*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52786 ***

                             THE OPEN SEA

                                 _By_

                           EDGAR LEE MASTERS


                             STARVED ROCK
                             MITCH MILLER
                             DOMESDAY BOOK
                             TOWARD THE GULF
                             SONGS AND SATIRES
                             THE GREAT VALLEY
                             SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY




                             THE OPEN SEA

                                 _By_
                           EDGAR LEE MASTERS

                       [Illustration: colophon]

                               New York
                         THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                                 1921

                         _All rights reserved_

                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

                           COPYRIGHT, 1921,
                       BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

          Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1921.

                               Press of
                      J. J. Little & Ives Company
                          New York, U. S. A.




CONTENTS


PART I

                                                                    PAGE

BRUTUS                                                                 3
    Brutus and Antony                                                  3
    At the Mermaid Tavern                                             17
    Charlotte Corday                                                  31
    A Man Child is Born                                               49
    Richard Booth to His Son, Junius Booth                            52
    A Man Child is Born                                               57
    Squire Bowling Green                                              58
    Lincoln Speaking in Congress                                      63
    John Wilkes Booth at the Farm                                     64
    Junius Brutus Booth                                               66
    A Certain Poet on the Debates                                     71


PART II

The Decision                                                          81


PART III

    Lincoln Makes a Memorandum                                       117
    Winter Garden Theatre                                            118
    The Sparrow Hawk in the Rain                                     120
    Adelaide and John Wilkes Booth                                   134
    Brutus Lives Again in Booth                                      140
    Booth’s Philippi                                                 151
    The Burial of Boston Corbett                                     160

THE NEW APOCRYPHA                                                    163
    Business Reverses                                                163
    The Fig Tree                                                     166
    Tribute Money                                                    169
    The Great Merger                                                 171
    At Decapolis                                                     174
    The Single Standard                                              178
    First Entrants                                                   183
    John in Prison                                                   186
    Ananias and Sapphira                                             190
    The Two Malefactors                                              193
    Berenice                                                         202

NEBUCHADNEZZAR OR EATING GRASS                                       212

HIP LUNG ON YUAN CHANG                                               220

ULYSSES                                                              225

THE PARTY                                                            232

CELSUS AT HADRIAN’S VILLA                                            238

INVOCATION TO THE GODS                                               248

PENTHEUS IN THESE STATES                                             253

COMPARATIVE CRIMINALS                                                262

THE GREAT RACE PASSES                                                270

DEMOS THE DESPOT                                                     272

A REPUBLIC                                                           275

THE INN                                                              277

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM MARION REEDY                          285

GOD AND MY COUNTRY                                                   290

THE DUNES OF INDIANA                                                 295

NATURE                                                               299




THE OPEN SEA




PART ONE

THE OPEN SEA

BRUTUS

BRUTUS AND ANTONY

(_Lucilius Talks at a Feast Given to Aristocrates in
Rome._)

_B. C. 20_




THE OPEN SEA

BRUTUS

BRUTUS AND ANTONY

Part I

(_Lucilius Talks at a Feast Given to Aristocrates in Rome_)

B.C. 20


    How shall I write this out? I do not write.
    Talk to you? Yes, and tell of Antony,
    And how I knew him. There at Philippi
    I let myself be captured, so to give
    Time to escape to Brutus--made pretense
    That I was Brutus, and so Brutus flies
    And I am captured. Antony forgives me,
    And to his death I was his faithful friend.
    Well, after Actium, in Africa,
    He roamed with no companions but us two,
    Our friend Aristocrates, here, myself,
    And fed upon his bitter heart. Our guest
    Nods truth to what I say, he knows it all.
    And after certain days in solitude
    He seeks his Cleopatra. As for her,
    She was the sovereign queen of many nations;
    Yet that she might be with her Antony,
    Live with him and enjoy him, did not shun
    The name of mistress, and let Fulvia keep
    Her wifehood without envy. As for him,
    A lover’s soul lives in the loved one’s body,
    And where bode Cleopatra, there his soul
    Lived only, though his feet of flesh pursued
    The Parthian, or Cæsar’s hateful heir....
    And if this Antony would wreathe his spear
    With ivy like a thyrsus; from the chamber
    Of his beloved rush to battle, helmet
    Smelling of unguents and of Egypt; leave
    Great action and great enterprise to play
    Along the seashore of Canopus with her;
    And fly the combat, not as Paris did,
    Already beaten, with lift sail, desert
    The victory that was his, yet true it is
    His rank, his eloquence, his liberal blood,
    His interest in all grades and breeds of men,
    His pity and his kindness to the sick,
    His generous sympathies, stamped Antony
    A giant in this dusty, roaring place
    Which we call earth. Who ruined Antony?
    Why, Brutus! For he gave to Antony
    The truth of which the Queen of Egypt stood
    As proof in the flesh:--Beauty and Life. His heart
    Was apt to see her for mad days in Rome,
    And soul created sateless for the cup
    Of ecstasy in living.
                                        On a day
    Myself and Aristocrates and Antony,
    We two companioning him in Africa,
    Wandering in solitary places, Antony
    Brooding on Actium, and the love that kept
    His soul with Cleopatra, up he speaks,
    And asks us if we knew what Brutus said,
    While nearing death, to Cassius. “No,” we said.
    And Antony began to tell of Brutus:--
    How all his life was spent in study, how
    He starved his body, slept but briefly, cut
    His hours of sleep by practice; fixed his thought
    On virtue and on glory; made himself
    A zealot of one purpose: liberty;
    A spirit as of a beast that knows one thing:
    Its food and how to get it; over its spirit
    No heaven keeps of changing light; no stars
    Of wandering thought; no moons that charm
    Still groves by singing waters, and no suns
    Of large illumination, showing life
    As multiform and fathomless, filled with wings
    Of various truth, each true as other truth.
    This was that Brutus, made an asp by thought
    And nature, to be used by envious hands
    And placed to Cæsar’s breast. So Antony
    Discoursed upon our walk, and capped it off
    With Brutus’ words when dying. They were these:
    “O virtue, miserable virtue, bawd and cheat;
    Thou wert a bare word and I followed thee
    As if thou hadst been real. But even as evil,
    Lust, ignorance, thou wert the plaything too
    Of fortune and of chance.”
                                        So Antony
    Consoled himself with Brutus, sighed and lapsed
    To silence; thinking, as we deemed, of life
    And what it yet could be, and how ’twould end;
    And how to join his Cleopatra, what
    The days would hold amid the toppling walls
    Of Rome in demolition, now the hand
    Of Cæsar rotted, and no longer stayed
    The picks and catapults of an idiot world!
    So, as it seemed, he would excuse himself
    For Actium and his way in life. For soon
    He speaks again, of Theophrastus now,
    Who lived a hundred years, spent all his life
    In study and in writing, brought to death
    By labor; dying lay encompassed by
    Two thousand followers, disciples, preachers
    Of what he taught; and dying was penitent
    For glory, even as Brutus was penitent
    For virtue later. And so Antony
    Spoke Theophrastus’ dying words, and told
    How Theophrastus by a follower
    Asked for a last commandment, spoke these words:
    “There is none. But ’tis folly to cast away
    Pleasure for glory! And no love is worse
    Than love of glory. Look upon my life:--
    Its toil and hard denial! To what end?
    Therefore live happy; study, if you must,
    For fame and happiness. Life’s vanity
    Exceeds its usefulness.”
                              So speaking thus
    Wise Theophrastus died.
                              Now I have said
    That Brutus ruined Antony. So he did,
    If Antony were ruined--that’s the question.
    For Antony hearing Brutus say, “O virtue,
    Miserable virtue, bawd and cheat,” and seeing
    The eyes of Brutus stare in death, threw over him
    A scarlet mantle, and took to his heart
    The dying words of Brutus.

