Gloucester Moors and Other Poems Part 2

IX

Ah no!

We have not fallen so.

We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know!

'T was only yesterday sick Cuba's cry Came up the tropic wind, "Now help us, for we die!"

Then Alabama heard, And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho Shouted a burning word.

Proud state with proud impa.s.sioned state conferred, And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth, East, west, and south, and north, Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and young Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan, By the unforgotten names of eager boys Who might have tasted girls' love and been stung With the old mystic joys And starry griefs, now the spring nights come on, But that the heart of youth is generous,-- We charge you, ye who lead us, Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain!

Turn not their new-world victories to gain!

One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the bays Of their dear praise, One jot of their pure conquest put to hire, The implacable republic will require; With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon, Or subtly, coming as a thief at night, But surely, very surely, slow or soon That insult deep we deeply will requite.

Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity!

For save we let the island men go free, Those baffled and dislaureled ghosts Will curse us from the lamentable coasts Where walk the frustrate dead.

The cup of trembling shall be drained quite, Eaten the sour bread of astonishment, With ashes of the hearth shall be made white Our hair, and wailing shall be in the tent; Then on your guiltier head Shall our intolerable self-disdain Wreak suddenly its anger and its pain; For manifest in that disastrous light We shall discern the right And do it, tardily.--O ye who lead, Take heed!

Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite.

1900.

THE QUARRY

Between the rice swamps and the fields of tea I met a sacred elephant, snow-white.

Upon his back a huge paG.o.da towered Full of bra.s.s G.o.ds and food of sacrifice.

Upon his forehead sat a golden throne, The ma.s.sy metal twisted into shapes Grotesque, antediluvian, such as move In myth or have their broken images Sealed in the stony middle of the hills.

A peac.o.c.k spread his thousand dyes to screen The yellow sunlight from the head of one Who sat upon the throne, clad stiff with gems, Heirlooms of dynasties of buried kings,-- Himself the likeness of a buried king, With frozen gesture and unfocused eyes.

The trappings of the beast were over-scrawled With broideries--sea-shapes and flying things, Fan-trees and dwarfed nodosities of pine, Mixed with old alphabets, and faded lore Fallen from ecstatic mouths before the Flood, Or gathered by the daughters when they walked Eastward in Eden with the Sons of G.o.d Whom love and the deep moon made garrulous.

Between the carven tusks his trunk hung dead; Blind as the eyes of pearl in Buddha's brow His beaded eyes stared thwart upon the road; And feebler than the doting knees of eld, His joints, of size to swing the builder's crane Across the war-walls of the Anakim, Made vain and shaken haste. Good need was his To hasten: panting, foaming, on the slot Came many brutes of prey, their several hates Laid by until the sharing of the spoil.

Just as they gathered stomach for the leap, The sun was darkened, and wide-balanced wings Beat downward on the trade-wind from the sea.

A wheel of shadow sped along the fields And o'er the dreaming cities. Suddenly My heart misgave me, and I cried aloud, "Alas! What dost thou here? What dost _thou_ here?"

The great beasts and the little halted sharp, Eyed the grand circler, doubting his intent.

Straightway the wind flawed and he came about, Stooping to take the vanward of the pack; Then turned, between the chasers and the chased, Crying a word I could not understand,-- But stiller-tongued, with eyes somewhat askance, They settled to the slot and disappeared.

1900.

ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES

Streets of the roaring town, Hush for him, hush, be still!

He comes, who was stricken down Doing the word of our will.

Hush! Let him have his state, Give him his soldier's crown.

The grists of trade can wait Their grinding at the mill, But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown.

Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone.

Toll! Let the great bells toll Till the clashing air is dim.

Did we wrong this parted soul?

We will make it up to him.

Toll! Let him never guess What work we set him to.

Laurel, laurel, yes; He did what we bade him do.

Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good; Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's-blood.

A flag for the soldier's bier Who dies that his land may live; O, banners, banners here, That he doubt not nor misgive!

That he heed not from the tomb The evil days draw near When the nation, robed in gloom, With its faithless past shall strive.

Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island mark, Home to the heart of his darling land where she stumbled and sinned in the dark.

UNTIL THE TROUBLING OF THE WATERS

Two hours, two hours: G.o.d give me strength for it!

He who has given so much strength to me And nothing to my child, must give to-day What more I need to try and save my child And get for him the life I owe to him.

To think that I may get it for him now, Before he knows how much he might have missed That other boys have got! The bitterest thought Of all that plagued me when he came was this, How some day he would see the difference, And drag himself to me with puzzled eyes To ask me why it was. He would have been Cruel enough to do it, knowing not That was the question my rebellious heart Cried over and over one whole year to G.o.d, And got no answer and no help at all.

