, And a girl baby cried,—and then we were four. We were not sturdy, and we were not wise In the things of the world, and the ways men dare. A pale-browed mother with a prophet’s eyes, A father that dreamed and looked anywhere. Three brothers—wild blossoms, tall-fashioned as men And we mingled with none, but we lived as when The pair first lived ere they knew the fall; And, loving all things, we believed in all. Ah! girding yourself and throwing your strength On the front of the forest that stands in mail, Sounds gallant, indeed, in a pioneer’s tale, But, God in heaven! the weariness Of a sweet soul banished to a life like this! This reaching of weary-worn arms full length; This stooping all day to the cold stubborn soil— This holding the heart! it is more than toil! What loneness of heart! what wishing to die In that soul in the earth, that was born for the sky! We parted wood-curtains, pushed westward and we, Why, we wandered and wandered a half year through, We tented with herds as the Arabs do, And at last lay down by the sundown sea. Then there in that sun did my soul take fire! It burned in its fervor, thou Venice, for thee! My glad heart glowed with the one desire To stride to the front, to live, to be! To strow great thoughts through the world as I went, As God sows stars through the firmament. Venice, 1874.

In the forenoon’s restful quiet, When the boys are off at school, When the window lights are shaded And the chimney corner cool, Then the old man seeks his arm-chair, Lights his pipe and settles back; Falls a-dreaming as he draws it Till the smoke wreaths gather black. And the tear-drops come a-trickling Down his cheeks, a silver flow— Smoke or memories you wonder, But you never ask him, no; For there’s something almost sacred To the other family folks In those moods of silent dreaming When the old man smokes. Ah, perhaps he sits there dreaming Of the love of other days And how he used to lead her Through the merry dances maze; How he called her “little princess.” And, to please her, used to twine Tender wreaths to crown her tresses, From the “matrimony vine.” Then before his mental vision Comes, perhaps, a sadder day, When they left his little princess Sleeping with her fellow clay. How his young heart throbbed, and pained him! Why the memory of it chokes! Is it of these things he’s thinking When the old man smokes? But some brighter thoughts possess him, For the tears are dried the while. And the old worn face is wrinkled In a reminiscent smile, From the middle of the forehead To the feebly trembling lip, At some ancient prank remembered Or some unheard of quip. Then the lips relax their tension And the pipe begins to slide, Till in little clouds of ashes, It falls gently at his side; And his head bends lower and lower Till his chin lies on his breast, And he sits in peaceful slumber Like a little child at rest. Dear old man, there’s something sad’ning, In these dreamy moods of yours, Since the present proves so fleeting, All the past for you endures; Weeping at forgotten sorrows, Smiling at forgotten jokes; Life epitomized in minutes, When the old man smokes.

A fire mist and a planet, A crystal and a cell, A jelly-fish and a saurian, And caves where the cavemen dwell; Then a sense of law and beauty, And a face turned from the clod; Some call it Evolution, And others call it God. A haze on the far horizon, The infinite tender sky; The ripe, rich tints of the cornfields, And the wild geese sailing high; And all over upland and lowland The charm of the golden-rod; Some of us call it Autumn, And others call it God. Like the tide on the crescent sea beach, When the moon is new and thin, In our hearts high yearnings Come welling and surging in. Come from the mystic ocean, Whose rim no foot has trod; Some of us call it Longing, And others call it God. A picket frozen on duty, A mother starved for her brood; Socrates drinking the hemlock, And Jesus on the road; The millions who, humble and nameless, The straight, hard pathway trod; Some call it Consecration, And others call it God.

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world. Who made him dead to rapture and despair, A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity? Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And pillared the blue firmament with light? Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this— More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed— More filled with signs and portents for the soul— More fraught with menace to the universe. What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long reaches of the peaks of song, The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; Time’s tragedy is in the aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profaned and disinherited, Cries protest to the Judges of the World, A protest that is also prophecy. O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? How will you ever straighten up this shape; Touch it again with immortality; Give back the upward looking and the light; Rebuild in it the music and the dream; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, How will the Future reckon with this Man? How answer his brute questions in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? How will it be with kingdoms and with kings— With those who shaped him to the thing he is— When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, After the silence of the centuries?

I went to a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer, The publican ’e up an’ sez, “We serve no redcoats here.” The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die, I out into the street again, an’ to myself sez I: O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”; But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,” when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,” when the band begins to play. I went into a theater as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but ’adn’t none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls, But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls! For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”; But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide, The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide, O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide. Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap; An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit. Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ’ow’s yer soul?” But it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll. We aren’t no thin red ’eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too, But single men in barracks, most remarkably like you; An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barracks don’t grow into plaster saints; While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind,” But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind, There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind, O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind. You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all: We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don’t mess about the cook-room shops, but prove it to our face The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace. For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!” But it’s “Saviour of ’is country” when the guns begin to shoot; An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please; An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool—you bet that Tommy sees!

