Toward the Gulf Part 18

DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC!

By the blue sky of a clear vision, And by the white light of a great illumination, And by the blood-red of brotherhood, Draw the sword, O Republic!

Draw the sword!

For the light which is England, And the resurrection which is Russia, And the sorrow which is France, And for peoples everywhere Crying in bondage, And in poverty!

You have been a leaven in the earth, O Republic!

And a watch-fire on the hill-top scattering sparks; And an eagle clanging his wings on a cloud-wrapped promontory: Now the leaven must be stirred, And the brands themselves carried and touched To the jungles and the black-forests.

Now the eaglets are grown, they are calling, They are crying to each other from the peaks-- They are flapping their pa.s.sionate wings in the sunlight, Eager for battle!

As a strong man nurses his youth To the day of trial; But as a strong man nurses it no more On the day of trial, But exults and cries: For Victory, O Strength!

And for the glory of my City, O treasured youth!

You shall neither save your youth, Nor h.o.a.rd your strength Beyond this hour, O Republic!

For you have sworn By the pa.s.sion of the Gaul, And the strength of the Teuton, And the will of the Saxon, And the hunger of the Poor, That the white man shall lie down by the black man, And by the yellow man, And all men shall be one spirit, as they are one flesh, Through Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy.

And forasmuch as the earth cannot hold Aught beside them, You have dedicated the earth, O Republic, To Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy!

By the Power that drives the soul to Freedom, And by the Power that makes us love our fellows, And by the Power that comforts us in death, Dying for great races to come-- Draw the sword, O Republic!

Draw the Sword!

DEAR OLD d.i.c.k

(Dedicated to Vachel Lindsay and in Memory of Richard E. Burke)

Said dear old d.i.c.k To the colored waiter: "Here, George! be quick Roast beef and a potato.

I'm due at the courthouse at half-past one, You black old scoundrel, get a move on you!

I want a pot of coffee and a graham bun.

This vinegar decanter'll make a groove on you, You black-faced mandril, you grinning baboon--"

"Yas sah! Yas sah,"answered the c.o.o.n.

"Now don't you talk back," said dear old d.i.c.k, "Go and get my dinner or I'll show you a trick With a plate, a tumbler or a silver castor, Fuliginous monkey, sired by old Nick."

And the n.i.g.g.e.r all the time was moving round the table, Rattling the silver things faster and faster-- "Yes sah! Yas sah, soon as I'se able I'll bring yo' dinnah as sh.o.r.e as yo's bawn."

"Quit talking about it; hurry and be gone, You low-down n.i.g.g.e.r," said dear old d.i.c.k.

Then I said to my friend: "Suppose he'd up and stick A knife in your side for raggin' him so hard; Or how would you relish some spit in your broth?

Or a little Paris green in your cheese for chard?

Or something in your coffee to make your stomach froth?

Or a bit of asafoetida hidden in your pie?

That's a gentlemanly n.i.g.g.e.r or he'd black your eye/'

Then dear old d.i.c.k made this long reply: "You know, I love a n.i.g.g.e.r, And I love this n.i.g.g.e.r.

I met him first on the train from California Out of Kansas City; in the morning early I walked through the diner, feeling upset For a cup of coffee, looking rather surly.

And there sat this n.i.g.g.e.r by a table all dressed, Waiting for the time to serve the omelet, b.u.t.tered toast and coffee to the pa.s.sengers.

And this is what he said in a fine southern way: 'Good mawnin,' sah, I hopes yo' had yo' rest, I'm glad to see you on dis sunny day.'

Now think! here's a human who has no other cares Except to please the white man, serve him when he's starving, And who has as much fun when he sees you carving The sirloin as you do, does this black man.

Just think for a minute, how the negroes excel, Can you beat them with a banjo or a broiling pan?

There's music in their soul as original As any breed of people in the whole wide earth; They're elemental hope, heartiness, mirth.

There are only two things real American: One is Christian Science, the other is the n.i.g.g.e.r.

