Songs of Labor and Other Poems Part 7

In wonderment it muses, And murmurs with a sigh: "Alas! how G.o.d-forsaken And desolate am I!

"Alas, the stony alleys, And noises loud and bold!

Where are ye, birds of summer?

Where are ye, woods of old?

"And where, ye breezes balmy That wandered vagrant here?

And where, oh sweep of heavens So deep and blue and clear?

"Where are ye, mighty giants?

Ye come not riding by Upon your fiery horses, A-whistling merrily.

"Of other days my dreaming, Of other days, ah me!

When st.u.r.dy hero-races Lived wild and glad and free!

"The old sun shone, how brightly!

The old lark sang, what song!

O'er earth Desire and Gladness Reigned happily and long

"But see! what are these ant-hills?-- These ants that creep and crawl?...

Bereft of man and nature, My life is stripped of all!

"And I, an ancient orphan, What do I here alone?

My friends have all departed, My youth and glory gone.

"Oh, tear me, root and branches!

No longer let me be A living head-stone, brooding O'er the grave of liberty."

The Cemetery Nightingale

In the hills' embraces holden, In a valley filled with glooms, Lies a cemetery olden, Strewn with countless mould'ring tombs.

Ancient graves o'erhung with mosses, Crumbling stones, effaced and green,-- Venturesome is he who crosses, Night or day, the lonely scene.

Blasted trees and willow streamers, 'Midst the terror round them spread, Seem like awe-bound, silent dreamers In this garden of the dead.

One bird, anguish stricken, lingers In the shadow of the vale, First and best of feathered singers,-- 'Tis the churchyard nightingale.

As from bough to bough he flutters, Sweetest songs of woe and wail Through his gift divine he utters For the dreamers in the vale.

Listen how his trills awaken Echoes from each mossy stone!

Of all places he has taken G.o.d's still Acre for his own.

Not on Spring or Summer glory, Not on G.o.d or angel story Loyal poet-fancy dwells!

Not on streams for rich men flowing, Not on fields for rich men's mowing,-- Graves he sees, of graves he tells.

Pain, oppression, woe eternal, Open heart-wounds deep, diurnal, Nothing comforts or allays; O'er G.o.d's Acre in each nation Sings he songs of tribulation Tunes his golden harp and plays.

The Creation of Man

When the world was first created By th' all-wise Eternal One, Asked he none for help or counsel,-- Simply spake, and it was done!

Made it for his own good pleasure, Shaped it on his own design, Spent a long day's work upon it, Formed it fair and very fine.

Soon he thought on man's creation,-- Then perplexities arose, So the Lord His winged Senate Called, the question to propose:

Hear, my great ones, why I called ye, Hear and help me ye who can, Hear and tell me how I further Shall proceed in making man.

Ponder well before ye answer, And consider, children dear;-- In our image I would make him, Free from stain, from blemish clear.

Of my holy fire I'd give him, Crowned monarch shall he be, Ruling with a sway unquestioned Over earth and air and sea.

Birds across the blue sky winging Swift shall fly before his face,-- Silver fishes in the ocean, Savage lion in the chase.

--How? This toy of froth and vapor, Thought the Senate, filled with fear, If so wide his kingdom stretches, Shortly he will break in here!

So the Lord they answered, saying:-- Mind and strength Thy creature give, Form him in our very image, Lord, but wingless let him live!

Lest he shame the soaring eagle Let no wings to man be giv'n, Bid him o'er the earth be ruler, Lord, but keep him out of heav'n!

Wisely said, the Lord made answer, Lo, your counsel fair I take!

Yet, my Senate, one exception-- One alone, I will to make.

One exception! for the poet, For the singer, shall have wings; He the gates of Heav'n shall enter, Highest of created things.

One I single from among ye, One to watch the ages long, Promptly to admit the poet When he hears his holy song.

Journalism

Written today, and read today, And stale the news tomorrow!-- Upon the sands I build... I _play!_ I play, and weep in sorrow: "Ah G.o.d, dear G.o.d! to find cessation From this soul-crushing occupation!

If but one year ere Thou dost call me Thither, Lord, at this blighting task let me not wither."

Pen and Shears