The Little Book of Modern Verse Part 17

IV

Yea, wrap thy awful gulfs and acolytes Of lifted granite round with reachless snows.

Stand for Eternity while pilgrim rows Of all the nations envy thy repose.

Ensheath thy swart sublimities, unscaled.

Be that alone on earth which has not failed.

Be that which never yet has yearned or ailed, But since primeval Power upreared thy heights Has stood above all deaths and all delights.

V

And though thy loftier Brother shall be King, High-priest art thou to Brahma unrevealed, While thy white sanct.i.ty forever sealed In icy silence leaves desire congealed.

In ghostly ministrations to the sun, And to the mendicant stars and the moon-nun, Be holy still, till East to West has run, And till no sacrificial suffering On any shrine is left to tell life's sting.

Sc.u.m o' the Earth. [Robert Haven Schauffler]

I

At the gate of the West I stand, On the isle where the nations throng.

We call them "sc.u.m o' the earth";

Stay, are we doing you wrong, Young fellow from Socrates' land? -- You, like a Hermes so lissome and strong Fresh from the Master Praxiteles' hand?

So you're of Spartan birth?

Descended, perhaps, from one of the band -- Deathless in story and song -- Who combed their long hair at Thermopylae's pa.s.s?

Ah, I forget the straits, alas!

More tragic than theirs, more compa.s.sion-worth, That have doomed you to march in our "immigrant cla.s.s"

Where you're nothing but "sc.u.m o' the earth".

II

You Pole with the child on your knee, What dower bring you to the land of the free?

Hark! does she croon That sad little tune That Chopin once found on his Polish lea And mounted in gold for you and for me?

Now a ragged young fiddler answers In wild Czech melody That Dvorak took whole from the dancers.

And the heavy faces bloom In the wonderful Slavic way; The little, dull eyes, the brows a-gloom, Suddenly dawn like the day.

While, watching these folk and their mystery, I forget that they're nothing worth; That Bohemians, Slovaks, Croatians, And men of all Slavic nations Are "polacks" -- and "sc.u.m o' the earth".

III

Genoese boy of the level brow, Lad of the l.u.s.trous, dreamy eyes A-stare at Manhattan's pinnacles now In the first sweet shock of a hushed surprise; Within your far-rapt seer's eyes I catch the glow of the wild surmise That played on the Santa Maria's prow In that still gray dawn, Four centuries gone, When a world from the wave began to rise.

Oh, it's hard to foretell what high emprise Is the goal that gleams When Italy's dreams Spread wing and sweep into the skies.

Caesar dreamed him a world ruled well; Dante dreamed Heaven out of h.e.l.l; Angelo brought us there to dwell; And you, are you of a different birth? -- You're only a "dago", -- and "sc.u.m o' the earth"!

IV

Stay, are we doing you wrong Calling you "sc.u.m o' the earth", Man of the sorrow-bowed head, Of the features tender yet strong, -- Man of the eyes full of wisdom and mystery Mingled with patience and dread?

Have not I known you in history, Sorrow-bowed head?

Were you the poet-king, worth Treasures of Ophir unpriced?

Were you the prophet, perchance, whose art Foretold how the rabble would mock That shepherd of spirits, erelong, Who should carry the lambs on his heart And tenderly feed his flock?

Man -- lift that sorrow-bowed head.

Lo! 't is the face of the Christ!

The vision dies at its birth.

You're merely a b.u.t.t for our mirth.

You're a "sheeny" -- and therefore despised And rejected as "sc.u.m o' the earth".

V

Countrymen, bend and invoke Mercy for us blasphemers, For that we spat on these marvelous folk, Nations of darers and dreamers, Scions of singers and seers, Our peers, and more than our peers.

"Rabble and refuse", we name them And "sc.u.m o' the earth", to shame them.

Mercy for us of the few, young years, Of the culture so callow and crude, Of the hands so grasping and rude, The lips so ready for sneers At the sons of our ancient more-than-peers.

Mercy for us who dare despise Men in whose loins our Homer lies; Mothers of men who shall bring to us The glory of t.i.tian, the grandeur of Huss; Children in whose frail arms shall rest Prophets and singers and saints of the West.

Newcomers all from the eastern seas, Help us incarnate dreams like these.

Forget, and forgive, that we did you wrong.

Help us to father a nation, strong In the comradeship of an equal birth, In the wealth of the richest bloods of earth.

Da Boy from Rome. [Thomas Augustine Daly]

To-day ees com' from Eetaly A boy ees leeve een Rome, An' he ees stop an' speak weeth me -- I weesh he stay at home.

He stop an' say "Hallo," to me.

An' w'en he standin' dere I smal da smal of Eetaly Steell steeckin' een hees hair, Dat com' weeth heem across da sea, An' een da clo'es he wear.

Da peopla bomp heem een da street, Da noise ees scare heem, too; He ees so clumsy een da feet He don't know w'at to do, Dere ees so many theeng he meet Dat ees so strange, so new.

He sheever an' he ask eef here Eet ees so always cold.

Den een hees eye ees com' a tear -- He ees no vera old -- An', oh, hees voice ees soun' so queer I have no heart for scold.

He look up een da sky so gray, But oh, hees eye ees be So far away, so far away, An' w'at he see I see.

Da sky eet ees no gray to-day At home een Eetaly.

He see da glada peopla seet Where warma shine da sky -- Oh, while he eesa look at eet He ees baygeen to cry.

Eef I no growl an' swear a beet So, too, my frand, would I.