Think it over for yourself and see if you can figure Anything beside that is not imitation Of something in Europe in this hybrid nation.

Return to this globe five hundred years hence-- You'll see how the fundamental color of the c.o.o.n In art, in music, has altered our tune; We are destined to bow to their influence; There's a whole cult of music in Dixie alone, And that is America put into tone."

And dear old d.i.c.k gathered speed and said: "Sometimes through Dvorak a vision arises To the words of Merneptah whose hands were red: 'I shall live, I shall live, I shall grow, I shall grow, I shall wake up in peace, I shall thrill with the glow Of the life of Temu, the G.o.d who prizes Favorite souls and the souls of kings.'

Now these are the words, and here is the dream, No wonder you think I am seeing things: The desert of Egypt s.h.i.+mmers in the gleam Of the noonday sun on my dazzled sight.

And a giant negro as black as night Is walking by a camel in a caravan.

His great back glistens with the streaming sweat.

The camel is ridden by a light-faced man, A Greek perhaps, or Arabian.

And this giant negro is rhythmically swaying With the rhythm of the camel's neck up and down.

He seems to be singing, rollicking, playing; His ivory teeth are glistening, the Greek is listening To the negro keeping time like a tabouret.

And what cares he for Memphis town, Merneptah the b.l.o.o.d.y, or Books of the Dead, Pyramids, philosophies of madness or dread?

A tune is in his heart, a reality: The camel, the desert are things that be, He's a negro slave, but his heart is free."

Just then the colored waiter brought in the dinner.

"Get a hustle on you, you miserable sinner,"

Said dear old d.i.c.k to the colored waiter.

"Heah's a nice piece of beef and a great big potato.

I hopes yo'll enjoy 'em sah, yas I do; Heah's black mustahd greens, 'specially for yo', And a fine piece of jowl that I swiped and took From a dish set by, by the git-away cook.

I hope yo'll enjoy 'em, sah, yas I do."

"Well, George," d.i.c.k said, "if Gabriel blew His horn this minute, you'd up and ascend To wait on St. Peter world without end."

THE ROOM OF MIRRORS

I saw a room where many feet were dancing.

The ceiling and the wall were mirrors glancing Both flames of candles and the heaven's light, Though windows there were none for air or flight.

The room was in a form polygonal Reached by a little door and narrow hall.

One could behold them enter for the dance, And waken as it were out of a trance, And either singly or with some one whirl: The old, the young, full livers, boy and girl.

And every panel of the room was just A mirrored door through which a hand was thrust Here, there, around the room, a soul to seize Whereat a scream would rise, but no surcease Of music or of dancing, save by him Drawn through the mirrored panel to the dim And unknown s.p.a.ce behind the flas.h.i.+ng mirrors, And by his partner struck through by the terrors Of sudden loss.

And looking I could see That scarcely any dancer here could free His eyes from off the mirrors, but would gaze Upon himself or others, till a craze Shone in his eyes thus to antic.i.p.ate The hand that took each dancer soon or late.

Some a.n.a.lyzed themselves, some only glanced, Some stared and paled and then more madly danced.

One dancer only never looked at all.

He seemed soul captured by the carnival.

There were so many dancers there he loved, He was so greatly by the music moved, He had no time to study his own face There in the mirrors as from place to place He quickly danced.

Until I saw at last This dancer by the whirling dancers cast Face full against a mirrored panel where Before he could look at himself or stare He plunged through to the other side--and quick, As water closes when you lift the stick, The mirrored panel swung in place and left No trace of him, as 'twere a magic trick.

But all his partners thus so soon bereft Went dancing to the music as before.

But I saw faces in that mirrored door Anatomizing their forced smiles and watching Their faces over shoulders, even matching Their terror with each other's to repress A growing fear in seeing it was less Than some one else's, or to ease despair By looking in a face who did not care, While watching for the hand that through some door Caught a poor dancer from the dancing floor With every time-beat of the orchestra.

What is this room of mirrors? Who can say?