The Ascent of Man Part 5

From the needs and greeds of primal pa.s.sion, From the serpent's track and lion's den, To the world our human hands did fashion, Lead me to the kindly haunts of men."

And through fields of corn we pa.s.sed together, Orange golden in the brooding heat, Where brown reapers in the harvest weather Cut ripe swathes of downward rustling wheat.

In the orchards dangling red and yellow, Cl.u.s.tered fruit weighed down the bending sprays; On a hundred hills the vines grew mellow In the warmth of fostering autumn days.

Through the air the shrilly twittering swallows Flashed their nimble shadows on the leas; Red-flecked cows were gla.s.sed in golden shallows, Purple clover hummed with restless bees.

Herdsmen drove the cattle from the mountain, To the fold the shepherd drove his flocks, Village girls drew water from the fountain, Village yokels piled the full-eared shocks.

From the white town dozing in the valley, Round its vast Cathedral's solemn shade, Citizens strolled down the walnut alley Where youth courted and glad childhood played.

"Peace on earth," I murmured; "let us linger-- Here the wage of life seems good at least:"

As I spake the veiled One raised a finger Where the moon broke flowering in the east.

Faintly muttering from deep mountain ranges, m.u.f.fled sounds rose hoa.r.s.ely on the night, As the crash of foundering avalanches Wakes hoa.r.s.e echoes in each Alpine height.

Near and nearer sounds the roaring--thunder, Mortal thunder, crashes through the vale; Lightning flash of muskets breaks from under Groves once haunted by the nightingale.

Men clutch madly at each weapon--women, Children crouch in cellars, under roofs, For the town is circled by their foemen-- Shakes the ground with clang of trampling hoofs.

Shot on shot the volleys hiss and rattle, Shrilly whistling fly the murderous b.a.l.l.s, Fiercely roars the tumult of the battle Round the hard-contested, dear-bought walls.

Horror, horror! The fair town is burning, Flames burst forth, wild sparks and ashes fly; With her children's blood the green earth's turning Blood-red--blood-red, too, the cloud-winged sky.

Crackling flare the streets: from the lone steeple The great clock booms forth its ancient chime, And its dolorous quarters warn the people Of the conquering troops that march with time.

Fallen lies the fair old town, its houses Charred and ruined gape in smoking heaps; Here with shouts a ruffian band carouses, There an outraged woman vainly weeps.

In the fields where the ripe corn lies mangled, Where the wounded groan beneath the dead, Friend and foe, now helplessly entangled, Stain red poppies with a guiltier red.

There the dog howls o'er his perished master, There the crow comes circling from afar; All vile things that batten on disaster Follow feasting in the wake of war.

Famine follows--what they ploughed and planted The unhappy peasants shall not reap; Sickening of strange meats and fever haunted, To their graves they prematurely creep.

"Hence"--I cried in unavailing pity-- "Let us flee these scenes of monstrous strife, Seek the pale of some imperial city Where the law rules starlike o'er man's life."

Straightway floating o'er blue sea and river, We were plunged into a roaring cloud, Wherethrough lamps in ague fits did shiver O'er the surging mult.i.tudinous crowd.

Piles of stone, their cliff-like walls uprearing, Flashed in luminous lines along the night; Jets of flame, spasmodically flaring, Splashed black pavements with a sickly light; Fabulous gems shone here, and glowing coral, Shimmering stuffs from many an Eastern loom, And vast piles of tropic fruits and floral Marvels seemed to mock November's gloom.

But what prowls near princely mart and dwelling, Whence through many a thundering thoroughfare Rich folk roll on cushions softly swelling To the week-day feast and Sunday prayer?

Yea, who prowl there, hunger-nipped and pallid, Breathing nightmares limned upon the gloom?

'Tis but human rubbish, gaunt and squalid, Whom their country spurns for lack of room.

In their devious track we mutely follow, Mutely climb dim flights of oozy stairs, Where through gap-toothed, mizzling roof the yellow Pestilent fog blends with the fetid air.

Through the unhinged door's discordant slamming Ring the gruesome sounds of savage strife-- Howls of babes, the drunken father's d.a.m.ning, Counter-cursing of the shrill-tongued wife.

Children feebly crying on their mother In a wailful chorus--"Give us food!"

Man and woman glaring at each other Like two gaunt wolves with a famished brood.

Till he s.n.a.t.c.hed a stick, and, madly staring, Struck her blow on blow upon the head; And she, reeling back, gasped, hardly caring-- "Ah, you've done it now, Jim"--and was dead.

Dead--dead--dead--the miserable creature-- Never to feel hunger's cruel fang Wring the bowels of rebellious nature That her infants might be spared the pang.

"Dead! Good luck to her!" The man's teeth chattered, Stone-still stared he with blank eyes and hard, Then, his frame with one big sob nigh shattered, Fled--and cut his throat down in the yard.

Dark the night--the children wail forsaken, Crane their wrinkled necks and cry for food, Drop off into fitful sleep, or waken Trembling like a sparrow's ravished brood.