                                It is true
    That Cicero said Antony as a youth
    Was odious for drinking-bouts, amours,
    For bacchanals, luxurious life, and true
    When as triumvir, after Cæsar’s death,
    He kept the house of Pompey, where he lived,
    Filled up with jugglers, drunkards, flatterers.
    All this before the death of Brutus, or
    His love for Cleopatra. But it’s true
    He was great Cæsar’s colleague. Cæsar dead,
    This Antony is chief ruler of all Rome,
    And wars in Greece, and Asia. So it’s true
    He was not wholly given to the cup,
    But knew fatigue and battle, hunger too,
    Living on roots in Parthia. Yet, you see,
    With Cæsar slaughtered in the capitol,
    His friend, almost his god; and Brutus gasping
    “O miserable virtue”; and the feet of men
    From Syria to Hispania, slipping off
    The world that broke in pieces, like an island
    Falling apart beneath a heaving tide--
    Whence from its flocculent fragment wretches leap--
    You see it was no wonder for this Antony,
    Made what he was by nature and by life,
    In such a time and fate of the drifting world,
    To turn to Cleopatra, and leave war
    And rulership to languish.
                                Thus it was:
    Cæsar is slaughtered, Antony must avenge
    The death of Cæsar. Brutus is brought to death,
    And dying scoffs at virtue which took off
    In Brutus’ hand the sovran life of Cæsar.
    And soon our Antony must fight against
    The recreant hordes of Asia, finding here
    His Cleopatra for coadjutor....
    He’s forty-two and ripe. She’s twenty-eight,
    Fruit fresh and blushing, most mature and rich;
    Her voice an instrument of many strings
    That yielded laughter, wisdom, folly, song,
    And tales of many lands, in Arabic,
    And Hebrew, Syriac and Parthiac.
    She spoke the language of the troglodytes,
    The Medes and others. And when Antony
    Sent for her in Cilicia, she took time,
    Ignored his orders, leisurely at last
    Sailed up the Cydnus in a barge whose stern
    Was gilded, and with purple sails. Returned
    His dining invitation with her own,
    And bent his will to hers. He went to her,
    And found a banquet richer than his largess
    Could give her. For while feasting, branches sunk
    Around them, budding lights in squares and circles,
    And lighted up their heaven, as with stars.
    She found him broad and gross, but joined her taste
    To him in this. And then their love began.
    And while his Fulvia kept his quarrels alive
    With force of arms in Rome on Octavianus,
    And while the Parthian threatened Syria,
    He lets the Queen of Egypt take him off
    To Alexandria, where he joins with her
    The Inimitable Livers; and in holiday
    Plays like a boy and riots, while great Brutus
    Is rotting in the earth for Virtue’s sake;
    And Theophrastus for three hundred years
    Has changed from dust to grass, and grass to dust!
    And Cleopatra’s kitchen groans with food.
    Eight boars are roasted whole--though only twelve
    Of these Inimitable Livers, with the Queen
    And Antony are to eat--that every dish
    May be served up just roasted to a turn.
    And who knows when Marc Antony may sup?
    Perhaps this hour, perhaps another hour,
    Perhaps this minute he may call for wine,
    Or start to talk with Cleopatra; fish--
    For fish they did together. On a day
    They fished together, and his luck was ill,
    And so he ordered fishermen to dive
    And put upon his hook fish caught before.
    And Cleopatra feigned to be deceived,
    And shouted out his luck. Next day invited
    The Inimitable Livers down to see him fish,
    Whereat she had a diver fix his hook
    With a salted fish from Pontus. Antony
    Drew up amid their laughter. Then she said:
    “Sweet Antony, leave us poor sovereigns here,
    Of Pharos and Canopus, to the rod;
    Your game is cities, provinces and kingdoms.”
    Were Antony serious, or disposed to mirth?
    She had some new delight. She diced with him,
    Drank with him, hunted with him. When he went
    To exercise in arms, she sat to see.
    At night she rambled with him in the streets,
    Dressed like a servant-woman, making mischief
    At people’s doors. And Antony disguised
    Got scurvy answers, beatings from the folk,
    Tormented in their houses. So it went
    Till Actium. She loved him, let him be
    By day nor night alone, at every turn
    Was with him and upon him.

