The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 60

REZON: Behold the sacrifice! Bow down, bow down!

NAAMAN: [Stabbing him.]

Bow thou, black priest! Down,--down to h.e.l.l!

Ruahmah! do not die! I come to thee.

[NAAMAN rushes toward her, attacked by the priests, crying "Sacrilege! Kill him!" But the soldiers stand on the steps and beat them back. He springs upon the altar and clasps her by the hand. Tumult and confusion. The King rises and speaks with a loud voice, silence follows.]

BENHADAD: Peace, peace! The King commands all weapons down!

O Naaman, what wouldst thou do? Beware Lest thou provoke the anger of a G.o.d.

NAAMAN: There is no G.o.d but one, the Merciful, Who gave this perfect woman to my soul That I might learn through her to worship Him, And know the meaning of immortal Love.

BENHADAD: [Agitated.]

Yet she is consecrated, bound, and doomed To sacrificial death; but thou art sworn To live and lead my host,--Hast thou not sworn?

NAAMAN: Only if thou wilt keep thy word to me!

Break with this idol of iniquity Whose shadow makes a darkness in the land; Give her to me who gave me back to thee; And I will lead thine army to renown And plant thy banners on the hill of triumph.

But if she dies, I die with her, defying Rimmon.

[Cries of "Spare them! Release her! Give us back our Captain!" and "Sacrilege! Let them die!" Then silence, all turning toward the King.]

BENHADAD: Is this the choice? Must we destroy the bond Of ancient faith, or slay the city's living hope!

I am an old, old man,--and yet the King!

Must I decide?--O let me ponder it!

[His head sinks upon his breast. All stand eagerly looking at him.]

NAAMAN: Ruahmah, my Ruahmah! I have come To thee at last! And art thou satisfied?

RUAHMAH: [Looking into his face.]

Beloved, my beloved, I am glad Of all, and glad for ever, come what may.

Nothing can harm me,--since my lord is come!

APPENDIX

CARMINA FESTIVA

THE LITTLE-NECK CLAM

A modern verse-sequence, showing how a native American subject, strictly realistic, may be treated in various manners adapted to the requirements of different magazines, thus combining Art-for-Art's-Sake with Writing-for-the-Market. Read at the First Dinner of the American Periodical Publishers' a.s.sociation, in Washington, April, 1904.

I

THE ANTI-TRUST CLAM

For _McClure's Magazine_

The clam that once, on Jersey's banks, Was like the man who dug it, free, Now slave-like thro' the market clanks In chains of corporate tyranny.

The Standard Fish-Trust of New York Holds every clam-bank in control; And like base Beef and menial Pork, The free-born Clam has lost its soul.

No more the bivalve treads the sands In freedom's rapture, free from guilt: It follows now the harsh commands Of Morgiman and Rockabilt.

Rise, freemen, rise! Your wrath is just!

Call on the Sherman Act to dam The floods of this devouring Trust, And liberate the fettered Clam.

II

THE WHITMANIAC CLAM

For the _Bookman_

Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno, Not Burns who plowed the banks and braes of bonnie Ayr, Not even Shakspere on the sh.o.r.es of Avon,--ah, no!

Not one of those great bards did taste true Poet's Fare.

But Whitman, loafing in Long Island and New Jersey, Found there the sustenance of mighty ode and psalm, And while his rude emotions swam around in verse, he Fed chiefly on the wild, impa.s.sioned, sea-born clam.

Thus in his work we feel the waves' bewildering motion, And winds from mighty mud-flats, weird and wild: His clam-filled bosom answered to the voice of ocean, And rose and fell responsively with every tide.

III

IL MERCATORE ITALIANO DELLA CLAMMA

For the _Century Magazine_

"Clam O! Fres' Clam!" How strange it sounds and sweet, The Dago's cry along the New York street!

"Dago" we call him, like the thoughtless crowd; And yet this humble man may well be proud To hail from Petrarch's land, Boccaccio's home,-- Firenze, Gubbio, Venezia, Rome,-- From fair Italia, whose enchanted soil Transforms the lowly cotton-seed to olive-oil.

To me his chant, with alien accent sung, Brings back an echo of great Virgil's tongue: It seems to cry against the city's woe, In liquid Latin syllables,--_Clamo_!

As thro' the crowded street his cart he jams And cries aloud, ah, think of more than clams!

Receive his secret plaint with pity warm, And grant Italia's plea for Tenement-House Reform!

IV

THE SOCIAL CLAM

For the _Smart Set_

Fair Phyllis is another's bride: Therefore I like to sit beside Her at a very smart set dinner, And whisper love, and try to win her.