The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 6

This fresh young world I see, With heroes, cities, legends of her own; With a new race of men, and overblown By winds from sea to sea, Decked with the majesty of every zone.

I see the glittering tops Of snow-peaked mounts, the wid'ning vale's expanse, Large prairies where free herds of horses prance, Exhaustless wealth of crops, In vast, magnificent extravagance.

These grand, exuberant plains, These stately rivers, each with many a mouth, The exquisite beauty of the soft-aired south, The boundless seas of grains, Luxuriant forests' lush and splendid growth.

The distant siren-song Of the green island in the eastern sea, Is not the lay for this new chivalry.

It is not free and strong To chant on prairies 'neath this brilliant sky.

The echo faints and fails; It suiteth not, upon this western plain, Out voice or spirit; we should stir again The wilderness, and make the vales Resound unto a yet unheard-of strain.

HEROES.

In rich Virginian woods, The scarlet creeper reddens over graves, Among the solemn trees enlooped with vines; Heroic spirits haunt the solitudes,-- The n.o.ble souls of half a million braves, Amid the murmurous pines.

Ah! who is left behind, Earnest and eloquent, sincere and strong, To consecrate their memories with words Not all unmeet? with fitting dirge and song To chant a requiem purer than the wind, And sweeter than the birds?

Here, though all seems at peace, The placid, measureless sky serenely fair, The laughter of the breeze among the leaves, The bars of sunlight slanting through the trees, The reckless wild-flowers blooming everywhere, The gra.s.ses' delicate sheaves,--

Nathless each breeze that blows, Each tree that trembles to its leafy head With nervous life, revives within our mind, Tender as flowers of May, the thoughts of those Who lie beneath the living beauty, dead,-- Beneath the sunshine, blind.

For brave dead soldiers, these: Blessings and tears of aching thankfulness, Soft flowers for the graves in wreaths enwove, The odorous lilac of dear memories, The heroic blossoms of the wilderness, And the rich rose of love.

But who has sung their praise, Not less ill.u.s.trious, who are living yet?

Armies of heroes, satisfied to pa.s.s Calmly, serenely from the whole world's gaze, And cheerfully accept, without regret, Their old life as it was,

With all its petty pain, Its irritating littleness and care; They who have scaled the mountain, with content Sublime, descend to live upon the plain; Steadfast as though they breathed the mountain-air Still, wheresoe'er they went.

They who were brave to act, And rich enough their action to forget; Who, having filled their day with chivalry, Withdraw and keep their simpleness intact, And all unconscious add more l.u.s.tre yet Unto their victory.

On the broad Western plains Their patriarchal life they live anew; Hunters as mighty as the men of old, Or harvesting the plenteous, yellow grains, Gathering ripe vintage of dusk bunches blue, Or working mines of gold;

Or toiling in the town, Armed against hindrance, weariness, defeat, With dauntless purpose not to serve or yield, And calm, defiant, they struggle on, As st.u.r.dy and as valiant in the street, As in the camp and field.

And those condemned to live, Maimed, helpless, lingering still through suffering years, May they not envy now the restful sleep Of the dear fellow-martyrs they survive?

Not o'er the dead, but over these, your tears, O brothers, ye may weep!

New England fields I see, The lovely, cultured landscape, waving grain, Wide haughty rivers, and pale, English skies.

And lo! a farmer ploughing busily, Who lifts a swart face, looks upon the plain,-- I see, in his frank eyes,

The hero's soul appear.

Thus in the common fields and streets they stand; The light that on the past and distant gleams, They cast upon the present and the near, With antique virtues from some mystic land, Of knightly deeds and dreams.

ADMETUS.

To my friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson.

He who could beard the lion in his lair, To bind him for a girl, and tame the boar, And drive these beasts before his chariot, Might wed Alcestis. For her low brows' sake, Her hairs' soft undulations of warm gold, Her eyes clear color and pure virgin mouth, Though many would draw bow or shiver spear, Yet none dared meet the intolerable eye, Or lipless tusk, of lion or boar.