                                            Well, this life
    Was neither virtue, glory, fame, nor study,
    But it was life, and life that did not slay
    A Cæsar for a word like Liberty.
    And it was life, its essence nor changed nor lost
    By Actium, where his soul shot forth to her
    As from a catapult a stone is cast,
    Seeing her lift her sixty sails and fly.
    His soul lived in her body as ’twere born
    A part of her, and whithersoever she went
    There followed he. And all their life together
    Was what it was, a rapture, justified
    By its essential honey of realest blossoms,
    In spite of anguished shame. When hauled aboard
    The ship of Cleopatra, he sat down
    And with his two hands covered up his face!
    Brutus had penitence at Philippi
    For virtue which befooled him. Antony
    Remorse and terror there at Actium
    Deserting with his queen, for love that made
    His body not his own, as Brutus’ will
    Was subject to the magic of a word....
    For what is Virtue, what is Love? At least
    We know their dire effects, that both befool,
    Betray, destroy.

                     The Queen and Antony
    Had joined the Inimitable Livers, now they joined
    The Diers Together. They had kept how oft
    The Festival of Flagons, now to keep
    The Ritual of Passing Life was theirs.
    But first they suffered anger with each other
    While on her ship, till touching Tenarus
    When they were brought to speak by women friends,
    At last to eat and sleep together. Yet
    Poison had fallen on their leaves, which stripped
    Their greenness to the stalk, as you shall see....
    Here to make clear what flight of Antony meant,
    For cause how base or natural, let me say
    That Actium’s battle had not been a loss
    To Antony and his honor, if Canidius,
    Commanding under Antony, had not flown
    In imitation of his chief; the soldiers
    Fought desperately in hope that Antony
    Would come again and lead them.

                                  So it was
    He touched, with Cleopatra, Africa,
    And sent her into Egypt; and with us,
    Myself and Aristocrates, walked and brooded
    In solitary places, as I said.
    But when he came to Alexandria
    He finds his Cleopatra dragging her fleet
    Over the land space which divides the sea
    Near Egypt from the Red Sea, so to float
    Her fleet in the Arabian Gulf, and there,
    Somewhere upon earth’s other side, to find
    A home secure from war and slavery.
    She failed in this; but Antony leaves the city,
    And leaves his queen, plays Timon, builds a house
    Near Pharos on a little mole; lives here
    Until he hears all princes and all kings
    Desert him in the realm of Rome; which news
    Brings gladness to him, for hope put away,
    And cares slipped off. Then leaving Timoneum,--
    For such he named his dwelling there near Pharos--
    He goes to Cleopatra, is received,
    And sets the city feasting once again.
    The order of Inimitable Livers breaks,
    And forms the Diers Together in its place.
    And all who banquet with them, take the oath
    To die with Antony and Cleopatra,
    Observing her preoccupation with
    Drugs poisonous and creatures venomous.
    And thus their feast of flagons and of love
    In many courses riotously consumed
    Awaits the radiate liquor dazzling through
    Their unimagined terror, like the rays
    Shot from the bright eyes of the cockatrice,
    Crackling for poison in the crystal served
    By fleshless hands! A skeleton steward soon
    Will pass the liquer to them; they will drink,
    And leave no message, no commandment either--
    As Theophrastus was reluctant to--
    Denied disciples; for Inimitable Livers
    Raise up no followers, create no faith,
    No cult or sect. Joy has his special wisdom,
    Which dies with him who learned it, does not fire
    Mad bosoms like your Virtue.

                                          I must note
    The proffered favors, honors of young Cæsar
    To Cleopatra, if she’d put to death
    Her Antony; and Antony’s jealousy,
    Aroused by Thyrsus, messenger of Cæsar,
    Whom Cleopatra gave long audiences,
    And special courtesies; seized, whipped at last
    By Antony, sent back to Cæsar. Yet
    The queen was faithful. When her birth-day came
    She kept it suitable to her fallen state,
    But all the while paying her Antony love,
    And honor, kept his birth-day with such richness
    That guests who came in want departed rich ...

    Wine, weariness, much living, early age
    Made fall for Antony. October’s clouds
    In man’s life, like October, have no sun
    To lift the mists of doubt, distortion, fear.
    Faces, events, and wills around us show
    Malformed, or ugly, changed from what they were.
    And when his troops desert him in the city
    To Cæsar, Antony cries out, the queen,
    His Cleopatra, has betrayed him. She
    In terror seeks her monument, sends word
    That she is dead. And Antony believes
    And says delay no longer, stabs himself,
    Is hauled up dying to the arms of her,
    Where midst her frantic wailings he expires!
    Kings and commanders begged of Cæsar grace
    To give this Antony his funeral rites.
    But Cæsar left the body with the queen
    Who buried it with royal pomp and splendor.
    Thus died at fifty-six Marc Antony,
    And Cleopatra followed him with poison,
    The asp or hollow bodkin, having lived
    To thirty-nine, and reigned with Antony
    As partner in the empire fourteen years ...

    Who in a time to come will gorge and drink,
    Filch treasure that it may be spent for wine,
    Kill as Marc Antony did, war as he did,
    Because Marc Antony did so, taking him
    As warrant and exemplar? Why, never a soul!
    These things are done by souls who do not think,
    But act from feeling. But those mad for stars
    Glimpsed in wild waters or through mountain mists
    Seen ruddy and portentous will take Brutus
    As inspiration, since for Virtue’s sake
    And for the good of Rome he killed his friend;
    And in the act made Liberty as far
    From things of self, as murder is apart
    From friendship and its ways. Yes, Brutus lives
    To fire the mad-men of the centuries
    As Cæsar lives to guide new tyrants. Yet
    Tyrannicide but snips the serpent’s head.
    The body of a rotten state still writhes
    And wriggles though the head is gone, or worse,
    Festers and stinks against the setting sun....

