Toward the Gulf Part 15

Then Samson prayed "Remember me O Lord, this once, if not again.

O G.o.d, behold my misery, Now weaker than all other men, Who once was mightier than ten."

"Grant vengeance for these sightless eyes, And for this unrequited toil, For fraud, injustice, perjuries, For lords whose greed devours the soil, And kings and rulers who despoil."

[Sidenote: (Wherein by a very nice conceit revolution is symbolized.)]

"For all that maketh light of Thee, And sets at naught Thy holy word, For tongues that babble blasphemy, And impious hands that hold the sword-- Grant vengeance, though I perish, Lord."

He grasped the pillars, having prayed, And bowed himself--the building fell, And on three thousand souls was laid, Gone soon to death with mighty yell.

And Samson died, for it was well.

The lords and captains greatly err, Thinking that Samson is no more, Blind, but with ever-growing hair, He grinds from Tyre to Singapore, While yet Delilah plays the wh.o.r.e.

So it hath been, and yet will be, The captains, drunken at the feast To garnish their felicity, Will taunt him as a captive beast, Until their insolence hath ceased.

[Sidenote: (Wherein it is shown that while the people like Samson have been blinded, and have not recovered their sight still that their hair continueth to grow.)]

Of ribaldry that smelleth sweet, To Dagon and to Ashtoreth; Of b.l.o.o.d.y stripes from head to feet, He will endure unto the death, Being blind, he also nothing saith.

Then 'gainst the Doric capitals, Resting in prayer to G.o.d for power, He will shake down your marble walls, Abiding heaven's appointed hour, And those that fly shall hide and cower.

But this Delilah shall survive, To do the sin already done, Her treacherous wiles and arts shall thrive, At Gaza and at Ashkelon, A woman fair to look upon.

THE WORLD-SAVER

If the grim Fates, to stave ennui, Play whips for fun, or snares for game, The liar full of ease goes free, And Socrates must bear the shame.

With the blunt sage he stands despised, The Pharisees salute him not; Laughter awaits the truth he prized, And Judas profits by his plot.

A million angels kneel and pray, And sue for grace that he may win-- Eternal Jove prepares the day, And sternly sets the fateful gin.

Satan, who hates the light, is fain, To back his virtuous enterprise; The omnipotent powers alone refrain, Only the Lord of hosts denies.

Whatever of woven argument, Lacks warp to hold the woof in place, Smothers his honest discontent, But leaves to view his woeful face.

Fling forth the flag, devour the land, Grasp destiny and use the law; But dodge the epigram's keen brand, And fall not by the a.s.s's jaw.

The idiot snicker strikes more down, Than fell at Troy or Waterloo; Still, still he meets it with a frown, And argues loudly for "the True."

Injustice lengthens out her chain, Greed, yet ahungered, calls for more; But while the eons wax and wane, He storms the barricaded door.

Wisdom and peace and fair intent, Are tedious as a tale twice told; One thing increases being spent-- Perennial youth belongs to gold.

At Weehawken the soul set free, Rules the high realm of Bunker Hill, Drink life from that philosophy, And flourish by the age's will.

If he shall toil to clear the field, Fate's children seize the prosperous year; Boldly he fashions some new shield, And naked feels the victor's spear.

He rolls the world up into day, He finds the grain, and gets the hull.

He sees his own mind in the sway, And Progress tiptoes on his skull.

Angels and fiends behold the wrong, And execrate his losing fight; While Jove amidst the choral song Smiles, and the heavens glow with light!

--_Trueblood_

Trueblood is bewitched to write a drama-- Only one drama, then to die. Enough To win the heights but once! He writes me letters, These later days marked "Opened by the Censor,"

About his drama, asks me what I think About this point of view, and that approach, And whether to etch in his hero's soul By etching in his hero's enemies, Or luminate his hero by enshadowing His hero's enemies. How shall I tell him Which is the actual and the larger theme, His hero or his hero's enemies?

And through it all I see that Trueblood's mind Runs to the under-dog, the fallen t.i.tan The G.o.d misunderstood, the lover of man Destroyed by heaven for his love of man.

In July, 1914, while in London He took me to his house to dine and showed me The verses as above. And while I read He left the room, returned, I heard him move The ash trays on the table where we sat And set some object on the table.