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My true love has mounted his steed, and away Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down— Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown! He has doff’d the silk doublet the breastplate to bear, He has placed the steel cap o’er his long-flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down— Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown! For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws; Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause; His watchword is honor, his pay is renown— God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown! They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall; But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town, That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown. There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There’s Erin’s high Ormond, and Scotland’s Montrose! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown? Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier! Be his banner unconquer’d, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.

Ivor never heard of Rudolph, Rudolph never heard of Ivor, Yet each of them flies at the other—and dies; For some one, somewhere, has said “War!” Twelve million men to be marshaled And murdered and mangled and maimed; Twelve million men, by the stroke of the pen, To be slaughtered—and no one ashamed. Mountains of wealth to be wasted, Oceans of tears to be shed, Valleys of light to be turned into night, Rivers of blood to run red. Thousands of wives to be widowed, Millions of mothers to mourn, Thousands in sorrow to wait the to-morrow, Millions of hearts to be torn. Thousands of fathers to perish, Millions of children to moan, Ages of time to prepare for a crime That eons can never atone. Thousands of homes to be shattered, Millions of prayers to be vain. Thousands of ways to the glory that pays In poverty, panic and pain. Twelve million men in God’s image Sentenced to shoot and be shot, Kill and be killed, as ruler has willed, For what—For what—For what? Ivor never heard of Rudolph, And Rudolph knows naught of Ivor, Yet each of them flies at the other—and dies, For some one, somewhere, has said “War!”

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell High tho’ his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.

My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:— There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle’s edge, And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel— That blue blade that the king’s son bears—but this Blunt thing—!” he snapped and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day.

For glory? For good? For fortune or fame? Why, he for the front when the battle is on! Leave the rear to the dolt, the lazy, the lame, Go forward as ever the valiant have gone; Whether city or field, whether mountain or mine, Go forward, right on to the Firing Line. Whether newsboy or plowboy, cowboy or clerk, Fight forward, be ready, be steady, be first; Be fairest, be bravest, be best at your work; Exalt and be glad; dare to hunger, to thirst, As David, as Alfred—let dogs skulk and whine— There is room but for men on the Firing Line. Aye, the place to fight and the place to fall— As fall we must, all in God’s good time— It is where the manliest man is the wall, Where boys are as men in their pride and prime, Where glory gleams brightest, where brightest eyes shine, Far out on the roaring red Firing Line.

Over Northumbria’s lone, gray lands, Over the frozen marl, Went flying the fogs from the fens and sands, And the wind with a wolfish snarl. Frosty and stiff by the York wall Stood the rusty grass and the yarrow: Gone wings and songs to the southland, all— Robin and starling and sparrow. Weary with weaving the battle-woof, Came the king and his thanes to the Hall: Feast-fires reddened the beams of the roof, Torch flames waved from the wall. Bright was the gold that the table bore, Where platters and beakers shone: Whining hounds on the sanded floor Looked hungrily up for a bone. Laughing, the king took his seat at the board, With his gold-haired queen at his right: War-men sitting around them roared Like a crash of the shields in fight. Loud rose laughter and lusty cheer, And gleemen sang loud in their throats, Telling of swords and the whistling spear, Till their red beards shook with the notes. Varlets were bringing the smoking boar, Ladies were pouring the ale, When the watchman called from the great hall door: “O King, on the wind is a wail. “Feebly the host of the hungry poor Lift hands at the gate with a cry: Grizzled and gaunt they come over the moor, Blasted by earth and sky.” “Ho!” cried the king to the thanes, “make speed— Carry this food to the gates— Off with the boar and the cask of mead— Leave but a loaf on the plates.” Still came a cry from the hollow night: “King, this is one day’s feast; But days are coming with famine-blight; Wolf winds howl from the east!” Hot from the king’s heart leaped a deed, High as his iron crown: (Noble souls have a deathless need To stoop to the lowest down.) “Thanes, I swear by Godde’s Bride This is a cursèd thing— Hunger for the folk outside, Gold inside for the king!” Whirling his war-ax over his head, He cleft each plate into four. “Gather them up, O thanes,” he said, “For the workfolk at the door. “Give them this for the morrow’s meat, Then shall we feast in accord: Our half of a loaf will then be sweet— Sweet as the bread of the Lord!”

