Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 8

Wilt thou for fashion make thy Past forlorn?

Waste precious substance upon useless ships?

Transport to Africa thine eldest born, And let gaunt hunger blanch thy peasants' lips?

Make poorly paid officials banded knaves?

Drive starving sons by thousands from thy sh.o.r.e, Or let them rot in Abyssinian graves, And hide the cancer festering at thy core?

If so, 'tis certain thou must dearly pay For playing thus the war-lord's pompous part, And thou shalt feel at no far-distant day The people's dagger driven through thy heart.

Fain would I find some peaceful Pagan shrine Unspoiled as yet by vandals of to-day, Around whose shafts the sweet, wild roses twine, And on whose marble walls the sunbeams play;

There would I dream of days when life was sweet With poetry, art, and myths devoid of dread, When all the G.o.ds in harmony could meet, And no eternal torment vexed the dead.

Our vaunted age is one of feverish haste, Of racial hatred and of loathsome cant, Of gross corruption and of tawdry taste, Of monster fortunes, with a world in want.

I am not of it, and I will not be!

Its social strife and slavery I despise; Gone is its sh.o.r.e; I sail the open sea O'er tranquil waters and 'neath cloudless skies!

ON THE PALATINE

I tread the vast deserted stage Whereon the Caesars lived and died; The relics of Rome's golden age Lie strewn about me far and wide, Mementoes of an empire's pride, The homes of men once deified.

What are they now? Stupendous piles Of mouldering corridors and walls, On which alike the sunshine smiles And cold the rain of winter falls; A wilderness of roofless halls Whose tragic history appalls!

Below me, like an opened grave, The Forum's excavations lie, Where column, arch and architrave In solemn grandeur greet the eye, Still guarding 'neath Italia's sky The glory that can never die.

And here, above me and around, In part still shrouded by the soil, A stony chaos strews the ground, Where patient students delve and toil To bring to light Time's buried spoil, And History's tangled threads uncoil.

Halt! where thou standest Rome was born!

These stones by Romulus were placed, When, on that far-off April morn, Two snow-white bulls the furrow traced For Rome's first wall, which, firmly based, Two thousand years have not effaced.

From these rude blocks how vast the bound To that huge, labyrinthine ma.s.s Through which the secret pathways wound, Where emperors, if alarmed, could pa.s.s; Yet even there could find, alas!

The poignard or the poisoned gla.s.s.

What ghastly crimes these rooms recall!

Here Nero watched his brother drain The fatal draught, then lifeless fall; Here, too, Caligula was slain, When, shrieking, with disordered brain, He pleaded for his life in vain.

At every turn some pallid ghost With haggard features seems to rise To join the long-drawn, murdered host That moves with sad, averted eyes, Like victims to a sacrifice, To where the Via Sacra lies.

Behold the mighty Judgment Hall, Where Nero with indifferent air Remarked the pleading of St. Paul, Nor dreamed the man before him there Would soon be read and reverenced where The Roman empire had no share!

Where are they all,--those men of pride Whose palace was the Palatine, From Romulus the fratricide To Hadrian, and Constantine, The last of all the western line Of Caesars who were deemed divine?

And all the millions who were swayed By those who dwelt upon this hill, And who in humble awe obeyed The dictates of their sovereign will,-- Are they self-conscious beings still, Or are their minds and bodies ... Nil?

I watch our planet's G.o.d decline Behind the tomb-girt Appian Way; The old, imperial Palatine Grows purple 'neath the sun's last ray; Shades of the Caesars, if ye may, The mystery of death portray!

Are there in truth Elysian Fields?

And is there life beyond the grave?

Or are the years that Nature yields Confined this side the Stygian wave?

For those who more existence crave Is there a Power to help and save?

Alas! no answer; on their hill The murdered Caesars make no sign; Their myriad subjects, too, are still,-- Mute as the voiceless Palatine; Yet overhead the fixed stars shine, And bid us trust in the Divine!

THE FAREWELL OF THE OLD GUARD AT FONTAINEBLEAU, 1814

Stately court of Fontainebleau, Nine and ninety years ago On thy s.p.a.cious esplanade, Ranged in formal dress parade, Stood the Emperor's grenadiers With their bronzed cheeks wet with tears, Waiting once again to show Love for him at Fontainebleau.

Noon had struck above the square, When adown the Horse Shoe stair In his well-known coat of gray, Worn on many a hard-fought day, Came the man adored by all As their "Little Corporal,"

Forced by Europe now to go Far from royal Fontainebleau.

In the ranks a sudden stir Swelled to shouts of Vive l'Empereur; Then deep silence reigned, save where On the peaceful summer air Choking sobs, but half suppressed, Came from many a faithful breast At the overwhelming blow Dealt them here at Fontainebleau.

Could the rumor, then, be true?

Would he say to them adieu?

Would their idol and their pride, He whom they had deified, Leave his royal grenadiers, Veteran troops of twenty years?

Hark! he speaks in accents low To his Guard at Fontainebleau:--

"Comrades, brothers, we must part"; (How his lov'd tones thrilled each heart!) "It were wrong to you and France, Did I once more say 'Advance'; On the ruins of my State I at last must abdicate, And with you no more can know Happy days at Fontainebleau.

"Valiant soldiers of my Guard, Thus to part is doubly hard; Did you silence Prussian guns, March beneath Italian suns, Enter Moscow and Madrid, Fight beside the Pyramid, And survive grim Russia's snow,-- Thus to yield at Fontainebleau?

"Heroes of great wars, farewell!

You have heard my empire's knell, Yet no hostile world's decree Can estrange your hearts from me; Exiled to a tiny isle, Through your tears you well may smile At the realm my foes bestow,-- Elba ... after Fontainebleau!

"Now of all who once were true I can count alone on you; Would that each might take the place Of the eagle I embrace!

Let the tears which on it fall Move the souls of one and all!

Never have I loved you so As to-day at Fontainebleau."

Hushed his voice; a moment more, At the pa.s.sing carriage door Gleamed Napoleon's mournful eyes,-- Smouldering flames of sacrifice; Then his pallid, cla.s.sic face Vanished ghostlike into s.p.a.ce, And a dreary sense of woe Settled over Fontainebleau.

Dead are now those grenadiers; Quelled are Europe's anxious fears; By the Seine the Emperor sleeps; France her watch beside him keeps; But the lonely Horse Shoe stair Still preserves its sombre air, For the light of long ago Falls no more on Fontainebleau.

j.a.pAN,--OLD AND NEW

The son of a j.a.panese lord am I,-- A Prince of the olden time; My hair is white, though black as night In my youth and early prime; And again and again I ask myself, As the past I sadly scan, Are we better or worse? Was it blessing or curse That foreigners brought j.a.pan?

It is barely two score years and ten Since the epoch-making day When a foreign fleet, through the summer heat, Came sailing up our bay; Still ring in my ears my father's words, As we watched it breast the waves,-- "If strangers land on Nippon's strand, We may one day be their slaves."

But the strangers landed, and asked for trade And a permanent "Open Door,"

And we deemed it best to grant the West A foothold on our sh.o.r.e; Their slaves in truth we have not become, Yet who can fail to find That j.a.pan obeys in a thousand ways The will of the western mind?