Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 9

We sent our sons across the seas To learn from the Western Powers Their modes of life and their modes of strife, And have made them largely ours; But before all else have we learned from them That our first great aim, must be To possess a fleet that can defeat All rivals on the sea.

Hence, all that the West hath yet devised For the slaughter of men en ma.s.se We have copied or bought, and have stopped at naught To make our fleet "first cla.s.s"; And lest this might not quite suffice, Should an enemy come in sight, We have made each man throughout j.a.pan A soldier trained to fight!

But alas for the change that hath been wrought In the millions in our fields!

For the costly ships take from their lips The food that the harvest yields; They were always poor, but their load was light, Compared with their load to-day, For thousands of hands that worked the lands Are drafted now away.

And sad are the scenes in the sphere of Art In which we had won such fame; The fingers left are not so deft As they were when the strangers came; For then we toiled for Beauty's sake, And by time were we never paid; But now we have sold our art for gold And the western market's trade.

I never look at the goods now sent,-- So worthless do they seem,-- Without a sigh for the standard high Which prevailed in the old regime; When even the hilt of a Daimio's sword Was a work of months or years, And the highest reward for a triumph scored Was praise from the artist's peers.

No, the soul of my people is not the same; It was formerly sweet and kind, And happiness reigned in hearts restrained By an unspoiled, gentle mind; But now the l.u.s.ts of the outer world For power, and lands, and gold, Our sons deprave, till they madly crave What others have and hold.

We have borrowed many things from the West, But one have we left alone; Of its Christian creed we had no need, And have thus far kept our own; For each of its numerous sects affirms That it has the only way, And that all the rest should be suppressed, For they lead mankind astray.

But worse than the claims of rival sects And the war of clashing creeds, Is the gulf,--heaven-wide! which we descried Between their words and deeds; For He whose sacred name they bear Was known as the Prince of Peace, And what He taught, in practice wrought, Would cause all wars to cease.

They say with truth that we used to fight For our Lords on sea and coast, But our soldiers then were as one to ten, Not a permanent armored host!

Nor do we claim to obey the G.o.d They worship in the West; But, since they do, is it not true That they mock at His first behest?

His words were "Love your enemies!"

And never a hostile act To friend or foe should Christians show, By whomsoever attacked; But they are really the best prepared To attack and to resist; And the Kaiser who prays is the Kaiser who says,-- "Go! Strike with the mailed fist!"

We look abroad, and everywhere The spirit of Christ is dead; Men call Him Lord, but they draw the sword In defiance of what He said; And the haughty, white-skinned Christian race Hates men of a different hue, And robs and slays in a thousand ways, With excuses ever new.

In the North and South, in the East and West In vain do the natives plead; By the Congo's waves are countless graves, Where the Paleface gluts his greed; And China's fate looms dark and grim, As its people note the means That Christians take, when gold's at stake, From the Rand to the Philippines.

We have had to choose between the rule Of the Sermon on the Mount And the brutal fact that nations act With an eye to their bank-account!

And we see that the only way to shun The clutch of the Western Powers Is to learn to kill with Christian skill, And to make their weapons ours.

For we will not, like the others, bend Our necks to the white man's yoke; And poor j.a.pan, to her latest man, Will answer stroke with stroke; So I watch to-night a solemn sight On the breast of the moonlit bay, As our gallant host for a hostile coast Prepares to sail away.

It is life or death for my native land, And I fear I may never see Those ships again, with their n.o.ble men, Return from victory; And well I know in my heart of hearts, As the past I sadly scan, That we are worse, and it was a curse That foreigners brought j.a.pan.

1904.

THE UNFORGOTTEN HEROES

[The great temple at Miyagi in j.a.pan was recently the scene of grand funeral observances for the horses slain in the late war with Russia, the Buddhist priests reading prayers and conducting services of a most solemn character.]

Hark! how the Orient's bells are proclaiming Obsequies strange to the shrines of the west-- Services Christendom's cruelties shaming-- Taught by the merciful, Buddha the blest.

Peace on Manchuria's plains has descended; Tall waves the gra.s.s where the chivalrous bled; Murder and ma.s.sacre finally ended, Sadly the living remember their dead.

Requiem ma.s.ses and prayers without number Plead for the souls of the Muscovite brave, While of the j.a.panese, wrapt in death's slumber, Tender memorials honor each grave.

But in Gautama's compa.s.sionate teaching Love is not limited merely to man; Kindness to animals formed in his preaching No less a part of his merciful plan.

Hence by the Buddhists, in counting the corses Heaping with horror the death-trampled plain, Not unremembered are thousands of horses, Left unattended to die with the slain.

What did war seem to these poor, driven cattle?

What was their part in the horrible fray Save to be shot in the fury of battle, Or from exhaustion to fall by the way?

Dragging huge guns over rocks and through mire, Trembling with weakness, yet straining each nerve, Fated at last in despair to expire, Uncomprehending, yet willing to serve!

Nothing to them were the hopes of a nation; "Czar" and "Mikado" were meaningless sounds; None of the patriot's deep inspiration Softened the agony caused by their wounds.

Not for these martyrs the skill of physician, Ether for anguish or lint for a wound; Theirs but to lie in their crippled condition, Thirsting and starving on shelterless ground.

Hail to these quadrupeds, dead without glory!

Honor to him who their valor reveres!

Spare to these heroes, unmentioned in story, Something of sympathy, something of tears.

A WINTER'S DAY

Into my garden sweet and fair Brightly the sun at noonday shines, Melting the frost from the wintry air, Warming the trellis of leafless vines.

Basking there in the genial heat, South of my sheltering vineyard wall, Strolling, I dream in my lov'd retreat,-- The smile of the sun-G.o.d over all.

Far too early a shadow dark, Cast by the neighboring mountain's crest, Stealthily creeps across the park, Bringing a chill from the sombre west.

Little by little my sunlit s.p.a.ce Shrinks to a narrowing path of light; Further and further with dread I trace The sure advance of approaching night.

Soon will arrive its twilight pall; Then, as the potent change is felt, The fountain's drops will cease to fall And feathery films refuse to melt.

But still in the solar warmth I wait, The hand of my lov'd one clasped in mine; Is that a tear? It is growing late, And she asks how long the sun will shine.

ON THE PROMENADE

O joyous idler in the sun, In pity slacken here thy pace!

A lad, whose course is nearly run, Is watching thee with wistful face.

The glow of health upon thy cheek, The youthful ardor in thy gait, Appear to him, so frail and weak, The bitter irony of Fate.

Thou art to him the vision fair Of all he once had hoped to be; What wonder, then, that in despair His longing glances follow thee?

Let not the gulf too deep appear Between thy fortune and his own!

Thou didst not see that falling tear, Nor hear his low, half-stifled moan.