I Before the Cathedral in grandeur rose, At Ingelburg where the Danube goes; Before its forest of silver spires Went airily up to the clouds and fires; Before the oak had ready a beam, While yet the arch was stone and dream— There where the altar was later laid, Conrad the cobbler plied his trade. II Doubled all day on his busy bench, Hard at his cobbling for master and hench, He pounded away at a brisk rat-tat, Shearing and shaping with pull and pat, Hide well hammered and pegs sent home, Till the shoe was fit for the Prince of Rome. And he sang as the threads went to and fro: “Whether ’tis hidden or whether it show, Let the work be sound, for the Lord will know.” III Tall was the cobbler, and gray and thin, And a full moon shone where the hair had been. His eyes peered out, intent and afar, As looking beyond the things that are. He walked as one who is done with fear, Knowing at last that God is near. Only the half of him cobbled the shoes; The rest was away for the heavenly news. Indeed, so thin was the mystic screen That parted the Unseen from the Seen, You could not tell, from the cobbler’s theme If his dream were truth or his truth were dream. IV It happened one day at the year’s white end, Two neighbors called on their old-time friend; And they found the shop, so meager and mean, Made gay with a hundred boughs of green. Conrad was stitching with face ashine, But suddenly stooped as he twitched a twine: “Old friends, good news! At dawn to-day, As the cocks were scaring the night away, The Lord appeared in a dream to me, And said, ‘I am coming your Guest to be!’ So I’ve been busy with feet astir, Strewing the floor with branches of fir. The wall is washed and the shelf is shined, And over the rafter the holly twined. He comes to-day, and the table is spread, With milk and honey and wheaten bread.” V His friends went home; and his face grew still As he watched for the shadow across the sill. He lived all the moments o’er and o’er, When the Lord should enter the lowly door— The knock, the call, the latch pulled up, The lighted face, the offered cup. He would wash the feet where the spikes had been; He would kiss the hands where the nails went in; And then at the last would sit with Him And break the bread as the day grew dim. VI While the cobbler mused, there passed his pane A beggar drenched by the driving rain. He called him in from the stony street And gave him shoes for his bruisèd feet. The beggar went and there came a crone, Her face with wrinkles of sorrow sown. A bundle of fagots bowed her back, And she was spent with the wrench and rack. He gave her his loaf and steadied her load As she took her way on the weary road. Then to his door came a little child, Lost and afraid in the world so wild, In the big, dark world. Catching it up, He gave it the milk in the waiting cup, And led it home to its mother’s arms, Out of the reach of the world’s alarms. VII The day went down in the crimson west And with it the hope of the blessed Guest, And Conrad sighed as the world turned gray: “Why is it, Lord, that your feet delay? Did You forget that this was the day?” Then soft in the silence a Voice he heard: “Lift up your heart, for I kept my word. Three times I came to your friendly door; Three times my shadow was on your floor. I was the beggar with bruisèd feet; I was the woman you gave to eat; I was the child on the homeless street!”

When Pickett charged at Gettysburg, For three long days, with carnage fraught, Two hundred thousand men had fought; And courage could not gain the field, Where stubborn valor would not yield. With Meade on Cemetery Hill, And mighty Lee thundering still Upon the ridge a mile away; Four hundred guns in counterplay Their deadly thunderbolts had hurled— The cannon duel of the world! When Pickett charged at Gettysburg. When Pickett charged at Gettysburg, Dread war had never known such need Of some o’ermastering, valiant deed; And never yet had cause so large Hung on the fate of one brief charge. To break the center, but a chance; With Pickett waiting to advance; It seemed a crime to bid him go, And Longstreet said not “Yes” nor “No,” But silently he bowed his head. “I shall go forward!” Pickett said. Then Pickett charged at Gettysburg. Then Pickett charged at Gettysburg; Down from the little wooded slope, A-step with doubt, a-step with hope, And nothing but the tapping drum To time their tread, still on they come. Four hundred cannon hush their thunder, While cannoneers gaze on in wonder! Two armies watch, with stifled breath, Full eighteen thousand march to death, At elbow-touch, with banners furled, And courage to defy the world, In Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. ’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: None but tried veterans can know How fearful ’tis to charge the foe; But these are soldiers will not quail, Though Death and Hell stand in their trail! Flower of the South and Longstreet’s pride, There’s valor in their very stride! Virginian blood runs in their veins, And each his ardor scarce restrains; Proud of the part they’re chosen for: The mighty cyclone of the war, In Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. ’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: How mortals their opinions prize When armies march to sacrifice, And souls by thousands in the fight On Battle’s smoky wing take flight. Firm-paced they come, in solid form The dreadful calm before the storm. Those silent batteries seem to say: “We’re waiting for you, men in gray!” Each anxious gunner knows full well Why every shot of his must tell On Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. ’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: What grander tableau can there be Than rhythmic swing of infantry At shouldered arms, with flashing steel? As Pickett swings to left, half-wheel, Those monsters instantly outpour Their flame and smoke of death! and roar Their fury on the silent air— Starting a scene of wild despair: Lee’s batteries roaring: “Room! Make room!!” With Meade’s replying: “Doom! ’Tis doom To Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg!” ’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: Now Hancock’s riflemen begin To pour their deadly missiles in. Can standing grain defy the hail? Will Pickett stop? Will Pickett fail? His left is all uncovered through That fateful halt of Pettigrew! And Wilcox from the right is cleft By Pickett’s half-wheel to the left! Brave Stannard rushes ’tween the walls, No more disastrous thing befalls Brave Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. ’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: How terrible it is to see Great armies making history: Long lines of muskets belching flame! No need of gunners taking aim When from that thunder-cloud of smoke The lightning kills at every stroke! If there’s a place resembling hell, ’Tis where, ’mid shot and bursting shell, Stalks Carnage, arm in arm with Death, A furnace blast in every breath, On Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. ’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg: Brave leaders fall on every hand! Unheard, unheeded all command! Battered in front and torn in flank; A frenzied mob in broken rank! They come like demons with a yell, And fight like demons all pell-mell! The wounded stop not till they fall; The living never stop at all— Their blood-bespattered faces say: “’Tis death alone stops men in gray, With Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg!” Stopped Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg Where his last officer fell dead, The dauntless, peerless, Armistead! Where ebbed the tide and left the slain Like wreckage from the hurricane— That awful spot which soldiers call “The bloody angle of the wall,” There Pickett stopped, turned back again Alone, with just a thousand men! And not another shot was fired— So much is bravery admired! Pickett had charged at Gettysburg. Brave Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg! The charge of England’s Light Brigade Was nothing to what Pickett made To capture Cemetery Hill— To-day a cemetery still, With flowers in the rifle-pit, But no one cares to capture it. The field belongs to those who fell; They hold it without shot or shell! While cattle yonder in the vale Are grazing on the very trail Where Pickett charged at Gettysburg. Where Pickett charged at Gettysburg, In after-years survivors came To tramp once more that field of fame; And Mrs. Pickett led the Gray, Just where her husband did that day. The Blue were waiting at the wall, The Gray leaped over, heart and all! Where man had failed with sword and gun, A woman’s tender smile had won: The Gray had captured now the Blue, What mortal valor could not do When Pickett charged at Gettysburg.

