Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 25

Shake, shake the earth with giant tread, Thou red-maned t.i.tian bold; For every step a man lies dead, A cottage hearth is cold.

Take up the babes with mailed hands, Transfix them with thy spears, Spare not the chaste young virgin-bands, Tho' blood may be their tears.

Beat down the corn, tear up the vine, The waters turn to blood; And if the wretch for bread doth whine, Give him his kin for food.

Aye, strew the dead to saddle girth, They make so rich a mould, Thoul't thus enrich the wasted earth-- They'll turn to yellow gold.

On with thy thunders, shot and sh.e.l.l, Send screaming, featly hurl'd; Science has made them in her cell, To _civilize_ the world.

Not, not alone where Christian men Pant in the well-arm'd strife; But seek the jungle-throttled glen-- The savage has a life.

He has a soul--so priests will say-- Go! save it with thy sword; Thro' his rank forests force thy way, Thy war cry, "For the Lord!"

Rip up his mines, and from his strands Wash out the gold with blood-- Religion raises blessing hands, "War's evil worketh good!"

When striding o'er the conquer'd land, Silence thy rolling drum, And led by white-robed choiring bands With loud _"Te Deum"_ come.

Seek the grim chancel, on its wall Thy blood-stiff banner hang; They lie who say thy blood is gall.

Thy tooth the serpent's fang.

See! the white Christ is lifted high, Thy conqu'ring sword to bless; Smiles the pure monarch of the sky-- _Thy_ king can do no less.

Drink deep with him the festal wine, Drink with him drop for drop; If, like the sun, his throne doth s.h.i.+ne, _Thou_ art that throne's prop.

If spectres wait upon the bowl, Thou needs not be afraid, Grin h.e.l.l-hounds for thy bold black soul, His purple be thy shade.

Go! feast with Commerce, be her spouse; She loves thee, thou art hers-- For thee she decks her board and house.

Then how may others curse

If she, mild-seeming matron, leans Upon thine iron neck, And leaves with thee her household scenes To follow at thy beck-- b.a.s.t.a.r.d in brotherhood of kings, Their blood runs in thy veins, For them the crowns, the sword that swings, For thee to hew their chains.

For thee the rending of the prey-- They, jackals to the lion, Tread after in the gory way Trod by the mightier scion.

O slave! that slayest other slaves, O'er va.s.sals crowned, a king!

War, build high thy throne with graves, High as the vulture's wing!

THE SWORD.

THE FORGING OF THE SWORD.

At the forging of the Sword-- The mountain roots were stirr'd, Like the heart-beats of a bird; Like flax the tall trees wav'd, So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- So loud the hammers fell, The thrice seal'd gates of h.e.l.l, Burst wide their glowing jaws; Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- Kind mother Earth was rent, Like an Arab's dusky tent, And monster-like she fed-- On her children; at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- So loud the blows they gave, Up sprang the panting wave; And blind and furious slew, Shrill-shouting to the Forgers of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- The startled air swift whirl'd The red flames round the world, From the Anvil where was smitten, The steel, the Forgers wrought into the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- The Maid and Matron fled, And hid them with the dead; Fierce prophets sang their doom, More deadly, than the wounding of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword-- Swift leap'd the quiet hearts, In the meadows and the marts; The tides of men were drawn, By the gleaming sickle-planet of the Sword!

Thus wert thou forged, O lissome sword; On such dusk anvil wert thou wrought; In such red flames thy metal fused!

From such deep h.e.l.ls that metal brought; O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!

Less than the G.o.ds by some small span, Slim sword, how great thy lieges be!

Glint but in _one_ wild camp-fire's light, Thy G.o.d-like va.s.sals rush to thee.

O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!

Sharp, G.o.d, how vast thy altars be!

Green vallies, sacrificial cups, Flow with the purple lees of blood; Its smoke is round the mountain tops.

O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!

O amorous G.o.d, fierce lover thou!

Bright sultan of a million brides, Thou know'st no rival to _thy_ kiss, Thy loves are _thine_ whate're betides, O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word, But dumbly rul'st, king and lord.

Unflesh thee, sword! No more, no more, Thy steel no more shall sting and s.h.i.+ne, Pa.s.s thro' the fusing fires again; And learn to prune the laughing vine.

Fall sword, dread lord, with one accord, The plough and hook we'll own as lord!

ROSES IN MADRID.

Roses, Senors, roses!

Love is subtly hid In the fragrant roses, Blown in gay Madrid.

Roses, Senors, roses!

Look, look, look, and see Love hanging in the roses, Like a golden bee!

Ha! ha! shake the roses-- Hold a palm below; Shake him from the roses, Catch the vagrant so!

High I toss the roses From my brown palm up; Like the wine that bubbles From a golden cup.

Catch the roses, Senors, Light on finger tips; He who buys red roses, Dreams of crimson lips!

Tinkle! my fresh roses, With the rare dews wet; Clink! my crisp, red roses, Like a castanet!

Roses, Senors, roses, Come, Hidalgo, buy!

Proudly wait my roses For thy rose's eye Be thy rose as stately As a pacing deer; Worthy are my roses To burn behind her ear.

Ha I ha! I can see thee, Where the fountains foam, Twining my red roses In her golden comb!

Roses, Donnas, roses, None so fresh as mine, Pluck'd at rose of morning By our Lady's shrine.

Those that first I gather'd Laid I at her feet, That is why my roses Still are fresh and sweet.

Roses, Donnas, roses!

Roses waxen fair!

Acolytes my roses, Censing ladies' pray'r!

Roses, roses, roses!

Hear the tawny bull Thund'ring in the circus-- Buy your arms full.