Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 28

All that thou dreamest of paramount power Fate shall concede to thee, chieftain sublime!

Yet shall it prove but the joy of an hour; Fortune avenges her favors ... with time!

Aye, even now, although millions adore thee, Hailing as G.o.dlike thy dominant name, Nemesis stands in the shadow before thee, Waiting with Waterloo, exile, and shame.

Waiting is also that island of anguish, Destined to crush thy proud spirit at last, Doomed amid pigmy tormentors to languish, Facing forever its measureless past!

Yet when at length on that rock in mid-ocean Merciful Death shall have broken thy chain, Millions will hail thee again with devotion, Building thy tomb by the banks of the Seine!

Face of Napoleon, n.o.bly recalling Days of the mythical heroes of yore, Oft wilt thou haunt me when shadows are falling,-- Beautiful gem of the Larian sh.o.r.e.

DAY AND NIGHT

Twilight is falling on lake and on land, Softly the wavelets steal in to the strand, Fisher-boats, floating like sea-gulls at rest, Glow in the lingering light of the west, Far-away vesper-bells hallow the air, Ave Maria! the world seems at prayer.

One more immaculate sunset exposed, One chapter more of life's history closed, One more bead told on the chaplet of time, One further stride in Earth's...o...b..t sublime;-- Linked to the measureless chain of the past, One added day, ... to so many their last!

Slowly the colors diminish and die, Slowly the stellar hosts people the sky, Lost is the light on the fishermen's sails, Sweet is the exquisite peace that prevails, Silence and solitude brood o'er the deep, Ave Maria! the world seems to sleep.

One more magnificent pageant to face,-- Numberless systems in infinite s.p.a.ce; Once more our planet in majesty rolls On through the darkness its burden of souls;-- Linked to the limitless chain of the past, One added night, ... to so many their last!

Pa.s.sING AND PERMANENT

Stately boats, with happy crowds, Pa.s.sing up the lake, Leaving, under sunset clouds, Jewels in your wake, From my garden's sheltered strand I can watch you glide, As through some enchanted land On a silver tide.

To your eyes, O joyous throng, All this scene is new; Like a burst of seraphs' song, Comes its matchless view; You have traversed land and sea For this wondrous sight, Which the G.o.ds vouchsafe to me Every day and night!

One long, serial pageant this Of supreme content!

Every face suffused with bliss, Every eye intent; Griefs and troubles slip away On this charming sh.o.r.e, And throughout a transient stay Will return no more.

Yet beware! Gardens fair, Lake, and snow-capped crest For a while may banish care From the saddest breast; But it quickly, even here, Finds the heart again, With the old-time sigh and tear, And the well-known pain.

Careless crew, I envy you!

You will grieve to go, But, believe me, if you knew, You would choose it so; Leave the lake while still you laugh; Be content to pa.s.s; Though its wine be sweet to quaff, Do not drain your gla.s.s!

TRIPOLI

Hear the singing on the boats, As they halt beside the pier!

Ah, those fresh Italian throats, How they cheer!

Yet the words they sing so loud Bring depression to my heart, As I watch the youthful crowd Thus depart.

"We are going o'er the sea!

Loyal sons of Italy, We are bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!"

See that lad of twenty years,-- Who is stretching out his hand Toward his mother there in tears On the strand!

Should he perish in the strife Under Afric's burning sky, There were nothing left in life-- She must die.

Yet he's going o'er the sea!

At the call of Italy, He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

Now the plank is pulled to land, And the last farewell is o'er, As the steamer, at command, Leaves the sh.o.r.e; There are shouts and ringing cheers, For the boys are brave and strong, Yet one feels that there are tears In their song:

"We are going o'er the sea!

Loyal sons of Italy, We are bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!"

Ah, that mother who is left!

She is weeping now alone, Like a Niobe bereft Of her own; And at length I dare to speak To the woman seated there, With the tears upon her cheek, In despair.

He has gone across the sea!

Who so dutiful as he?

He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

"Nay, good mother, do not weep!

Since the summons comes from Rome, Can we really wish to keep Sons at home?"

"And why not?" she made reply; "We have no invading foe; I would send my son to die, Were it so."

But he's gone across the sea!

Gone with thousands such as he!

He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

"What is Africa to me, If it swallow up my child?

What care I for Tripoli, Spot defiled!

Did not Abyssinian sand Drink sufficiently our gore?

Must we stain that fatal strand, As before?"

Yet he's gone across the sea, Who more valorous than he?

He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

"Have we no great uses _here_ For the millions we outpour?

Are our consciences quite clear In this war?

Are there no more roads to build, Schools to found, and farms to work.

That we let our boys be killed By the Turk?"

Yet we send them o'er the sea!

Youthful sons of Italy, They are bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

"We are hungry, yet behold, How the price of food goes higher!

And the nights will soon be cold Without fire!

Who will earn for me my bread?

Who my little home will save, When he lies there cold and dead In his grave?"