Wild tempest swirled on Moscow’s castled height; Wild sleet shot slanting down the wind of night; Quick snarling mouths from out of the darkness sprang To strike you in the face with tooth and fang. Javelins of ice hung on the roofs of all; The very stones were aching in the wall, Where Ivan stood a watchman on his hour, Guarding the Kremlin by the northern tower, When, lo! a half-bare beggar tottered past, Shrunk up and stiffened in the bitter blast. A heap of misery he drifted by, And from the heap came out a broken cry. At this the watchman straightened with a start; A tender grief was tugging at his heart, The thought of his dead father, bent and old And lying lonesome in the ground so cold. Then cried the watchman starting from his post: “Little father, this is yours; you need it most!” And tearing off his hairy coat, he ran And wrapt it warm around the beggar man. That night the piling snows began to fall, And the good watchman died beside the wall. But waking in the Better Land that lies Beyond the reaches of these cooping skies, Behold, the Lord came out to greet him home, Wearing the hairy heavy coat he gave By Moscow’s tower before he felt the grave! And Ivan, by the old Earth-memory stirred, Cried softly with a wonder in his word: “And where, dear Lord, found you this coat of mine, A thing unfit for glory such as Thine?” Then the Lord answered with a look of light: “This coat, My son, you gave to Me last night.”

When I see a workingman with mouths to feed, Up, day after day, in the dark before the dawn, And coming home, night after night, through the dusk, Swinging forward like some fierce silent animal, I see a man doomed to roll a huge stone up an endless steep. He strains it onward inch by stubborn inch, Crouched always in the shadow of the rock.... See where he crouches, twisted, cramped, misshapen: He lifts for their life; The veins knot and darken— Blood surges into his face.... Now he loses—now he wins— Now he loses—loses—(God of my soul!) He digs his feet into some earth— There’s a moment of terrified effort.... Will the huge stone break his hold, And crush him as it plunges to the gulf? The silent struggle goes on and on, Like two contending in a dream.

I Beat back thy forfeit plow-shares into swords: It is not yet, the far, seraphic dream Of peace made beautiful and love supreme. Now let the strong, unweariable chords Of battle shake to thunder, and the hordes Advance, where now the famished vultures scream. The standards gather and the trumpets gleam; Down the long hill-side stare the mounted lords. Now far beyond the tumult and the hate, The white-clad nurses and the surgeons wait The backward currents of tormented life, When on the waiting silences shall come The screams of men, and, ere those lips are dumb, The searching probe, the ligature and knife. II Was it for such, the brutehood and the pain, Civilization gave her holy fire Unto thy wardship, and the snowy spire Of her august and most exalted fane? Are these the harvests of her ancient rain Men reap at evening in the scarlet mire, Or where the mountain smokes, a dreadful pyre, Or where the warship drags a bloody stain? Are these thy votive lilies and their dews, That now the outraged stars look down to see? Behold them, where the cold prophetic damps Congeal on youthful brows so soon to lose Their dream of sacrifice to thee—to thee, Harlot to Murder in a thousand camps! III Was it for this that loving men and true Have labored in the darkness and the light To rear the solemn temple of the Right, On Reason’s deep foundations, bared anew Long after the Cæsarian eagles flew And Rome’s last thunder died upon the Night? Cuirassed, the cannon menace from the height; Armored, the new-born eagles take the blue. Wait not thy lords the avenging, certain knell— One with the captains and abhorrent fames The echoes of whose conquests died in Hell?— They that have loosened the ensanguined flood, And whose malign and execrable names The Seraph of the Record writes in blood. IV From gravid trench and sullen parapet, Profane the wounded lands with mine or shell! Turn thou upon the world thy cannons’ Hell, Till many million women’s eyes are wet! Ravage and slay! Pile up the eternal debt! But when the fanes of France and Belgium fell Another ruin was on earth as well, And ashes that the race shall not forget. Not by the devastation of the guns, Nor tempest-shock, nor steel’s subverting edge, Nor yet the slow erasure of the suns Thy downfall came, betrayer of thy trust! But at the dissolution of a pledge The temple of thine honor sank to dust. V Make not thy prayer to Heaven, lest perchance, O troubler of the world, the heavens hear! But trust in Uhlan and in cannoneer, And, ere the Russian hough thee, set thy lance Against the dear and blameless breast of France! Put on thy mail tremendous and austere, And let the squadrons of thy wrath appear, And bid the standards and the guns advance! Those as an evil mist shall pass away, As once the Assyrian before the Lord: Thou standest between mortals and the day, Ere God, grown weary of thine armored reign, Lift from the world the shadow of thy sword And bid the stars of morning sing again.

