Songs of the Silent World, and Other Poems Part 9

VICTURae SALUTAMUS.[1]

Shall we who are about to live, Cry like a clarion on the battle-field?

Or weep before 't is fought, the fight to yield?

Thou that hast been and yet that art to be Named by our name, that art the First and Last!

Womanhood of the future and the past!

Thee we salute, below the breath. Oh, give To us the courage of our mystery.

... Pealing, the clock of Time Has struck the Woman's Hour....

We hear it on our knees. For ah, no power Is ours to trip too lightly to the rhyme Of idle words that fan the summer air, Of bounding words that leap the years to come.

Ideal of ourselves! We dream and dare.

Victurae salutamus! _Thou_ art dumb.

[1] Written for the first commencement at Smith College.

THE ERMINE.

I read of the ermine to-day, Of the ermine who will not step By the feint of a step in the mire,-- The creature who will not stain Her garment of wild, white fire;

Of the dumb, flying, soulless thing (So we with our souls dare to say), The being of sense and of sod, That will not, that will not defile The nature she took from her G.o.d.

And we, with the souls that we have, Go cheering the hunters on To a prey with that pleading eye.

She cannot go into the mud!

She can stay like the snow, and die!

The hunters come leaping on.

She turns like a heart at bay.

They do with her as they will.

... O thou who thinkest on this!

Stand like a star, and be still,

Where the soil oozes under thy feet.

Better, ah, better to die Than to take one step in the mire!

Oh, blessed to die or to live, With garments of holy fire!

UNQUENCHED.[1]

I think upon the conquering Greek who ran (Brave was the racer!) that brave race of old-- Swifter than hope his feet that did not tire.

Calmer than love the hand which reached that goal; A torch it bore, and cherished to the end, And rescued from the winds the sacred fire.

O life the race! O heart the racer! Hush!

And listen long enough to learn of him Who sleeps beneath the dust with his desire.

Go! shame thy coward weariness, and wail.

Who doubles contest, doubles victory.

Go! learn to run the race, and carry fire.

O Friend! The lip is brave, the heart is weak.

Stay near. The runner faints--the torch falls pale.

Save me the flame that mounteth ever higher!

Grows it so dark? I lift mine eyes to _thine_; Blazing within them, steadfast, pure, and strong, Against the wind there fights the eternal fire.

[1] At the Promethean and other festivals, young men ran with torches or lamps lighted from the sacrificial altar. "In this contest, only he was victorious whose lamp remained unextinguished in the race."

THE KING'S IMAGE.

Of iron were his arms; they could have held The need of half the kingdom up; and in His brow were iron atoms too. Thus was He built. His heart, observe, was wrought of gold, Burnished; it dazzled one to look at it.

His feet were carved of clay--and so he fell.

Clay unto clay shall perish and return.

The tooth of rust shall gnaw the iron down.

The conqueror of time, gold must endure.

Thou great amalgam! Suffering in thyself, The while inflicting still the certain fate Of thy disharmony. From Nature's law, Unto her law, thy doom appeals; bids thee To fear the metal sinews of thy soul, And scorn the dust on which thou totterest; But save, oh, save the heart of gold for one Who did, beholding, trust in it.

IV.

AT THE PARTY.

Half a dozen children At our house!

Half a dozen children Quiet as a mouse, Quiet as a moonbeam, You could hear a pin-- Waiting for the party To begin.

Such a flood of flounces!

(Oh dear me!) Such a surge of sashes Like a silken sea.

Little eyes demurely Cast upon the ground, Little airs and graces All around.

High time for that party To begin!

To sit so any longer Were a sort of sin; As if you were n't acquainted With society.

What a thing to tell of That would be!

Up spoke a little lady Aged five; "I 've tumbled up my over-dress, Sure as I 'm alive!