This heard Admetus, King of Thessaly, Whose broad, fat pastures spread their ample fields Down to the sheer edge of Amphrysus' stream, Who laughed, disdainful, at the father's pride, That set such value on one milk-faced child.

One morning, as he rode alone and pa.s.sed Through the green twilight of Thessalian woods, Between two pendulous branches interlocked, As through an open cas.e.m.e.nt, he descried A G.o.ddess, as he deemed,--in truth a maid.

On a low bank she fondled tenderly A favorite hound, her floral face inclined above the glossy, graceful animal, That pressed his snout against her cheek and gazed Wistfully, with his keen, sagacious eyes.

One arm with lax embrace the neck enwreathed, With polished roundness near the sleek, gray skin.

Admetus, fixed with wonder, dare not pa.s.s, Intrusive on her holy innocence And sacred girlhood, but his fretful steed Snuffed the air, and champed and pawed the ground; And hearing this, the maiden raised her head.

No let or hindrance then might stop the king, Once having looked upon those supreme eyes.

The drooping boughs disparting, forth he sped, And then drew in his steed, to ask the path, Like a lost traveller in an alien land.

Although each river-cloven vale, with streams Arrowy glancing to the blue Aegean, Each hallowed mountain, the abode of G.o.ds, Pelion and Ossa fringed with haunted groves, The height, spring-crowned, of dedicate Olympus, And pleasant sun-fed vineyards, were to him Familiar as his own face in the stream, Nathless he paused and asked the maid what path Might lead him from the forest. She replied, But still he tarried, and with sportsman's praise Admired the hound and stooped to stroke its head, And asked her if she hunted. Nay, not she: Her father Pelias hunted in these woods, Where there was royal game. He knew her now,-- Alcestis,--and he left her with due thanks: No G.o.ddess, but a mortal, to be won By such a simple feat as driving boars And lions to his chariot. What was that To him who saw the boar of Calydon, The sacred boar of Artemis, at bay In the broad stagnant marsh, and sent his darts In its tough, quivering flank, and saw its death, Stung by sure arrows of Arcadian nymph?

To river-pastures of his flocks and herds Admetus rode, where sweet-breathed cattle grazed, Heifers and goats and kids, and foolish sheep Dotted cool, s.p.a.cious meadows with bent heads, And necks' soft wool broken in yellow flakes, Nibbling sharp-toothed the rich, thick-growing blades.

One herdsman kept the innumerable droves-- A boy yet, young as immortality-- In listless posture on a vine-grown rock.

Around him huddled kids and sheep that left The mother's udder for his nighest gra.s.s, Which sprouted with fresh verdure where he sat.

And yet dull neighboring rustics never guessed A G.o.d had been among them till he went, Although with him they acted as he willed, Renouncing shepherds' silly pranks and quips, Because his very presence made them grave.

Amphryssius, after their translucent stream, They called him, but Admetus knew his name,-- Hyperion, G.o.d of sun and song and silver speech, Condemned to serve a mortal for his sin To Zeus in sending violent darts of death, A raising hand irreverent, against The one-eyed forgers of the thunderbolt.

For shepherd's crook he held the living rod Of twisted serpents, later Hermes' wand.

Him sought the king, discovering soon hard by, Idle as one in nowise bound to time, Watching the restless gra.s.ses blow and wave, The sparkle of the sun upon the stream, Regretting nothing, living with the hour: For him, who had his light and song within, Was naught that did not shine, and all things sang.

Admetus prayed for his celestial aid To win Alcestis, which the G.o.d vouchsafed, Granting with smiles, as grant all G.o.ds, who smite With stern hand, sparing not for piteousness, But give their gifts in gladness.

Thus the king Led with loose rein the beasts as tame as kine, And townsfolk thronged within the city streets, As round a G.o.d; and mothers showed their babes, And maidens loved the crowned intrepid youth, And men aloud worship, though the very G.o.d Who wrought the wonder dwelled unnoted nigh, Divinely scornful of neglect or praise.

Then Pelias, seeing this would be his son, As he had vowed, called for his wife and child.

With Anaxibia, Alcestis came, A warm flush spreading o'er her eager face In looking on the rider of the woods, And knowing him her suitor and the king.