I Be yours the doom Isaiah’s voice foretold, Lifted on Babylon, O ye whose hands Cast the sword’s shadow upon weaker lands, And for whose pride a million hearths grow cold! Ye reap but with the cannon, and do hold Your plowing to the murder-god’s commands; And at your altars Desolation stands, And in your hearts is conquest, as of old. The legions perish and the warships drown; The fish and vulture batten on the slain; And it is ye whose word hath shaken down The dykes that hold the chartless sea of pain. Your prayers deceive not men, nor shall a crown Hide on the brow the murder-mark of Cain. II Now glut yourselves with conflict, nor refrain, But let your famished provinces be fed From bursting granaries of steel and lead! Decree the sowing of that deadly grain Where the great war-horse, maddened with his pain, Stamps on the mangled living and the dead, And from the entreated heavens overhead Falls from a brother’s hand a fiery rain. Lift not your voices to the gentle Christ: Your god is of the shambles! Let the moan Of nations be your psalter, and their youth To Moloch and to Bel be sacrificed! A world to which ye proffered lies alone Learns now from Death the horror of your truth. III How have you fed your people upon lies, And cried “Peace! peace!” and knew it would not be! For now the iron dragons take the sea, And in the new-found fortress of the skies, Alert and fierce a deadly eagle flies. Ten thousand cannon echo your decree, To whose profound refrain ye bend the knee. And lift into the Lord of Love your eyes. This is Hell’s work: why raise your hands to Him, And those hands mailed, and holding up the sword? There stands another altar, stained with red, At whose basalt the infernal seraphim Uplift to Satan, your conspirant lord, The blood of nations, at your mandate shed.

