Shapes of Clay Part 2

A VISION OF DOOM.

I stood upon a hill. The setting sun Was crimson with a curse and a portent, And scarce his angry ray lit up the land That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up From dim tarns hateful with some horrid ban, Took shapes forbidden and without a name.

Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds With cries discordant, startled all the air, And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom-- The ghosts of blasphemies long ages stilled, And shrieks of women, and men's curses. All These visible shapes, and sounds no mortal ear Had ever heard, some spiritual sense Interpreted, though brokenly; for I Was haunted by a consciousness of crime, Some giant guilt, but whose I knew not. All These things malign, by sight and sound revealed, Were sin-begotten; that I knew--no more-- And that but dimly, as in dreadful dreams The sleepy senses babble to the brain Imperfect witness. As I stood a voice, But whence it came I knew not, cried aloud Some words to me in a forgotten tongue, Yet straight I knew me for a ghost forlorn, Returned from the illimited inane.

Again, but in a language that I knew, As in reply to something which in me Had shaped itself a thought, but found no words, It spake from the dread mystery about: "Immortal shadow of a mortal soul That perished with eternity, attend.

What thou beholdest is as void as thou: The shadow of a poet's dream--himself As thou, his soul as thine, long dead, But not like thine outlasted by its shade.

His dreams alone survive eternity As pictures in the unsubstantial void.

Excepting thee and me (and we because The poet wove us in his thought) remains Of nature and the universe no part Or vestige but the poet's dreams. This dread, Unspeakable land about thy feet, with all Its desolation and its terrors--lo!

'T is but a phantom world. So long ago That G.o.d and all the angels since have died That poet lived--yourself long dead--his mind Filled with the light of a prophetic fire, And standing by the Western sea, above The youngest, fairest city in the world, Named in another tongue than his for one Ensainted, saw its populous domain Plague-smitten with a nameless shame. For there Red-handed murder rioted; and there The people gathered gold, nor cared to loose The a.s.sa.s.sin's fingers from the victim's throat, But said, each in his vile pursuit engrossed: 'Am I my brother's keeper? Let the Law Look to the matter.' But the Law did not.

And there, O pitiful! the babe was slain Within its mother's breast and the same grave Held babe and mother; and the people smiled, Still gathering gold, and said: 'The Law, the Law,'

Then the great poet, touched upon the lips With a live coal from Truth's high altar, raised His arms to heaven and sang a song of doom-- Sang of the time to be, when G.o.d should lean Indignant from the Throne and lift his hand, And that foul city be no more!--a tale, A dream, a desolation and a curse!

No vestige of its glory should survive In fact or memory: its people dead, Its site forgotten, and its very name Disputed."

"Was the prophecy fulfilled?"

The sullen disc of the declining sun Was crimson with a curse and a portent, And scarce his angry ray lit up the land That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up From dim tarns hateful with a horrid ban, Took shapes forbidden and without a name.

Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds With cries discordant, startled all the air, And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom.

But not to me came any voice again; And, covering my face with thin, dead hands, I wept, and woke, and cried aloud to G.o.d!

POLITICS.

That land full surely hastens to its end Where public sycophants in homage bend The populace to flatter, and repeat The doubled echoes of its loud conceit.

Lowly their att.i.tude but high their aim, They creep to eminence through paths of shame, Till fixed securely in the seats of pow'r, The dupes they flattered they at last devour.

POESY.

Successive bards pursue Ambition's fire That shines, Oblivion, above thy mire.

The latest mounts his predecessor's trunk, And sinks his brother ere himself is sunk.

So die ingloriously Fame's _elite_, But dams of dunces keep the line complete.

IN DEFENSE.

You may say, if you please, Johnny Bull, that our girls Are crazy to marry your dukes and your earls; But I've heard that the maids of your own little isle Greet bachelor lords with a favoring smile.

Nay, t.i.tles, 'tis said in defense of our fair, Are popular here because popular there; And for them our ladies persistently go Because 'tis exceedingly English, you know.

Whatever the motive, you'll have to confess The effort's attended with easy success; And--pardon the freedom--'tis thought, over here, 'Tis mortification you mask with a sneer.

It's all very well, sir, your scorn to parade Of the high nasal tw.a.n.g of the Yankee maid, But, ah, to my lord when he dares to propose No sound is so sweet as that "Yes" from the nose.

Our ladies, we grant, walk alone in the street (Observe, by-the-by, on what delicate feet!) 'Tis a habit they got here at home, where they say The men from politeness go seldom astray.

Ah, well, if the dukes and the earls and that lot Can stand it (G.o.d succor them if they cannot!) Your commoners ought to a.s.sent, I am sure, And what they 're not called on to suffer, endure.

"'Tis nothing but money?" "Your n.o.bles are bought?"

As to that, I submit, it is commonly thought That England's a country not specially free Of Croesi and (if you'll allow it) Croesae.

You've many a widow and many a girl With money to purchase a duke or an earl.

'Tis a very remarkable thing, you'll agree, When goods import buyers from over the sea.

Alas for the woman of Albion's isle!

She may simper; as well as she can she may smile; She may wear pantalettes and an air of repose-- But my lord of the future will talk through his nose.

AN INVOCATION.

[Read at the Celebration of Independence Day in San Francisco, in 1888.]

G.o.ddess of Liberty! O thou Whose tearless eyes behold the chain, And look unmoved upon the slain, Eternal peace upon thy brow,--

Before thy shrine the races press, Thy perfect favor to implore-- The proudest tyrant asks no more, The ironed anarchist no less.

Thine altar-coals that touch the lips Of prophets kindle, too, the brand By Discord flung with wanton hand Among the houses and the ships.

Upon thy tranquil front the star Burns bleak and pa.s.sionless and white, Its cold inclemency of light More dreadful than the shadows are.

Thy name we do not here invoke Our civic rites to sanctify: Enthroned in thy remoter sky, Thou heedest not our broken yoke.

Thou carest not for such as we: Our millions die to serve the still And secret purpose of thy will.

They perish--what is that to thee?

The light that fills the patriot's tomb Is not of thee. The shining crown Compa.s.sionately offered down To those who falter in the gloom,

And fall, and call upon thy name, And die desiring--'tis the sign Of a diviner love than thine, Rewarding with a richer fame.

To him alone let freemen cry Who hears alike the victor's shout, The song of faith, the moan of doubt, And bends him from his nearer sky.

G.o.d of my country and my race!

So greater than the G.o.ds of old-- So fairer than the prophets told Who dimly saw and feared thy face,--

Who didst but half reveal thy will And gracious ends to their desire, Behind the dawn's advancing fire Thy tender day-beam veiling still,--

To whom the unceasing suns belong, And cause is one with consequence,-- To whose divine, inclusive sense The moan is blended with the song,--