    Marc Antony lived happier than Brutus
    And left the old world happier for his life
    Than Brutus left it.




AT THE MERMAID TAVERN

(_April 10th, 1613_)


(LIONARD DIGGES _is speaking_)

    Yes, so I said: ’twas labored “Cataline”
    Insufferable for learning, tedious.
    And so I said: the audience was kept
    There at the Globe twelve years ago to hear:
    “It is no matter; let no images
    Be hung with Cæsar’s trophies.”

                                  And to-day
    They played his Julius Cæsar at the Court.
    I saw it at the Globe twelve years ago,
    A gala day! The flag over the Theatre
    Fluttered the April breeze and I was thrilled.
    And look what wherries crossed the Thames with freight
    Of hearts expectant for the theatre.
    For all the town was posted with the news
    Of Shakespeare’s “Julius Cæsar.” So we paid
    Our six-pence, entered, all the house was full.
    And dignitaries, favored ones had seats
    Behind the curtain on the stage. At last
    The trumpet blares, the curtains part, Marullus
    And Flavius enter, scold the idiot mob
    And we sat ravished, listening to the close.

    We knew he pondered manuscripts, forever
    Was busy with his work, no rest, no pause.
    Often I saw him leave the theatre
    And cross the Thames where in a little room
    He opened up his Plutarch. What was that?
    A fertilizing sun, a morning light
    Of bursting April! What was he? The earth
    That under such a sun put forth and grew,
    Showed all his valleys, mountain peaks and fields,
    Brought forth the forests of his cosmic soul,
    The coppice, jungle, blossoms good and bad.
    A world of growth, creation! This the work,
    Precedent force of Thomas North, his work
    In causal link the Bishop of Auxerre,
    And so it goes.

                    But others tried their hand
    At Julius Cæsar, witness “Cæsar’s Fall”
    Which Drayton, Webster, others wrote. And look
    At Jonson’s “Cataline,” that labored thing,
    Dug out of Plutarch, Cicero. Go read,
    Then read this play of Shakespeare’s.

                                              I recall
    What came to me to see this, scene by scene,
    Unroll beneath my eyes. ’Twas like a scroll
    Lettered in gold and purple where one theme
    In firmest sequence, precious artistry
    Is charactered, and all the sound and sense,
    And every clause and strophe ministers
    To one perfection. So it was we sat
    Until the scroll lay open at our feet:
    “According to his virtue, let us use him
    With all respect and rites of burial,”
    Then gasped for breath! The play’s a miracle!
    This world has had one Cæsar and one Shakespeare,
    And with their birth is shrunk, can only bear
    Less vital spirits.

                        For what did he do
    There in that room with Plutarch? First his mind
    Was ready with the very moulds of nature.
    And then his spirit blazing like the sun
    Smelted the gold from Plutarch, till it flowed
    Molten and dazzling in these moulds of his.
    And lo! he sets up figures for our view
    That blind the understanding till you close
    Eyes to reflect, and by their closing see
    What has been done. O, well I could go on
    And show how Jonson makes homonculus,
    And Shakespeare gets with child, conceives and bears
    Beauty of flesh and blood. Or I could say
    Jonson lays scholar’s hands upon a trait,
    Ambition, let us say, as if a man
    Were peak and nothing else thrust to the sky
    By blasting fires of earth, just peak alone,
    No slopes, no valleys, pines, or sunny brooks,
    No rivers winding at the base, no fields,
    No songsters, foxes, nothing but the peak.
    But Shakespeare shows the field-mice and the cricket,
    The louse upon the leaf, all things that live
    In every mountain which his soaring light
    Takes cognizance; by which I mean to say
    Shows not ambition only, that’s the peak,
    But mice-moods, cricket passions in the man;
    How he can sing, or whine, or growl, or hiss,
    Be bird, fox, wolf, be eagle or be snake.
    And so this “Julius Cæsar” paints the mob
    That stinks and howls, a woman in complaint
    Most feminine shut from her husband’s secrets;
    Paints envy, paints the demagogue, in brief,
    Paints Cæsar till we lose respect for Cæsar.
    For there he stands in verity, it seems,
    A tyrant, coward, braggart, aging man,
    A stale voluptuary shoved about
    And stabbed most righteously by patriots
    To avenge the fall of Rome!

                                Now I have said
    Enough to give me warrant to say this:
    This play of Shakespeare fails, is an abuse
    Upon the memory of the greatest man
    That ever trod this earth. And Shakespeare failed
    By just so much as he might have achieved
    Surpassing triumph had he made the play
    Cæsar instead of Brutus, had he shown
    A sovereign will and genius struck to earth
    With loss irreparable to Time and ruin
    To Cæsar’s dreams; struck evilly to death
    By a mad enthusiast, a brutal stoic,
    In whom all gratitude was tricked aside
    By just a word, the word of Liberty.
    Or might I also say the man had envy
    Of Cæsar’s greatness, or might it be true
    Brutus took edge for hatred with the thought
    That Brutus’ sister flamed with love for Cæsar?
    But who was Brutus, by the largest word
    That comes to us that he should be exalted,
    Forefronted in this play, and warrant given
    To madmen down the ages to repeat
    This act of Brutus’, con the golden words
    Of Shakespeare as he puts them in his mouth:
    “Not that I loved him less, but loved Rome more.
    He was ambitious so I slew him. Tears
    For his love, joy for his fortune, honor for valor,
    Death for ambition. Would you die all slaves
    That Cæsar might still live, or live free men
    With Cæsar dead?”

                      And so it is the echo
    Of Cæsar’s fall is cried to by this voice
    Of Shakespeare’s and increased, to travel forth,
    To fool the ages and to madden men
    With thunder in the hills of time to deeds
    As horrible as this.

