The Chinese Nightingale and Other Poems Part 3

The swish of the sabre, The swish of the sabre, Was a marvellous tune in our ears.

We yelled "We are men, We are men."

As we bled to death in the sun....

Then staunched our horrible wounds With the cry that the battle was won....

And at last, When the black-mammoth legion Split the night with their song:-- "Right is braver than wrong, Right is stronger than wrong,"

The buzzards came taunting: "Down from the north Tiger-nations are sweeping along."

Then we ate of the ravening Leaf As our savage fathers of old.

No longer our wounds made us weak, No longer our pulses were cold.

Though half of my troops were afoot, (For the great who had borne them were slain) We dreamed we were tigers, and leaped And foamed with that vision insane.

We cried "We are soldiers of doom, Doom, Sabres of glory and doom."

We wreathed the king of the mammoths In the tiger-leaves' terrible bloom.

We flattered the king of the mammoths, Loud-rattling sabres and spears.

The swish of the sabre, The swish of the sabre, Was a marvellous tune in his ears.

V

This was the end of the battle.

The tigers poured by in a tide Over us all with their caterwaul call, "We are the tigers,"

They cried.

"We are the sabres,"

They cried.

But we laughed while our blades swept wide, While the dawn-rays stabbed through the gloom.

"We are suns on fire" was our yell-- "Suns on fire." ...

But man-child and mastodon fell, Mammoth and elephant fell.

The fangs of the devil-cats closed on the world, Plunged it to blackness and doom.

The desolate red-clay wall Echoed the parrots' call:-- "Immortal is the inner peace, free to beasts and men.

Beginning in the darkness, the mystery will conquer, And now it comforts every heart that seeks for love again.

And now the mammoth bows the knee, We hew down every Tiger Tree, We send each tiger bound in love and glory to his den, Bound in love ... and wisdom ... and glory, ... to his den."

A peac.o.c.k screamed of his beauty On that broken wall by the trees, Chiding his little mate, Spreading his fans in the breeze ...

And you, with eyes of a bride, Knelt on the wall at my side, The deathless song in your mouth ...

A million new tigers swept south ...

As we laughed at the peac.o.c.k, and died.

This is my vision in Springfield: Three times as high as the dome, Tiger-striped trees encircle the town, Golden geysers of foam;-- Though giant white parrots sail past, giving voice, Though I walk with Peace-of-the-Heart and rejoice.

The Merciful Hand

Written to Miss Alice L. F. Fitzgerald, Edith Cavell memorial nurse, going to the front.

Your fine white hand is Heaven's gift To cure the wide world, stricken sore, Bleeding at the breast and head, Tearing at its wounds once more.

Your white hand is a prophecy, A living hope that Christ shall come And make the nations merciful, Hating the bayonet and drum.

Each desperate burning brain you soothe, Or ghastly broken frame you bind, Brings one day nearer our bright goal, The love-alliance of mankind.

Wellesley.

February, 1916.

Third Section

America at War with Germany, Beginning April, 1917

Our Mother Pocahontas

(Note:--Pocahontas is buried at Gravesend, England.)

"Pocahontas' body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in November or a pawpaw in May--did she wonder? does she remember--in the dust--in the cool tombs?"

Carl Sandburg.

I

Powhatan was conqueror, Powhatan was emperor.

He was akin to wolf and bee, Brother of the hickory tree.

Son of the red lightning stroke And the lightning-s.h.i.+vered oak.

His panther-grace bloomed in the maid Who laughed among the winds and played In excellence of savage pride, Wooing the forest, open-eyed, In the springtime, In Virginia, Our Mother, Pocahontas.

Her skin was rosy copper-red.

And high she held her beauteous head.

Her step was like a rustling leaf: Her heart a nest, untouched of grief.

She dreamed of sons like Powhatan, And through her blood the lightning ran.

Love-cries with the birds she sung, Birdlike In the grape-vine swung.

The Forest, arching low and wide Gloried in its Indian bride.

Rolfe, that dim adventurer Had not come a courtier.

John Rolfe is not our ancestor.

We rise from out the soul of her Held in native wonderland, While the sun's rays kissed her hand, In the springtime, In Virginia, Our Mother, Pocahontas.

II

She heard the forest talking, Across the sea came walking, And traced the paths of Daniel Boone, Then westward chased the painted moon.

She pa.s.sed with wild young feet On to Kansas wheat, On to the miners' west, The echoing canons' guest, Then the Pacific sand, Waking, Thrilling, The midnight land....