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IN MEMORIAM

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To Gen. M. M. Trumbull.

(No man better than Gen. Trumbull defended my martyred comrades in Chicago.)

Back to thy breast, O Mother, turns thy child,

He whom thou garmentedst in steel of truth,

And sent forth, strong in the glad heart of youth,

To sing the wakening song in ears beguiled

By tyrants' promises and flatterers' smiles;

These searched his eyes, and knew nor threats nor wiles

Might shake the steady stars within their blue,

Nor win one truckling word from off those lips—

No—not for gold nor praise, nor aught men do

To dash the Sun of Honor with eclipse,

O Mother Liberty, those eyes are dark,

And the brave lips are white and cold and dumb;

But fair in other souls, through time to come,

Fanned by thy breath glows the Immortal Spark.

Philadelphia, May, 1894.

THE WANDERING JEW

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(The above poem was suggested by the reading of an article describing an interview with the "wandering Jew," in which he was represented as an incorrigible grumbler. The Jew has been, and will continue to be, the grumbler of earth—until the prophetic ideal of justice shall be realized: "BLESSED BE HE.")

"Go on."—"THOU shalt go on till I come."

Pale, ghostly Vision from the coffined years,

Planting the cross with thy world-wandering feet,

Stern Watcher through the centuries' storm and beat,

In those sad eyes, between those grooves of tears—

Those eyes like caves where sunlight never dwells

And stars but dimly shine—stand sentinels

That watch with patient hope, through weary days,

That somewhere, sometime, He indeed may "come,"

And thou at last find thee a resting place,

Blast-driven leaf of Man, within the tomb.

Aye, they have cursed thee with the bitter curse,

And driven thee with scourges o'er the world;

Tyrants have crushed thee, Ignorance has hurled

Its black anathema;—but Death's pale hearse,

That bore them graveward, passed them silently;

And vainly didst thou stretch thy hands and cry,

"Take me instead";—not yet for thee the time,

Not yet—not yet: thy bruised and mangled limbs

Must still drag on, still feed the Vulture, Crime,

With bleeding flesh, till rust its steel beak dims.

Aye, "till He come,"—He—freedom, justice, peace—

Till then shalt thou cry warning through the earth,

Unheeding pain, untouched by death and birth,

Proclaiming "Woe, woe, woe," till men shall cease

To seek for Christ within the senseless skies,

And, joyous, find him in each other's eyes.

Then shall be builded such a tomb for thee

Shall beggar kings' as diamonds outshine dew!

The Universal Heart of Man shall be

The sacred urn of "the accursed Jew."

Philadelphia, 1894.

THE FEAST OF VULTURES

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(As the three Anarchists, Vaillant, Henry and Caserio, were led to their several executions, a voice from the prison cried loudly, "Vive l'anarchie!" Through watch and ward the cry escaped, and no man owned the voice; but the cry is still resounding through the world.)

A moan in the gloam in the air-peaks heard—

The Bird of Omen—the wild, fierce Bird,

Aflight

In the night,

Like a whizz of light,

Arrowy winging before the storm,

Far away flinging,

The whistling, singing,

White-curdled drops, wind-blown and warm,

From its beating, flapping,

Thunderous wings;

Crashing and clapping

The split night swings,

And rocks and totters,

Bled of its levin,

And reels and mutters

A curse to Heaven!

Reels and mutters and rolls and dies,

With a wild light streaking its black, blind eyes.

Far, far, far,

Through the red, mad morn,

Like a hurtling star,

Through the air upborne,

The Herald-Singer,

The Terror-Bringer,

Speeds—and behind, through the cloud-rags torn,

Gather and wheel a million wings,

Clanging as iron where the hammer rings;

The whipped sky shivers,

The White Gate shakes,

The ripped throne quivers,

The dumb God wakes,

And feels in his heart the talon-stings—

The dead bodies hurled from beaks for slings.

"Ruin! Ruin!" the Whirlwind cries,

And it leaps at his throat and tears his eyes;

"Death for death, as ye long have dealt;

The heads of your victims your heads shall pelt;

The blood ye wrung to get drunk upon,

Drink, and be poisoned! On, Herald, on!"

Behold, behold,

How a moan is grown!

A cry hurled high 'gainst a scaffold's joist!

The Voice of Defiance—the loud, wild Voice!

Whirled

Through the world,

A smoke-wreath curled

(Breath 'round hot kisses) around a fire!

See! the ground hisses

With curses, and glisses

With red-streaming blood-clots of long-frozen ire,

Waked by the flying

Wild voice as it passes;

Groaning and crying,

The surge of the masses

Rolls and flashes

With thunderous roar—

Seams and lashes

The livid shore—

Seams and lashes and crunches and beats,

And drags a ragged wall to its howling retreats!

Swift, swift, swift,

'Thwart the blood-rain's fall,

Through the fire-shot rift

Of the broken wall,

The prophet-crying

The storm-strong sighing,

Flies—and from under Night's lifted pall,

Swarming, menace ten million darts,

Uplifting fragments of human shards!

Ah, white teeth chatter,

And dumb jaws fall,

While winged fires scatter

Till gloom gulfs all

Save the boom of the cannon that storm the forts

That the people bombard with their comrades' hearts;

"Vengeance! Vengeance!" the voices scream,

And the vulture pinions whirl and stream!

"Knife for knife, as ye long have dealt;

The edge ye whetted for us be felt,

Ye chopper of necks, on your own, your own!

Bare it, Coward! On, Prophet, on!"

Behold how high

Rolls a prison cry!

Philadelphia, August 1894.