Then As I looked up from reading I discovered A skull and bony hand upon the table.

And Trueblood said: "Look at the loft brow!

And what a hand was this! A right hand too.

Those fingers in the flesh did miracles.

And when I have my hero's skull before me, His hand that moulded peoples, I should write The drama that possesses all my thought.

You'd think the spirit of the man would come And show me how to find the key that fits The story of his life, reveal its secret.

I know the secrets, but I want the secret.

You'd think his spirit out of grat.i.tude Would start me off. It's something, I insist, To find a haven with a dramatist After your bones have crossed the sea, and after Pa.s.sing from hand to hand they reach seclusion, And reverent housing.

Dying in New York He lay for ten years in a lonely grave Somewhere along the Hudson, I believe.

No grave yard in the city would receive him.

Neither a banker nor a friend of banks, Nor falling in a duel to awake Indignant sorrow, s.p.a.ce in Trinity Was not so much as offered. He was poor, And never had a tomb like Washington.

Of course he wasn't Washington--but still, Study that skull a little! In ten years A mad admirer living here in England Went to America and dug him up, And brought his bones to Liverpool. Just then Our country was in turmoil over France-- (The details are so rich I lose my head, And can't construct my acts.)--h.e.l.l's flaming here, And we are fighting back the roaring fire That France had lighted. England would abort The era she embraced. Here is a point That vexes me in laying out the scenes, And persons of the play. For parliament Went into fury that these bones were here On British soil. The city raged. They took The poor town-crier, gave him nine months' prison For crying on the streets the bones' arrival.

I'd like to put that crier in my play.

The scene of his arrest would thrill, in case I put it on a background understood, And showing why the fellow was arrested, And what a high offence to heaven it was.

Then here's another thing: The monument This zealous friend had planned was never raised.

The city wouldn't have it--you can guess The brain that filled this skull and moved this hand Had given England trouble. Yes, believe me!

He roused rebellion and he scattered pamphlets.

He had the English gift of writing pamphlets.

He stirred up peoples with his English gift Against the mother country. How to show this In action, not in talk, is difficult.

Well, then here is our friend who has these bones And cannot honor them in burial.

And so he keeps them, then becomes a bankrupt.

And look! the bones pa.s.s to our friend's receiver.

Are they an a.s.set? Our Lord Chancellor Does not regard them so. I'd like to work Some humor in my drama at this point, And satirize his lordship just a little.

Though you can scarcely call a skull an a.s.set If it be of a man who helped to cost you The loss of half the world. So the receiver Cast out the bones and for a time a laborer Took care of them. He sold them to a man Who dealt in furniture. The empty coffin About this time turned up in Guilford--then It's 1854, the man is dead Near forty years, when just the skull and hand Are owned by Rev. Ainslie, who evades All questions touching on that ownership, And where the ribs, spine, arms and thigh bones are-- The rest in short.

And as for me--no matter Who sold them, gave them to me, loaned them to me.

Behold the good right hand, behold the skull Of _Thomas Paine_, theo-philanthropist, Of Quaker parents, born in England! Look, That is the hand that wrote the Crisis, wrote The Age of Reason, Common Sense, and rallied Americans against the mother country, With just that English gift of pamphleteering.

You see I'd have to bring George Washington, And James Monroe and Thomas Jefferson Upon the stage, and put into their mouths The eulogies they spoke on Thomas Paine, To get before the audience that they thought He did as much as any man to win Your independence; that your Declaration Was founded on his writings, even inspired A clause against your negro slavery--how-- Look at this hand!--he was the first to write _United States of America_--there's the hand That was the first to write those words. Good Lord This drama would out-last a Chinese drama If I put all the story in. But tell me What to omit, and what to stress?

And still I'd have the greatest drama in the world If I could prove he was dishonored, hunted, Neglected, libeled, buried like a beast, His bones dug up, thrown in and out of Chancery.

And show these horrors overtook Tom Paine Because he was too great, and by this showing Instruct the world to honor its torch bearers For time to come. No? Well, that can't be done-- I know that; but it puzzles me to think That Hamilton--we'll say, is so revered, So lauded, toasted, all his papers studied On tariffs and on banks, evoking ahs!

Great genius! and so forth--and there's the Crisis And Common Sense which only little Sh.e.l.leys Haunting the dusty book shops read at all.