He. He is one of the six in scarlet kaftans and all masked alike. Watch—you will note how every one bows down Before those figures; thinking each by chance May be the Tsar; yet none know which is he. Even his counterparts are left in doubt. Unhappy Russia! No serf ever wore such chains As gall our Emperor these sad days. He dare trust no man. She. All men are so false. He. Spare one, Pauline Pavlovna. She. No! all, all! I think there is no truth left in the world, In man or woman. Once were noble souls.— Count Sergius, is Nastasia here to-night? He. Ah! then you know! I thought to tell you first. Not here, beneath these hundred curious eyes, In all this glare of light; but in some place Where I could throw me at your feet and weep. In what shape came the story to your ears? Decked in the teller’s colors, I’ll be sworn; The truth, but in the livery of a lie, And so must wrong me. Only this is true:— The Tsar, because I risked my wretched life To shield a life as wretched as my own, Bestows upon me, as supreme reward— O irony!—the hand of this poor girl. Says, “Here I have the pearl of pearls for you, Such as was never plucked from out the deep By Indian diver, for a Sultan’s crown. Your joy’s decreed,” and stabs me with a smile. She. And she—she loves you. He. I know not, indeed. Likes me perhaps. What matters it?—her love? Sidor Yurievich, the guardian, consents, and she consents. No love in it at all, a mere caprice, A young girl’s spring-tide dream. Sick of her ear-rings, weary of her mare, She’ll have a lover—something ready made, Or improvised between two cups of tea— A lover by imperial ukase! Fate said the word—I chanced to be the man! If that grenade the crazy student threw Had not spared me, as well as spared the Tsar, All this would not have happened. I’d have been a hero, But quite safe from her romance. She takes me for a hero—think of that! Now by our holy Lady of Kazan, When I have finished pitying myself, I’ll pity her. She. Oh, no;—begin with her; she needs it most. He. At her door lies the blame, whatever falls. She, with a single word, with half a tear, Had stopt it at the first, This cruel juggling with poor human hearts. She. The Tsar commanded it—you said the Tsar. He. The Tsar does what she wills—God fathoms why. Were she his mistress, now! but there’s no snow Whiter within the bosom of a cloud, No colder either. She is very haughty, For all her fragile air of gentleness; With something vital in her, like those flowers That on our desolate steppes outlast the year. Resembles you in some things. It was that First made us friends. I do her justice, see! For we were friends in that smooth surface way We Russians have imported out of France. Alas! from what a blue and tranquil heaven This bolt fell on me! After these two years, My suit with Ossip Leminoff at end, The old wrong righted, the estates restored, And my promotion, with the ink not dry! For those fairies which neglected me at birth Seemed now to lavish all good gifts on me— Gold roubles, office, sudden dearest friends. The whole world smiled; then, as I stooped to taste The sweetest cup, freak dashed it from my lips. This very night—just think, this very night— I planned to come and beg of you the alms I dared not ask for in my poverty. I thought me poor then. How stript am I now! There’s not a ragged mendicant one meets Along the Nevski Prospekt but has leave to tell his love, And I have not that right! Pauline Pavlovna, why do you stand there Stark as a statue, with no word to say? She. Because this thing has frozen up my heart. I think that there is something killed in me, A dream that would have mocked all other bliss. What shall I say? What would you have me say? He. If it be possible, the word of words! She (very slowly). Well, then—I love you. I may tell you so This once, ... and then forever hold my peace. We cannot stay here longer unobserved. No—do not touch me! but stand further off, and Seem to laugh, as if we jested—eyes, Eyes, everywhere! Now turn your face away.... I love you. He. With such music in my ears I would death found me. It were sweet to die listening! you love me—prove it. She. Prove it—how? I prove it saying it. How else? He. Pauline, I have three things to choose from; you shall choose. This marriage, or Siberia, or France. The first means hell; the second, purgatory; The third—with you—were nothing less than heaven! She (starting). How dared you even dream it! He. I was mad. This business has touched me in the brain. Have patience! the calamity’s so new. (Pauses.) There is a fourth way, but the gate is shut To brave men who hold life a thing of God. She. Yourself spake there; the rest was not of you. He. Oh, lift me to your level! So I’m safe. What’s to be done? She. There must be some path out. Perhaps the Emperor— He. Not a ray of hope! His mind is set on this with that insistence Which seems to seize on all match-making folk— The fancy bites them, and they straight go mad. She. Your father’s friend, the metropolitan— A word from him.... He. Alas, he too is bitten! Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly-wise, he sees This marriage makes me the Tsar’s protégé And opens every door to preference. She. Think while I think. There surely is some key Unlocks the labyrinth, could we but find it. Nastasia! He. What, beg life of her? Not I. She. Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air. Were she told all, would she not pity us? For if she love you, as I think she must, Would not some generous impulse stir in her, Some latent, unsuspected spark illume? How love thrills even commonest girl-clay, Ennobling it an instant if no more! You said that she is proud; then touch her pride, And turn her into marble with the touch. But yet the gentler passion is the stronger. Go to her, tell her in some tenderest phrase That will not hurt too much—ah, but ’twill hurt! Just how your happiness lies in her hand To make or mar for all time; hint, not say, Your heart is gone from you, and you may find— He. A casement in St. Peter and St. Paul For, say, a month; then some Siberian town. Not this way lies escape. At my first word That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire In every vein. She. How blindly you read her, Or any woman! Yes, I know, I grant How small we often seem to our small world Of trivial cares and narrow precedents— Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men— Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse; But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs, The weakest of us measures pulse with you. He. Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height! But there’s no martyr wrapt in her rose flesh. There should have been; for Nature gave you both The self-same purple for your eyes and hair, The self-same Southern music to your lips, Fashioned you both, as ’twere, in the same mold, Yet failed to put the soul in one of you! I know her willful—her light head quite turned In this court atmosphere of flatteries; A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there, And since, spoiled here; as soft as swan’s down, now, With words like honey melting from the comb, But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold. I fancy her between two rosy smiles, Saying, “Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines!” She. You know her not. Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask Could hide the soul, yet how you have mistaken The soul these two months—and the face to-night. (She removes mask.) He. You!—it was you. She. Count Sergius Pavlovich, go find Pauline Pavlovna—she is here— And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. (Goes out hurriedly.)

You may talk o’ gin and beer When you’re quartered safe out ’ere, An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot; But when it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it. Now in Injia’s sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them blackfaced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din! It was “Din! Din! Din! You limping lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! slippery hitherao! Water, get it! Pannee lao! You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.” The uniform ’e wore Was nothin’ much before, An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind, For a piece o’ twisty rag An’ a goatskin water-bag Was all the field equipment ’e could find. When the sweatin’ troop-train lay In a sidin’ through the day, Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl, We shouted “Harry By!” Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped ’im cause ’e couldn’t serve us all. It was “Din! Din! Din! You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been? You put some juldee in it Or I’ll marrow you this minute; If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!” ’E would dot an’ carry one Till the longest day was done; An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear. If we charged or if we cut, You could bet your bloomin’ nut, ’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear. With ’is mussick on ’is back, ’E would skip with our attack, An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire,” An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide ’E was white, clear white, inside When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was “Din! Din! Din!” With the bullets kickin’ dust spots on the green, When the cartridges ran out, You could hear the front lines shout, “Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!” I sha’n’t forgit the night When I dropped be’ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been. I was chokin’ mad with thirst, An’ the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din. ’E lifted up my head, An’ ’e plugged me where I bled, An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green: It was crawlin’ and it stunk, But of all the drinks I’ve drunk, I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was “Din! Din! Din! ’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through his spleen; ’E’s chawin’ up the ground, An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around: For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!” ’E carried me away To where a dooli lay, An’ a bullet came and drilled the beggar clean. ’E put me safe inside, An’ just before ’e died: “I ’ope you like your drink,” sez Gunga Din. So I’ll meet ’im later on At the place where ’e is gone— Where it’s always double drill and no canteen; ’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals, Givin’ drink to poor damned souls, An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din! Yes, Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leathern Gunga Din! Though I’ve belted you and flayed you, By the livin’ God that made you, You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

