Freedom, Truth And Beauty Part 6

II

Oh, weirder grows the whisper into word, As sharp as lightening, and as broad of reach, As seas, flung down by G.o.d to every beach Where thirsts a sparrow, or a bleating herd!

There is no soul through out the land, not stirred; For, oh, to glory G.o.d gives his own speech When darkness, raised by Gold, declares that each, Hulk-held, is good but for the wolf and bird.

Is Gold grown conscious, now the Country's King That, at his beck, the blood for Freedom spilt Shall be accursed, and I, then, for the guilt Of dropping not with thud, as he with ring At Darkness' feet, be shut in mud and silt Forever and with stars, cease, beaconing?

III

Oh, as the earth in discord and in dark, When struck by Love on high with will for mace, Keeps rattling till each mote finds its true place, And mountain, fledged with groves, vies with the lark To reach the sunrise; so the madness stark Of gold, dethroning blood as G.o.d's best grace, When struck by Glory's voice drops Nadir-base, And blood for Freedom spilt, forms heaven's blue arc.

The shouts of millions shake Oblivion's mire And raise Thrall's Hulks. Look! Justice's stooping sun, Seeing in agony's each, a Washington, Breaths life in them, and, over Brooklyn's spire And New York's Babel Tower, they, one by one, Hold Liberty's broading Torch of quenchless fire.

HATE THOU NOT ANY MAN

Hate thou not any man, for at the worst, He still is brother. Will a glance not find Whole peoples alchemied from heart and mind To steal projectiles by a craft, accursed By Human Nature? Aye, for, as they burst At dusk, or midnight, slamming Heaven behind And crashing h.e.l.l wide open, 'tis mankind Is shattered and quick-gulping grave slake thirst.

Hate thou no man, but scorn all crafts, that smelt The heart and mind for huge projectiles, shattered When bursting grandly that some pride be flattered.

Nature beholds not Saxon, Slav, nor Celt; She only sees the Human fragments scattered, And, covering them, her eyes to rivers melt.

THE CELTIC SOUL CRY

I

O Freedom! Have I ever been untrue?

When, to thy moan of hunger anywhere, Have I been deaf? Was I not quick to share My little, nay, give all! for oh! I knew Thy beauty, and my love such pa.s.sion grew At thy distresses,--What would I not dare!

So, though the bellow, like a grizzly bear, Reared up before me, on to thee I flew.

O Freedom! Is thy beauty without heart, Or sense of justice? Unto whom art thou Indebted for thine arm, encircling now The world, sun-like, more than to me? My part I glory in, for I have kept my vow.

I hold thee now to thine, if true thou art.

II

Speak Freedom! When a haggard fugitive, Thy dwelling was a swamp, who first to trace Thy crimson footprints to thy hiding place?

With signs thou hadst not many days to live, I found thee. Had the sun more heart to give To warm thee, than I gave? Ah, then and there Thy heart said to my heart; "Ill would I fare Without thee. I give love for love, believe".

Thy silence, when in glory, troubles me.

Oh! warm blood dashed back cold, chills to the bone!

What do I ask for? Only Erin's own, That which G.o.d gave her, and, if true it be, Thou art the minister of justice grown, Thy grat.i.tude should thunder G.o.d's decree.

III

What! Why bemoan one island in the sea, When I can range like mountains, or, the sun, Above all clouds, and, rosy from my run To G.o.d, like morn, chant praise, since flesh of thee?

Oh, yea, my pride and transport, verily, Is, thou and I eternally are one; And this G.o.d-pa.s.sion which no power can stun, I owe to her, who gave her soul to me.

Oh, when I see her golden hair, adrift On sorrow's sea, like weeds rent from their reef, And know she breathes with her sublime belief, It crazes me that thou, when thou mightst lift Her saintly features, and dry them of grief, Wads't not, but waitest for the tide to shift.

IV

America! 'Tis not thy mines of gold, Nor streams from mounts to meadows, like G.o.d's hand From out the heavens, a-flash across the land In long, deep sweeps to quicken winter's mould To reaps of ripeness,--that mine eyes behold, Invoking thee; for these are mere sh.o.r.e-sand To the broad ocean of thy spirit grand, Forming for man a new world for the old.

'Tis Liberty, to whose most blessed birth The stars all lead, rejoicing, which souls thee With G.o.d's compa.s.sion for humanity,-- That I invoke; and, now, when all the earth Bears palms and chants hosannas--what! shall she, The most devout, be shut from Freedom's mirth?

BRITISH GLORY IN KIPLING'S "BOOTS"

All English glory is in "Kipling's Boots."

O English People! read that poem true, And answer,--are those maddening men not you?

Oh, not yea few, who gather all the loots, But yea vast legions, lured to be recruits To march, march, march and march with naught in view But boots, boots, boots with blood and mud soaked through,-- And, after ages, with out rest, or fruits!

"Boots, boots, boots, and no discharge from war,"-- That is the Empire's anthem. Bra.s.s it out, Ye Orchestras! But oh, leave not in doubt Its import, Kipling,--that 'tis maelstrom roar-- 'Tis England's streams of home-life, world about And down a gulf, for Greed and Pride on sh.o.r.e!

TO THE ENGLISH PEOPLE

If deaf to Sh.e.l.ley's loudest sky-lark strain, His rage at tyrants, and to Byron's thong, Nerve-proof, how wake the English to the wrong Done their true selves, no less than to the slain, When willing weapons for Ambition's gain?

Aye, weapons only; for, to whom belong The minds of England, and treed fields of song-- Nay, all but grave-ground, grudged by hill and plain?

O English People, whom the crafty cla.s.s Has huddled into graves from sight and sound Of what G.o.d hands you, and, with pence, or pound, Lids down your wild dead stare,--wake! why so cra.s.s?

See in the Celts spring-burst from underground, The Human Resurrection come to pa.s.s.

SHAKESPEARE

Oh, what are England's lines of lords and kings, Shakespeare, to thine, a-throb with thought and feeling?

In thine, imagination shines, revealing The soul's convictions, swift on dawn-ward wings From beastly life and such h.e.l.l-smelling things, As wealth and pomp from church and abbey stealing,-- And hearts in hopes high Belfries, Heavenward pealing, As Time, his Sun and Starry censor, swings.