Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 7

A Union? Yes; outstretched in might From snow to palm, from sea to sea; But pledged to use its strength aright, And evermore to keep alight The torch of human liberty: Is this the Union that we see?

Where history's Martyr dared to break The power that held a race in chains, I see the ghastly lynching-stake, Where brutal mobs their vengeance take, And, since no law their course restrains, Gloat o'er their writhing victim's pains.

Race hatred,--born of groundless fears And narrow prejudice of caste--, Now greets the cultured black with sneers And, barring him from high careers, Breaks, like a mad iconoclast, The nation's idols of the past.

No more can we with steadfast eyes Protest, when tortured races moan With hands uplifted toward the skies; Their tyrants answer with surprise And new-born insolence of tone,-- "These are our lynchings; cure your own!"

Yet hope remains! A path retraced Is n.o.bler than persistent wrong; A fault confessed is half effaced; That land alone can be disgraced Which is not just, however strong, Toward those to whom its "spoils" belong.

My country! Would to G.o.d that praise Might leave my lips, instead of blame!

So near the parting of the ways, Subjected to the eager gaze Of millions, jealous of thy fame, Retrace the path that ends in shame!

"AEQUANIMITAS"

Watchword sublime of Rome's imperial sage, Tersest of synonyms for self-control, Paramount precept of the Stoic's age, n.o.blest of mottoes for the lofty soul,-- Would thou wert writ in characters of light, At every turn to greet my reverent gaze, And bid me face life's evils, calm, upright, Unspoiled alike by calumny or praise!

With all our science we are slaves of Fate; What is to come we know not, cannot know; Grief, suffering, death,--all touch us soon or late, The master question, how to meet the blow.

Grant me, ye G.o.ds, through life a steadfast eye, And then, with equanimity, to die!

DREAMLAND

I woke from dreams of rare delight And visions of a joyous land, Where loved ones, long since lost to sight, Walked blithely with me, hand in hand:

Where every brow was free from care, And Youth's sublime ideals shone Like planets in an Alpine air, And death's sad mystery was known.

I woke,--and like a bird that waits, Uncertain where to wend its flight, My spirit lingered at the gates, Which close upon that realm of light;

Till, slowly, all around grew clear, And once again the light of day Convinced me that I still was here, Though all my dreams had pa.s.sed away.

Once more I faced a world of Pain!

Of quivering nerves and sure decay, Of helpless brutes, by millions, slain To feed mankind a single day!

Of shivering children, scarred with blows, Of hunted bird and tortured beast, Of War, whose hideous programme shows Its means of homicide increased.

The same old world of greed and hate, Of selfish act and paltry aim, Of private fraud and venal State, Of deeds and doers steeped in shame!

What marvel if the spirit shrinks From plunging in that turbid stream?

Or if, on waking thus, one thinks That life was better in his dream?

Sweet, peaceful dreamland! I await The favored hour, to pa.s.s again Within thine asphodelian gate, Beyond the miseries of men;

To find old pleasures, long since gone, Perchance as vivid as of yore, Or else to sleep,--life's curtains drawn,-- And reawaken ... nevermore.

ROME REVISITED

O sovereign Rome, still mistress of the heart, As of the world in thy majestic prime, Grand in thy ruins, peerless in thine art, Rich in the memories of a past sublime,

Is thine the fault or mine that thou art changed, And that I tread the new Tiberian sh.o.r.e Convinced, alas! that we are now estranged, And that for me thy charm exists no more?

I have grown older, but am not blase, My hair has whitened, but my heart is young, Still thrills my pulse the tomb-girt Appian Way, Still stirs my soul the ancient Latin tongue.

Whence then this transformation, that pervades Rome's very air, and leaves its blighting trace Alike upon the Pincio's colonnades And on the Mausoleum's rugged face?

The fault, dear Rome, is neither thine nor mine, But that of vandals nurtured on thy breast, Who, mad as "modern citizens" to shine, Have fashioned thee like cities of the west.

Thy time-worn face, and figure deeply bowed By countless sufferings for two thousand years, Whose proper garment seemed to be a shroud, Commanding reverence, sympathy and tears,

Are now bedecked with tawdry gems of paste; Parisian robes thy withered limbs conceal; Thy wrinkled cheeks are rouged; in vulgar taste A modern watch-fob holds the Caesar's seal!

Where once imperial Triumphs proudly pa.s.sed, Electric cars roll thundering through thy streets; In Raphael's groves the automobile's blast Expels the Muses from their calm retreats.

Through sinuous miles of shops with worldly wares Bewildered pilgrims reach St. Peter's shrine; Some modern stamp each old piazza, bears; And freed from weeds, thy burnished ruins shine!

Near Hadrian's ma.s.sive bridge of sculptured stone, The Tiber surges 'neath an iron frame, Across whose ugly beams the tramcars groan, And brand the river with a bar of shame.

G.o.ds of Olympus, can ye not restore To outraged Rome her dignity of old?

'Twere better Jove and Juno to adore Than in their stead to worship only Gold!

Thy glorious statues, cruelly defaced, Thy crumbling shrines, thy marbles burnt to lime, The lone Campagna's fever-stricken waste, Where lizards bask on columns once sublime,--

The Flavian Amphitheatre's gaping wounds, The Baths of Caracalla's roofless walls, The Forum's mult.i.tude of ruined mounds, The royal Palatine's abandoned halls,--

All these indeed create a hopeless pain, When fancy strives to reconstruct the whole, Yet pathos, wakened by a wreck-strewn plain, Inspires at least n.o.bility of soul.

But where a Syndic's greed hath left its trail The picturesque and beautiful take flight; The Past's inspiring influences fail, As stars are hidden by electric light.

Yet protests meet derision and disdain; The fatal madness spreads from land to land; Peace, Art, and Beauty everywhere are slain By greedy Traffic's hard, rapacious hand.

We laugh at lessons taught by others' fate, We see no ending to our prosperous day; Forgetting that, in turn, each ancient State Hath pa.s.sed through bud and flower to decay.

Behold the retrogression of those lands Whence painting, sculpture and the drama sprung; See starved Trinacria's outstretched, empty hands, And all the cla.s.sic sh.o.r.es by Homer sung!

In what have we surpa.s.sed them? We are taught Their art, their ethics, and their rythmic speech; Both Greece and Asia still control our thought, Their grandest works still far beyond our reach.

The breathless transfer of men, thoughts, and things, Improved designs for vaster fratricide,-- Are these the leading gifts this century brings, The twentieth, too, since Christ was crucified?

Yet thoughts that most have influenced mankind Were not sent broadcast with the lightning's speed; Nor do the works of Plato lag behind The myriad books and papers that we read!

And thou, Italia, that for ages played A role whose majesty can ne'er be told, Hast thou, like all the rest, thy trust betrayed, Adored the New, and sacrificed the Old?