The king rode fast, the king rode well, The royal hunt went loud and gay, A thousand bleeding chamois fell For royal sport that day. When sunset turned the hill all red, The royal hunt went still and slow; The king’s great horse with weary tread Plunged ankle-deep in snow. Sudden a strain of music sweet, Unearthly sweet, came through the wood; Up sprang the king, and on both feet Straight in his saddle stood. “Now, by our lady, be it bird, Or be it man or elf that plays, Never before my ears have heard A music fit for praise!” Sullen and tired, the royal hunt Followed the king, who tracked the song, Unthinking, as is royal wont, How hard the way and long. Stretched on a rock the shepherd lay And dreamed and piped, and dreamed and sang, And careless heard the shout and bay With which the echoes rang. “Up, man! the king!” the hunters cried. He slowly stood, and, wondering, Turned honest eyes from side to side: To him, each looked like king. Strange shyness seized the king’s bold tongue; He saw how easy to displease This savage man who stood among His courtiers, so at ease. But kings have silver speech to use When on their pleasure they are bent; The simple shepherd could not choose; Like one in dream he went. O hear! O hear! The ringing sound Of twenty trumpets swept the street, The king a minstrel now has found, For royal music meet. With cloth of gold, and cloth of red, And woman’s eyes the place is bright. “Now, shepherd, sing,” the king has said, “The song you sang last night!” One faint sound stirs the perfumed air, The courtiers scornfully look down; The shepherd kneels in dumb despair, Seeing the king’s dark frown. The king is just; the king will wait. “Ho, guards! let him be gently led, Let him grow used to royal state,— To being housed and fed.” All night the king unquiet lay, Racked by his dream’s presentiment; Then rose in haste at break of day, And for the shepherd sent. “Ho, now, thou beast, thou savage man, How sound thou sleepest, not to hear!” They jeering laughed, but soon began To louder call in fear. They wrenched the bolts; unrumpled stood The princely bed all silken fine, Untouched the plates of royal food, The flask of royal wine! The costly robes strewn on the floor, The chamber empty, ghastly still; The guards stood trembling at the door, And dared not cross the sill. All night the sentinels their round Had kept. No man could pass that way. The window dizzy high from ground; Below, the deep moat lay. They crossed themselves. “The foul fiend lurks In this,” they said. They did not know The miracles sweet Freedom works, To let her children go. It was the fiend himself who took That shepherd’s shape to pipe and sing; And every man with terror shook, For who would tell the king! The heads of men all innocent Rolled in the dust that day; And east and west the bloodhounds went, Baying their dreadful bay; Safe on a snow too far, too high, For scent of dogs or feet of men, The shepherd watched the clouds sail by, And dreamed and sang again; And crossed himself, and knelt and cried, And kissed the holy Edelweiss, Believing that the fiends had tried To buy him with a price. The king rides fast, the king rides well; The summer hunts go loud and gay; The courtiers, who this tale can tell, Are getting old and gray. But still they say it was a fiend That took a shepherd’s shape to sing, For still the king’s heart is not weaned To care for other thing. Great minstrels come from far and near, He will not let them sing or play, But waits and listens still to hear The song he heard that day.

O, I have passed a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such night, Though ’twere to buy a world of happy days, So full of dismal terror was the time! Methought that I had broken from the tower, And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy; And, in my company, my brother Gloucester; Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England, And cited up a thousand fearful times, During the wars of York and Lancaster, That had befallen us. As we paced along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought the Gloucester stumbled; and, in falling, Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, Into the tumbling billows of the main. Lord! Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown! What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears! What ugly sights of death within mine eyes! Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks; Ten thousand men that fishes gnawed upon; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scattered in the bottom of the sea: Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, As ’twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, Which woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock’d the dead bones that lay scattered by. Methought I had, and often did I strive To yield the ghost: but the envious flood Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth To seek the empty, vast and wandering air; But smothered it within my panting bulk, Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. My dream was lengthened after life; O, then began the tempest of my soul, Who pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferry-man which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that did greet my stranger soul, Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick; Who cried aloud, “What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?” And so he vanished: then came wandering by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood; and he squeaked aloud, “Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury: Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!” With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends Environ’d me about, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that with the very noise I trembling waked, and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell, Such terrible impression made the dream.

