The Little Book of Modern Verse Part 18

Oh, why he stop an' speak weeth me, Dees boy dat leeve een Rome, An' com' to-day from Eetaly?

I weesh he stay at home.

The Fugitives. [Florence Wilkinson]

We are they that go, that go, Plunging before the hidden blow.

We run the byways of the earth, For we are fugitive from birth, Blindfolded, with wide hands abroad That sow, that sow the sullen sod.

We cannot wait, we cannot stop For flus.h.i.+ng field or quickened crop; The orange bow of dusky dawn Glimmers our smoking swath upon; Blindfolded still we hurry on.

How we do know the ways we run That are blindfolded from the sun?

We stagger swiftly to the call, Our wide hands feeling for the wall.

Oh, ye who climb to some clear heaven, By grace of day and leisure given, Pity us, fugitive and driven -- The lithe whip curling on our track, The headlong haste that looks not back!

The Song of the Unsuccessful. [Richard Burton]

We are the toilers from whom G.o.d barred The gifts that are good to hold.

We meant full well and we tried full hard, And our failures were manifold.

And we are the clan of those whose kin Were a millstone dragging them down.

Yea, we had to sweat for our brother's sin, And lose the victor's crown.

The seeming-able, who all but scored, From their teeming tribe we come: What was there wrong with us, O Lord, That our lives were dark and dumb?

The men ten-talented, who still Strangely missed of the goal, Of them we are: it seems Thy will To harrow some in soul.

We are the sinners, too, whose l.u.s.t Conquered the higher claims, We sat us p.r.o.ne in the common dust, And played at the devil's games.

We are the hard-luck folk, who strove Zealously, but in vain; We lost and lost, while our comrades throve, And still we lost again.

We are the doubles of those whose way Was festal with fruits and flowers; Body and brain we were sound as they, But the prizes were not ours.

A mighty army our full ranks make, We shake the graves as we go; The sudden stroke and the slow heartbreak, They both have brought us low.

And while we are laying life's sword aside, Spent and dishonored and sad, Our epitaph this, when once we have died: "The weak lie here, and the bad."

We wonder if this can be really the close, Life's fever cooled by death's trance; And we cry, though it seem to our dearest of foes, "G.o.d, give us another chance!"

They went forth to Battle, but they always fell. [Shaemas O Sheel]

They went forth to battle, but they always fell; Their eyes were fixed above the sullen s.h.i.+elds; n.o.bly they fought and bravely, but not well, And sank heart-wounded by a subtle spell.

They knew not fear that to the foeman yields, They were not weak, as one who vainly wields A futile weapon; yet the sad scrolls tell How on the hard-fought field they always fell.

It was a secret music that they heard, A sad sweet plea for pity and for peace; And that which pierced the heart was but a word, Though the white breast was red-lipped where the sword Pressed a fierce cruel kiss, to put surcease On its hot thirst, but drank a hot increase.

Ah, they by some strange troubling doubt were stirred, And died for hearing what no foeman heard.

They went forth to battle but they always fell; Their might was not the might of lifted spears; Over the battle-clamor came a spell Of troubling music, and they fought not well.

Their wreaths are willows and their tribute, tears; Their names are old sad stories in men's ears; Yet they will scatter the red hordes of h.e.l.l, Who went to battle forth and always fell.

The Eagle that is forgotten. [Nicholas Vachel Lindsay]

(John P. Altgeld)

Sleep softly . . . eagle forgotten . . . under the stone.

Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own.

"We have buried him now," thought your foes, and in secret rejoiced.

They made a brave show of their mourning, their hatred unvoiced.

They had snarled at you, barked at you, foamed at you, day after day.

Now you were ended. They praised you . . . and laid you away.

The others, that mourned you in silence and terror and truth, The widow bereft of her crust, and the boy without youth, The mocked and the scorned and the wounded, the lame and the poor, That should have remembered forever, . . . remember no more.

Where are those lovers of yours, on what name do they call, The lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall?

They call on the names of a hundred high-valiant ones, A hundred white eagles have risen, the sons of your sons.

The zeal in their wings is a zeal that your dreaming began, The valor that wore out your soul in the service of man.

Sleep softly . . . eagle forgotten . . . under the stone.

Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own.

Sleep on, O brave-hearted, O wise man that kindled the flame -- To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name, To live in mankind, far, far more than to live in a name! --

A Memorial Tablet. [Florence Wilkinson]

Oh, Agathocles, fare thee well!

Naked and brave thou goest Without one glance behind!

Hast thou no fear, Agathocles, Or backward grief of mind?