Nirvana Days Part 12

NIGHT-RIDERS[1]

[1] This clan of tobacco outlaws in Kentucky during 1907-1908 cast such disgrace on her good name as years will not suffice to erase.

See them mount in the dead of night-- Men, three hundred strong!

Armed and silent, masked from the light, Speeding swartly along.

What is their errand? manly fight?

Clench with a manly foe?

I would rather be dead of wrong Than ride among them so.

See them enter the sleeping town.

Hear the warning shot!

Keep to your beds, free men--down, down!

Dare you to move?--dare not!

These are your masters--these who crown Black Anarchy their king-- I would rather my hand should rot Than have it do this thing.

See them steal to the house they seek-- Brave men, O, brave all!

There lies a sick boy, fever-weak; Who comes forth at call?

A woman? "Go in, you b.i.t.c.h!" they reek.

"Give us the old man out!"

Rather my bitten tongue should fall To palsy than so shout.

And--they have him, "the old man," now, Bound--with nine beside.

One, a Judge of the Law's grave brow, Sworn by it to bide.

"Lash him!"--a hundred lashes plow A free-born back with pain!

G.o.d, shall we let such cowards ride And burn and beat and stain?

O the shame, and the bitter shame, That thus, across our land, Crime can arise and write her name Broad, with a b.l.o.o.d.y hand!

O the shame, and the bitter shame Upon our chivalry.

I would rather have led the band That diced on Calvary.

So, Night-errants, ride on and ride-- Avenging, wrongly, wrong.

But when the children at your side Grow lawless up and strong; When at their drunken hands you've died As beasts beside your door, You will repent, G.o.d knows it--long, These nights to h.e.l.l made o'er.

HONOR

(_To the Night-Riders Who Murdered Hedges_)

Honor to men Who leave their homes And children safe asleep, To take the cover of night and fright Women that wake and weep!

Honor, again, To those who mount For blood--hounds in a pack!

But let us honor the most of all-- Men that shoot in the back!

For, it is good To fare a-field And frighten helpless things, And how good with a torch to scorch A poor man's harvestings.

But, if you would Do something high And blameless, brave not black, Ride till you find a peaceful man-- Then shoot--shoot in the back!

Why, there was one In Palestine Who gave a certain kiss.

_More_, fine friends, do you give who live In a land not far from this!

For what _he_ had done He hanged himself-- Shame made a sick heart crack.

But you will muster and ride again-- And shoot--shoot in the back!

Oh, and you may!

But wait, the Day Will come--shall it not come?

The Sovereign Law that you flaunt and daunt, Will she lie always dumb?

Her prisons gray They are slow, but wide; When they open, you will lack Many a thing--but most the fair, Brave chance to shoot in the back!

O that a man Should write such words Of any soul alive!

That any shameless ear should hear-- And still in stealth connive To burn and to ban, From home and help, The weak who fear the rack!

That he could wait till Justice _turns_, Then shoot--shoot in the back!

BRUDE[2]

(_A Dramatic Fantasy_)

[2] This sketch, written in 1898, was in no sense conceived for the stage.

Dealing with: _Boadicea_, queen of the Britons.

_Lamora_, a Gaulish captive.

_Brude_, a Druid.

_Cormo_, a warrior.

_Corlun_, Druid high-priest, and _Horma_, a wandering hag.

SCENE: _A Hall of hewn wood, on the island of Mona, in which_ BOADICEA _sits enthroned and attended. On her right, warriors, long-haired, mustached and painted with woad. On the left, a band of Druids robed in white: among them_ BRUDE, _whom she watches jealously from time to time. On the floor in front of her cringes_ LAMORA, _held by_ CORMO.

_Boadicea._ Britons, hear!

Ye know how my lord, Caerleon's liege, Swore feal to the Romans His lorn wife and daughters-- When the wolf, Death, Gnawed life from his heart.

Ye know how the Roman, Ravenous traitor, Slaves us with thongs Of brutal behest.

Will ye still daunt Your necks to the noose?

_All._ No! no! Queen! no, no, no!

_Boadicea._ Then, warriors of iron, Sworded with terror, Fly to your henges!

Fight till ye crowd h.e.l.l with the ghosts Of ethlings that Britons hate.

_Warriors._ To the slaughter! Hro! to the slaughter!

[_They rush from the hall in haste._

_Boadicea (continuing)._ And ye, Druid seers, Heard by the G.o.ds, Feared by the fiends, Ye must away!

To your dark fane, The gaunt oak-forest Holy with mistle!