                        Did Shakespeare know
    The worth of Cæsar, that we may impute
    Fault for this cartoon--caricature? Why look,
    Did he not write the “mightiest Julius,” write
    “The foremost man of all the world,” “the conqueror
    Whom death could conquer not,” make Cleopatra,
    The pearl of all the east, say she was glad
    That Cæsar wore her on his hand? He knew
    What Cæsar’s greatness was! Yet what have we?
    A Cæsar with the falling sickness, deaf,
    Who faints upon the offering of the crown;
    Who envies Cassius stronger arms in swimming,
    When it is known that Cæsar swam the Tiber,
    Being more than fifty; pompous, superstitious,
    Boasting his will, but flagging in the act;
    Greedy of praise, incautious, unalert
    To dangers seen of all; a lust incarnate
    Of power and rulership; a Cæsar smashing
    A great republic like a criminal,
    A republic which had lived except for him.

    So what was Rome when Cæsar took control?
    All wealth and power concentered in the few;
    A coterie of the rich who lived in splendor;
    A working class that lived on doles of corn
    And hordes of slaves from Asia, Africa,
    Who plotted murders in the dark purlieus;
    The provinces were drained to feed the rich;
    The city ruled by bribery, and corruption;
    Armed gladiators sold their services.
    And battled in the Forum; magistrates
    Were freely scoffed at, consuls were attacked;
    And orators spat in each other’s faces
    When reason failed them speaking in the Forum;
    No man of prominence went on the streets
    Without his hired gladiators, slaves.
    The streets were unpoliced, no fire brigade,
    Safe-guarded property. Domestic life
    Was rotten at the heart, and vice was taught.
    Divorce was rife and even holy Cato
    Put by his wife.

                      And this was the republic
    That Cæsar took; and not the lovely state
    Ordered and prospered, which ambitious Cæsar,
    As Shakespeare paints him, over-whelmed. For Cæsar
    Could execute the vision that the people
    Deserve not what they want, but otherwise
    What they should want, and in that mind was king
    And emperor.

                And what was here for Shakespeare
    To love and manifest by art, who hated
    The Puritan, the mob? Colossus Cæsar,
    Whose harmony of mind took deep offense
    At ugliness, disharmony! See the man:
    Of body perfect and of rugged health,
    Of graceful carriage, fashion, bold of eye,
    A swordsman, horseman, and a general
    Not less than Alexander; orator
    Who rivalled Cicero, a man of charm,
    Of wit and humor, versed in books as well;
    Who at one time could dictate, read and write,
    Composing grammars as he rode to war,
    Amid distractions, dangers, battles, writing
    Great commentaries. Yes, he is the man
    In whom was mixed the elements that Nature
    Might say:--this was a man--and not this Brutus.

    Look at his camp, wherever pitched in Gaul,
    Thronged by young poets, thinkers, scholars, wits,
    And headed by this Cæsar, who when arms
    Are resting from the battle, makes reports
    Of all that’s said and done to Cicero.
    Here is a man large minded and sincere,
    Active, a lover, conscious of his place,
    Knowing his power, no reverence for the past,
    Save what the past deserved, who made the task
    What could be done and did it--seized the power
    Of rulership and did not put it by
    As Shakespeare clothes him with pretence of doing.
    For what was kingship to him? empty name!
    He who had mastered Asia, Africa,
    Egypt, Hispania, after twenty years
    Of cyclic dreams and labor--king indeed!
    A name! when sovereign power was nothing new.
    He’s fifty-six, and knows the human breed,
    Sees man as body hiding a canal
    For passing food along, a little brain
    That watches, loves, attends the said canal.
    He’s been imperator at least two years--
    King in good sooth! He knows he is not valued,
    That he’s misprized and hated, is compelled
    To use whom he distrusts, despises too.
    Why, what was life to him with such contempt
    Of all this dirty world, this eagle set
    Amid a flock of vultures, cow-birds, bats?
    His ladder was not lowliness, but genius.
    Read of his capture in Bithynia,
    When he was just a stripling by Cilician
    Pirates whom he treated like his slaves,
    And told them to their face when he was ransomed
    He’d have them crucified. He did it, too.
    His ransom came at last, he was released,
    And set to work at once to keep his word;
    Fitted some ships out, captured every one
    And crucified them all at Pergamos.
    Not lowliness his ladder, but the strength
    That steps on shoulders, fit for steps alone.
    So on this top-most rung he did not scan
    The base degrees by which he did ascend,
    But sickened rather at a world whose heights
    Are not worth reaching. So it was he went
    Unarmed and unprotected to the Senate,
    Knowing that death is noble, being nature,
    And scorning fear. Why, he had lived enough.
    The night before he dined with Lepidus,
    To whom he said the death that is not seen,
    Is not expected, is the best. But look,
    Here in this play he’s shown a weak old man,
    Propped up with stays and royal robes, to amble,
    Trembling and babbling to his coronation;
    And to the going, driven by the fear
    That he would be thought coward if he failed.
    Who was to think so? Cassius, whom he cowed,
    And whipped against strong odds, this Brutus, too,
    There at Pharsalus! Faith, I’d like to know
    What Francis Bacon thinks of this.