Dark the night--the rain falls on the ashes, Feebly hissing on the feeble heat, Filters through the ceiling, drops in splashes On the little children's naked feet.

Dark the night--the children wail forsaken-- Is there none, ah, none, to heed their moan?

Yea, at dawn one little one is taken, Four poor souls are left, but one is gone.

Gone--escaped--flown from the shame and sorrow Waiting for them at life's sombre gate, But the hand of merciless to-morrow Drags the others shuddering to their fate.

But one came--a girlish thing--a creature Flung by wanton hands 'mid l.u.s.t and crime-- A poor outcast, yet by right of nature Sweet as odour of the upland thyme.

Scapegoat of a people's sins, and hunted, Howled at, hooted to the wilderness, To that wilderness of deaf hearts, blunted To the depths of woman's dumb distress.

Jetsam, flotsam of the monster city, Spurned, defiled, reviled, that outcast came To those babes that whined for love and pity, Gave them bread bought with the wage of shame.

Gave them bread, and gave them warm, maternal Kisses not on sale for any price: Yea, a spark, a flash of some eternal Sympathy shone through those haunted eyes.

Ah, perchance through her dark life's confusion, Through the haste and taste of fevered hours, Gusts of memory on her youth's pollution Blew forgotten scents of faded flowers.

And she saw the cottage near the wild wood, With its lichened roof and latticed panes, Strayed once more through golden fields of childhood, Hyacinth dells and hawthorn-scented lanes.

Heard once more the song of nesting thrushes And the blackbird's long mellifluous note, Felt once more the glow of maiden blushes Burn through rosy cheek and milkwhite throat In that orchard where the apple blossom Lightly shaken fluttered on her hair, As the heart was fluttering in her bosom When her sweetheart came and kissed her there.

Often came he in the lilac-laden Moonlit twilight, often pledged his word; But she was a simple country-maiden, He the offspring of a n.o.ble lord.

Fading lilacs May's farewell betoken, Fledglings fly and soon forget the nest; Lightly may a young man's vows be broken, And the heart break in a woman's breast.

Gathered like a sprig of summer roses In the dewy morn and flung away, To the girl the father's door now closes, Let her shelter henceforth how she may.

Who will house the miserable mother With her child, a helpless castaway!

"I, am I the keeper of my brother?"

Asks smug virtue as it turns to pray!

Lovely are the earliest Lenten lilies, Primrose pleiads, hyacinthine sheets; Stripped and rifled from their pastoral valleys, See them sold now in the public streets!

Other flowers are sold there besides posies-- Eyes may have the hyacinth's glowing blue, Rounded cheeks the velvet bloom of roses, Taper necks the rain-washed lily's hue.

But a rustic blossom! Love and duty Bound up in a child whom hunger slays!

Ah! but one thing still is left her--beauty Fresh, untarnished yet--and beauty pays.

Beauty keeps her child alive a little, Then it dies--her woman's love with it-- Beauty's brilliant sceptre, ah, how brittle, Drags her daily deeper down the pit.

Ruin closes o'er her--hideous, nameless; Each fresh morning marks a deeper fall; Till at twenty--callous, cankered, shameless, She lies dying at the hospital.

Drink, more drink, she calls for--her harsh laughter Grates upon the meekly praying nurse, Eloquent about her soul's hereafter: "Souls be blowed!" she sings out with a curse.

And so dies, an unrepenting sinner-- Pitched into her pauper's grave what time That most n.o.ble lord rides by to dinner Who had wooed her in her innocent prime.

And in after-dinner talk he preaches Resignation--o'er his burgundy-- Till a grateful public dubs his speeches Oracles of true philanthropy.

Peace ye call this? Call this justice, meted Equally to rich and poor alike?

Better than this peace the battle's heated Cannon-b.a.l.l.s that ask not whom they strike!

Better than this masquerade of culture Hiding strange hyaena appet.i.tes, The frank ravening of the raw-necked vulture As its beak the senseless carrion smites.

What of men in bondage, toiling blunted In the roaring factory's lurid gloom?

What of cradled infants starved and stunted?

What of woman's nameless martyrdom?

The all-seeing sun shines on unheeding, Shines by night the calm, unruffled moon, Though the human myriads, preying, bleeding, Put creation harshly out of tune.

"Hence, ah, hence"--I sobbed in quivering pa.s.sion-- "From these fearful haunts of fiendish men!

Better far the plain, carnivorous fashion Which is practised in the lion's den."

And I fled--yet staggering still did follow In the footprints of my shrouded guide-- To the sea-caves echoing with the hollow Immemorial moaning of the tide.

Sinking, swelling roared the wintry ocean, Pitch-black chasms struck with flying blaze, As the cloud-winged storm-sky's sheer commotion Showed the blank Moon's mute Medusa face White o'er wastes of water--surges crashing Over surges in the formless gloom, And a mastless hulk, with great seas washing Her scourged flanks, pitched toppling to her doom.