He grasped the ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more, To hear the bomb-shells bursting, and thundering battle’s roar; He said, “The breach they’re mounting, the Dutchman’s murdering crew— I’ll try my hammer on their heads, and see what that can do! “Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well; ’Tis Sarsfield’s horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or shell;” “Ah, sure,” cried both, “the horse can wait, for Sarsfield’s on the wall And where you go we’ll follow, with you to stand or fall!” The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street, His ’prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet;— High on the breach of Limerick with dauntless hearts they stood, Where bomb-shells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood. “Now look you, brown-haired Moran; and mark you, swarthy Ned, This day we’ll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman’s head! Hurrah! upon their bloody path, they’re mounting gallantly; And now the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me.” The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave,— A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive; He pointed and he parried, but it was all in vain! For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain! The next that topped the rampart, he was a colonel bold; Bright, through the dust of battle, his helmet flashed with gold— “Gold is no match for iron,” the doughty blacksmith said, And with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foeman’s head. “Hurrah for gallant Limerick!” black Ned and Moran cried, As on the Dutchmen’s leaden heads their hammers well they plied; A bomb-shell burst between them—one fell without a groan, One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown. “Brave smith! brave smith!” cried Sarsfield, “beware the treacherous mine! Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or surely death is thine!” The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped the blood-stained wall, As high into the shuddering air went foeman, breach and all! Up, like a red volcano, they thundered wild and high,— Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foeman through the sky; And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith fell;— He thought upon his ’prentice boys,—they were avengèd well. On foeman and defenders a silence gathered down; ’Twas broken by a triumph shout that shook the ancient town, As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew, And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts could do. Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river’s side, He hammered on the foe’s pontoon, to sink it in the tide; The timber, it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain; “Mavrone! t’won’t break!” the blacksmith roared; “I’ll try their heads again!” He rushed upon the flying ranks; his hammer ne’er was slack, For in thro’ blood and bone it crashed, thro’ helmet and thro’ jack; He’s ta’en a Holland captain beside the red pontoon, And “Wait you here,” he boldly cries; “I’ll send you back full soon! “Dost see this gory hammer? It cracked some skulls to-day, And yours ’twill crack, if you don’t stand and list to what I say;— Here! take it to your cursèd King, and tell him, softly, too, ’Twould be acquainted with his skull if he were here, not you!” The blacksmith sought his smithy and blew his bellows strong; He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o’er it sang no song; “Ochone! my boys are dead!” he cried; “their loss I’ll long deplore, But comfort’s in my heart, their graves are red with foreign gore.”

Up, comrades, up, the bugle peals the note of war’s alarms, And the cry is ringing sternly round, that calls the land to arms; Adieu, adieu, fair land of France, where the vine of Brennus reigns; We go where the blooming laurels grow, on the bright Italian plains. Advance! advance! brave sons of France, before the startled world; For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. Our eagles shall fly ’neath many a sky, with a halo round their way Where History flings, on their flashing wings, the light of Glory’s ray; And we shall bear them proudly on, through many a mighty fray, That shall win old nations back to life, in the glorious coming day. Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world, For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. The glowing heart of the land of Art, throbbing for Liberty, Our swords invoke, to erase the yoke from beauteous Italy. And the Magyar waits, with kindling hope, the aid of the Gallic hand, To drive the hated Austrians forth, from the old Hungarian land. Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world, For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. See the Briton, pale, as he dons his mail, for the coming conflict shock, And before his eyes, see the phantom rise, of the Chief on Helena’s rock; In foreboding fears, already he hears through palace and mart anew, Our avenging shout, o’er the battle rout—remember Waterloo! Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world, For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. And, hark, a wail from our kindred Gael, comes floating from the West— That gallant race, whose chosen place was ever our battle’s crest; Now is the day we can repay the generous debt we owe To Irish blood, that freely flowed to conquer France’s foe. Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world, For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. Old Tricolor, as in days of yore, you shall wave o’er vanquished kings, And your folds shall fly ’neath an English sky, on Victory’s crimson wings; And Europe’s shout shall in joy ring out, hailing freedom in thy track, When our task is done, and we bear thee on, to France with glory back. Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world, For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

My race is run, my errand done, the pulse of life beats low; My heart is chill, and the conquering will has lost its fiery glow: Launch once again on the northern main my battleship of old: I would die on the deck, ’mid storm and wreck, as befits a Viking bold. I know no fears, but the mist of years that has gathered round my track For a moment clears, and my youth’s compeers again to my side come back; And the tall ships reel o’er their iron keel, as we sweep down on the foe, Like a giant’s form amid the storm, where the mighty tempests blow. Again I gaze on the leaping blaze o’er a conquered city rise, As in those days, when the Skald’s wild lays, sang the fame of our high emprise; When our ships went forth from the stormy North with the Scandinavian bands Who backward bore to the Baltic’s shore the spoil of the Western lands. But my race is run, my errand done; so bear me to my ship. Place my battle-brand in this dying hand, and the wine-cup to my lip; Then loose each sail to the rising gale and lash the helm a-lee. Alone, alone, on my drifting throne, I would view my realm, the sea. My realm and grave the northern wave, where the tempest’s voice will sing My death-song loud, where flame shall shroud the ocean’s warrior-king, Whilst heroes wait at Valhalla’s gate to proudly welcome me. For my race is run, my errand done. Receive thy Chief, O Sea!