                                    My friend,
    Seeing the Rome that Cæsar took, we turn
    To what he did with what he took. This Rome
    At Cæsar’s birth was governed by the people
    In name alone, in fact the Senate ruled,
    And money ruled the Senate. Rank and file
    Was made of peasants, tradesmen, manumitted
    Slaves and soldiers--these the populares,
    Who made our Cæsar’s uncle Marius
    Chief magistrate six times. This was the party
    That Cæsar joined and wrought for to the last.
    He fought the aristocracy all his life.
    His heart was democratic and his head
    Patrician--was ambitious from the first,
    As Shakespeare is ambitious, gifted by
    The Muses, must work out his vision or
    Rot down with gifts neglected; so this Cæsar
    Gifted to rule must rule--but what’s the dream?
    To use his power for democratic weal,
    Bring order, justice in a rotten state,
    And carry on the work of Marius,
    His democratic uncle. Now behold,
    He’s fifty when he reaches sovereign power;
    Few years are left in which he may achieve
    His democratic ideas, for he sought
    No gain in power, but chance to do his work,
    Fulfill his genius. Well, he takes the Senate
    And breaks its aristocracy, then frees
    The groaning debtors; reduces the congestion
    Of stifled Italy, founds colonies,
    Helps agriculture, executes the laws.
    Crime skulks before him, luxury he checks.
    The franchise is enlarged, he codifies
    The Roman laws, and founds a money system;
    Collects a library, and takes a census;
    Reforms the calendar, and thus bestrode
    The world with work accomplished. Round his legs
    All other men must peer; and envy, hatred
    Were serpents at his heels, whose poison reached
    His heart at last. He was the tower of Pharos,
    That lighted all the world.

                            Now who was Brutus?
    Cæsar forgave this Brutus seven times seven,
    Forgave him for Pharsalia, all his acts
    Of constant opposition. Who was Brutus?
    A simple, honest soul? A heart of hate,
    Bred by his uncle Cato! Was he gentle?
    Look what he did to Salamis! Besieged
    Its senate house and starved the senators
    To force compliance with a loan to them
    At 48 per cent! This is the man
    Whom Shakespeare makes to say he’d rather be
    A villager than to report himself
    A son of Rome under these hard conditions,
    Which Cæsar wrought! Who thought or called them hard?
    Brutus or Shakespeare? Is it Plutarch, maybe,
    Whom Shakespeare follows, all against the grain
    Of truth so long revealed?
                              Do you not see
    Matter in plenty for our Shakespeare’s hand,
    To show a sovereign genius and its work
    Pursued by mad-dogs, bitten to its death,
    Its plans thrown into chaos? Is there clay
    Wherewith to mould the face of Cæsar; take
    What clay remains to mould the face of Brutus?
    Do you not see a straining of the stuff,
    Making that big and salient which should be
    Little and hidden in a group of figures?
    And why, I ask? Here is the irony:
    Shakespeare has minted Plutarch, stamped the coin
    With the face of Brutus. It’s his inner genius,
    The very flavor of his genius’ flesh
    To do this thing. Here is a world that’s mad,
    A Cæsar mad with power, a Brutus madder,
    Being a dreamer, student, patriot
    Who can’t see things as clearly as the madman
    Cæsar sees them, Brutus sees through books.
    A mad-man butchered by a man more mad.
    His father mad before him. Why, it’s true
    That every one is mad, because the world
    Cannot be solved. Why are we here and why
    This agony of being? Why these tasks
    Imposed upon us never done, which drive
    Our souls to desperation. So to print
    The tragedy of life, our Shakespeare takes,
    And by the taking shows he deems the theme
    Greater than Cæsar’s greatness: human will,
    A dream, a hope, a love, and makes them big.
    Strains all the clay to that around a form
    Too weak to hold the moulded stuff in place.
    Thus from his genius fashioning the tales
    Of human life he passes judgment on
    The mystery of life. Which could he do
    By making Cæsar great, and would it be
    So bitter and so hopeless if he did,
    So adequate to curse this life of ours?
    Why make a man as great as Nature can
    The gods will raise a manakin to kill him,
    And over-turn the order that he founds.
    A grape seed strangles Sophocles, a turtle
    Falls from an eagle’s claws on Aeschylos,
    And cracks his shiny pate.

                              So at the last
    The question is, is history the truth,
    Or is the Shakespeare genius, which arranges
    History to speak the Shakespeare mood,
    Reaction to our life, the truth?

                                    And here
    I leave you to reflect. Let’s one more ale
    And then I go.




CHARLOTTE CORDAY

(_The Revolutionary Tribunal; July 17th, 1793_)


    MONTANÉ, _Presiding judge_.
    FOUQUER-TINVILLE, _Prosecutor_.
    CHAVEAU-LAGARDE, _Defending counsel_.
    DANTON,} _Leaders of the Jacobins_.
    ROBESPIERRE,}
    MADAM EVARD, _Marat’s friend_.
    CHARLOTTE CORDAY.


    MONTANÉ

    Where is your home?

    CHARLOTTE
                        Caen.

    MONTANÉ

                              Why did you come to Paris?

    CHARLOTTE

    To kill Marat.

    MONTANÉ

                   Why?

    CHARLOTTE

                        His crimes.

    MONTANÉ

                                    What crimes?

    CHARLOTTE

    The woes of France! His readiness to fire
    All France with civil war.

    MONTANÉ

                               You meant to kill
    When you struck?

    CHARLOTTE

                     Yes! I meant to kill.

    MONTANÉ

    How old are you?

    CHARLOTTE

                     Twenty-four.

    MONTANÉ

                                  A woman
    Young as you are could not have done this murder
    Unless abetted.

    CHARLOTTE

                    No! You little know
    The human heart. The hatred of one’s heart
    Impels the hand better than other’s hate.

    MONTANÉ

    You hated Marat?

    CHARLOTTE

                     Hated! I did not kill
    A man, I killed a wild beast eating up
    The people and the nation.

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

                               She’s familiar
    With crime, no doubt.

    CHARLOTTE

                          You monster! Do you take me
    For just a common murderer?

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

                                Yes! Why not?
    Here is your knife!

    CHARLOTTE

                        Oh! Yes, I recognize it.
    I bought it at the cutler’s shop.

    MONTANÉ

                                      What for?

    CHARLOTTE

    To kill Marat with; cost me forty sous.
    After I came to Paris--

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

                            When?

    CHARLOTTE

                                  Four days ago.

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

    That was the day you wrote Marat?

    CHARLOTTE

                                      Same day.

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

    Saying you knew of news in Caen, knew
    Means by the which Marat could render service
    To the Republic!

    CHARLOTTE

                     By his death!