If he had asked me, what could I have said?

What single word could I have found to say To hide me from his searching, puzzled gaze?

Some coward thing at best, never the truth; The truth I never could have told him. No, I never could have said, "G.o.d gave you me To fashion you a body, right and strong, With st.u.r.dy little limbs and chest and neck For fun and fighting with your little mates, Great feats and voyages in the breathless world Of out-of-doors,--He gave you me for this, And I was such a bungler, that is all!"

O, the old lie--that thought was not the worst.

I never have been truthful with myself.

For by the door where lurked one ghostly thought I stood with crazy hands to thrust it back If it should dare to peep and whisper out Unbearable things about me, hearing which The women pa.s.sing in the streets would turn To pity me and scold me with their eyes, Who was so bad a mother and so slow To learn to help G.o.d do his wonder in her That she--O my sweet baby! It was not The fear that you would see the difference Between you and the other boys and girls; No, no, it was the dimmer, wilder fear, That you might never see it, never look Out of your tiny baby-house of mind, But sit your life through, quiet in the dark, Smiling and nodding at what was not there!

A foolish fear: G.o.d could not punish so.

Yet until yesterday I thought He would.

My soul was always cowering at the blow I saw suspended, ready to be dealt The moment that I showed my fear too much.

Therefore I hid it from Him all I could, And only stole a shaking glance at it Sometimes in the dead minutes before dawn When He forgets to watch. Till yesterday.

For yesterday was wonderful and strange From the beginning. When I wakened first And looked out at the window, the last snow Was gone from earth; about the apple-trees Hung a faint mist of bloom; small sudden green Had run and spread and rippled everywhere Over the fields; and in the level sun Walked something like a presence and a power, Uttering hopes and loving-kindnesses To all the world, but chiefly unto me.

It walked before me when I went to work, And all day long the noises of the mill Were spun upon a core of golden sound, Half-spoken words and interrupted songs Of blessed promise, meant for all the world, But most for me, because I suffered most.

The shooting spindles, the smooth-humming wheels, The rocking webs, seemed toiling to some end Beneficent and human known to them, And duly brought to pa.s.s in power and love.

The faces of the girls and men at work Met mine with intense greeting, veiled at once, As if they knew a secret they must keep For fear the joy would harm me if they told Before some inkling filtered to my mind In roundabout ways. When the day's work was done There lay a special silence on the fields; And, as I pa.s.sed, the bushes and the trees, The very ruts and puddles of the road Spoke to each other, saying it was she, The happy woman, the elected one, The vessel of strange mercy and the sign Of many loving wonders done in Heaven To help the piteous earth.

At last I stopped And looked about me in sheer wonderment.

What did it mean? What did they want with me?

What was the matter with the evening now That it was just as bound to make me glad As morning and the live-long day had been?

Me, who had quite forgot what gladness was, Who had no right to anything but toil, And food and sleep for strength to toil again, And that fierce frightened anguish of my love For the poor little spirit I had wronged With life that was no life. What had befallen Since yesterday? No need to stop and ask!

Back there in the dark places of my mind Where I had thrust it, fearing to believe An unbelievable mercy, shone the news Told by the village neighbors coming home Last night from the great city, of a man Arisen, like the first evangelists, With power to heal the bodies of the sick, In testimony of his master Christ, Who heals the soul when it is sick with sin.

Could such a thing be true in these hard days?

Was help still sent in such a way as that?

No, no! I did not dare to think of it, Feeling what weakness and despair would come After the crazy hope broke under me.

I turned and started homeward, faster now, But never fast enough to leave behind The voices and the troubled happiness That still kept mounting, mounting like a sea, And singing far-off like a rush of wings.

Far down the road a yellow spot of light Shone from my cottage window, rayless yet, Where the last sunset crimson caught the panes.

Alice had lit the lamp before she went; Her day of pity and unmirthful play Was over, and her young heart free to live Until to-morrow brought her nursing-task Again, and made her feel how dark and still That life could be to others which to her Was full of dreams that beckoned, reaching hands, And thrilling invitations young girls hear.

My boy was sleeping, little mind and frame More tired just lying there awake two hours Than with a whole day's romp he should have been.

He would not know his mother had come home; But after supper I would sit awhile Beside his bed, and let my heart have time For that worst love that stabs and breaks and kills.

This I thought over to myself by rote And habit, but I could not feel my thoughts; For still that dim unmeaning happiness Kept mounting, mounting round me like a sea, And singing inward like a wind of wings.

Before I lifted up the latch, I knew.

I felt no fear; the One who waited there In the low lamplight by the bed, had come Because I was his sister and in need.