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

                                   But yet
    You gave him credit in this note for love
    Of France, our France. You tricked him.

    CHARLOTTE

                                            Like a viper.
    He was a mad-dog, dog-leech, alley rat,
    With bits of carrion festering ’twixt his teeth,
    Hair glued with ordure, urine. Why not trick
    By best means, so to catch a beast with fangs
    As venomous as his? He was a fire
    That crawled and licked its way; why not put out
    The fire by water, snuffing, stamping, why
    Be precious of the means?

    MADAM EVARD

                              You know me, woman?

    CHARLOTTE

    You struck me when I stabbed him. You’re his whore!

    MADAM EVARD

    Oh! Oh!

    ROBESPIERRE

    (_To Danton_)
                    This is enough! When fury claws at fury.
    I hear the tumbril for her. Come!

    DANTON
                                      The slut!

(_Danton and Robespierre leave the room together._)

    CHARLOTTE

    Was that not Robespierre who left the room?

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

    Why do you ask?

    CHARLOTTE

                    I wanted him for counsel.

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

    For what? The guillotine?

    CHARLOTTE

    (_Shrinking_) You monster! You!

    MONTANÉ

    Have you a lawyer?

    CHARLOTTE

                       No! I wrote Doulcet.
    He shirks the honor, doubtless; have not heard.
    I thought of Chabot and of Robespierre.

    MONTANÉ

    Chaveau-Lagarde shall counsel you. Proceed!

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

    Is this your letter?

    CHARLOTTE

                         Yes.

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

                              This letter here
    Is written to a man named Barbarous,
    Her lover--

    CHARLOTTE

                No! You monster!

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

                                 Very well!
    Is this yours: “To the French, friends of the laws,
    And friends of peace.”

    CHARLOTTE

                           Yes! I admit what’s true.

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

    And is this yours: “To the Committee of Public Safety”?

    CHARLOTTE

    I wrote it, yes.

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

                     Let’s see now what’s her mind.
    This letter to the friends of peace and laws:--
    “O France, thy peace depends upon the laws.”
    Laws! And she hastens to the cutler’s shop,
    And buys a knife with which to slay Marat.
    Now look! This friend of France’s peace and laws
    Must dodge self-contradiction. How? That’s plain:
    “I do not break the law, killing Marat.”
    Why? What’s Marat? A man? Of course, a man.
    But then an “out-law,” as she writes. How’s that?
    Outlawed by whom? Charlotte Corday of Caen!
    What else? A man! But then condemned. By whom?
    “The universe.” Voila! The universe
    Is swallowed by her swollen vanity.
    She speaks for God, for solar systems, stars;
    Adjudges laws, interprets, executes;
    Is greater than the Revolution, France.
    She’s a descendant of the great Corneille;
    A stage imagination, actress, acts,
    And quotes here in this letter from Voltaire’s
    “Mort de César.” Now listen what her hate
    Has used for whetrock, in the words of Brutus:
    _“Whether the world astonished loads my name_
    _“And deed with horror, admiration, censure,_
    _“I do not care, nor care to live in Time._
    _“I act indifferent to reproach or glory,_
    _“A free, untrameled patriot am I._
    _“Duty accomplished I shall rest content._
    _“Think only, friends, how you may break your chains.”_
    So Brutus lives in her! And like disease
    Loosed from the crumbling cerements and dust
    Of broken tombs, the madness which slew Cæsar
    Infects, makes mad this woman; and she slays
    The great Marat!
                     She does not care for the world’s
    Censure or admiration! Does not care
    To live in time! She lies! Why, in this room
    A man, Huer, is sketching her. Behold
    He’s drawing now her face for Time to see.
    And in this letter written to the Committee
    She says: “_Since I have little time to live,_
    “_I trust you will permit me to have painted_
    “_My portrait._” Why? If careless if she live
    In memory or time? The secret’s out,
    And written in her hand: “_I want to leave_
    “_A picture for remembrance to my friends._”
    What friends? Her father? Barbarous? Caen,
    Paris, the whole of France, the world, if Time
    Writes down the people’s friend as beast, would see
    The face, in such case, which destroyed Marat,
    Condemned first by the “universe” and at last
    By France, the world! What next? She doubts her God,
    Her Brutus warrant, “universe” approval,
    And writes here as a reason, in addition:
    _“That as men cherish memory of good men,_
    _“So curiosity”_--see her spirit flop
    And smile with idiot guilt upon itself--
    _“So curiosity sometimes seeks out_
    _“Memorials of criminals.”_ That’s her word:
    “Criminals,” and by that word she stands
    Self-dedicated to the guillotine.

    CHARLOTTE

    Well, am I not a criminal in the eyes
    Of such a beast as you? Will nature spawn
    No other beasts like you?

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

                              Yes, in my eyes,
    You are a criminal. But you mistake.
    I have no curiosity about you.
    When you are dead I’d have your name erased,
    Your face erased, lest it corrupt the face
    Of Brutus, and lead hands in years to come
    To speak the “universe,” interpret “laws,”
    And slay whom they would slay.

                                   This is not all
    About her picture, a memorial
    For admiration by posterity.
    She writes this Barbarous, lover or what,
    It matters nothing, writes him pages here
    In detail of herself, and intimate
    Portrayal of her feelings: how she planned,
    And killed Marat. To Barbarous she writes
    About her letter to the Committee, asking
    To have her portrait painted. _Now_, for whom?
    Her friends? Not now! For the department now
    Of Calvados. There! hanging on a wall,
    A prize of history, is the deathless face
    Of Charlotte Corday, destroyer of Marat,
    Saviour of France, as _Brutus struck for Rome_!
    Yes, I invite your thought to what she writes
    To Barbarous: description of her act
    In sneaking to Marat with hidden knife;
    And as he sat there helpless in the tub,
    And unsuspecting of her hatred, quick
    She rips him like a butcher. Then, “A moi!”
    He cries, “A moi!” And she’s elate, her eyes
    Bright as the lightning that has struck. Look now!
    How she writhes here, how passing cross her face
    Are lights of ghastly fields of fire and clouds
    When hurricanes descend.

    CHARLOTTE

                             You beast! You beast!

    FOUQUER-TINVILLE

    I am a beast, eh? _You_ are what? I’ll tell.
    From Caen, as ’tis known. She’s being sketched,
    I’ll sketch her too. You see, she’s strongly built,
    Large eyes of blue, large features, handsome though;
    Nose shapely, and good teeth; equipped to play
    In dramas of Corneille, her ancestor.
    She needs a man. A husband would have drawn
    Innocuously the electric passion, which
    Collected in a bolt to loose and lurch
    Against Marat. All women should be farmed.
    She has her schooling in a convent, reads;
    Lives with her thoughts and dreams. I’ll sketch her soul:
    Has not enough of living to consume
    The forces of her dreams. She reads Rousseau,
    And Plutarch’s heroes, Brutus most of all.
    Thrills at the words “Republic,” “Liberty.”
    Thinks the Girondists only can set up
    A real republic. Ideas are the stuff
    Of history. Kill ideas or be killed
    By ideas is the fate of man. Republic,
    Liberty, Brutus are ideas. Ideas
    Are dangerous, being truths, more so as lies.
    And lies destroyed Marat.

                              Who was Marat?
    A man of study, learning. Physicist,
    Admired of Franklin, Göethe for his works
    On heat and light; a doctor, having won
    An honorary title at St. Andrew’s
    In England. Linguist, speaking Spanish, German,
    Italian, English. Versed in Governments:--
    You know his work on England’s constitution
    Whereby he sought to clear the mind of France--
    This Charlotte Corday’s with the rest--that England
    Is free, her systems free; stop the Girondists
    From that re-iterated lie; stop France
    From taking on the English system.

                                       So
    True ideas of Marat, evolved from life,
    Living and study must combat, destroy
    False ideas of Girondists, will succeed;
    But cannot bar the door to the idea
    That enters at his bathroom with a knife.
    How was it that no valet and no guard
    Preserved him? Why? Lovers of liberty
    Starve in her service!

                           But there was a time
    When he knew elegance and privacy.
    But Liberty and Wisdom would be served.
    He went to rags, was hunted, had to hide
    In sewers for the cause of Liberty;
    And there took loathsome trouble, eased at times
    By steam, hot tubs. And thus our people’s friend
    Is found accessible to this female lie,
    Girondist lie, possessing her, and stabbed.
    Or at the best ideas of Liberty
    Conduct her to his bath-room, where Marat
    Is tubbed in sequence and in punishment
    Of his idea of Liberty. Gods can laugh,
    But men must weep. O worthless, rotten world!
    It is most pitiful, most tragic, lifts
    Man’s heart to spit at heaven, that these friends
    Of peoples must be slain, starved, hunted first,
    Then butchered for their service and their love.
    Saved not by truth; destroyed by lies, a lie
    That he was evil, by the maniac lie
    Of her mad vision that she knew what Freedom,
    Liberty, Republic mean. Slain by the lie
    Of this Girondist dream, this milk and water,
    Emasculated, luke-warm craft of states:
    Girondists: patches on the robes of kings;
    Girondists: autogamists; mating sisters,
    The past, and in the mating without child
    Of truth or progress. Neither hot nor cold,
    Spewed, therefore, from the mouth of Time. Betrayers,
    Waylayers of the brave, the clear of eye;
    Girondists: ’twixt republicans and kings,
    And holding hands of each to make them friends.
    Workers and owners of the new foaled mule
    Bred of the royal stallion and an ass.
    Girondists! loving wealth and ease, the church
    Which loves them too. Girondists picking steps
    Of moderate reform. Girondists hating
    The Revolution, which must kill the foes
    Of Liberty, as criminals are killed
    For robbery, yet rejoice to see the blood
    Of dead Marat. They’re lofty! They are pure!
    They love the laws, love peace! Yes, as this woman
    Loves law and peace.

                         What is it like? A play
    Where all is mimicked. Do we talk of facts?
    Are these not fautocinni? Where’s the hand
    That plays this coarse and bloody joke to eyes
    Of men that crave reality? I mean this:
    A woman with lovers who suggest, abet;
    A woman with no man, who dreams and reads,
    Lives in the stench of these Girondist lies;
    Ghosts float on fogs of her miasmic soul.
    She hears Marat’s a monster, dabbling blood,
    A rabid ignoramus running foul
    Of liberty and order, nihilist,
    And sanguinary madman, dragon slimed
    In back-wash of all hatred, envy, lust
    Of the dispossessed, malformed, misborn; and then
    She dreams of Brutus, who struck down--there now
    I nail a lie that will be always truth
    To Charlotte Cordays. Cæsar? Tyrant? No.
    No man is tyrant who sees truth and rules
    For truth’s sake. For the ruled must share the truth
    Where Cæsars rule.

                       So much for her. She stands
    Watchful and envious in the wings, and sees
    Marat, not as we see him; not as Time
    Will see Marat. L’Ami du Peuple to her
    Is enemy of France, of Liberty.
    This man most rare, most pure of soul, most clear
    Of vision that the contest lies between
    The rich and poor, has always lain between
    The rich and poor, and not between the people
    And kings; that poverty’s the thing, is seen
    By Charlotte Corday from the wings, as nothing
    But hatred, murder.

                        Well, my girl, you’ll get
    Your picture in the galleries of history.
    You’ll get it; and to choke you with your words:
    “So curiosity would have memorials
    Of criminals, which serve to keep alive
    Horror for their crimes.”

                              Your picture’s up
    Already. Horror stares! You killed Marat.
    That is your place in Time: you killed Marat!
    You sneaked upon a great man, true man, weak
    From torture of disease, contracted serving
    Democracy, and slew him like a beast.
    Charlotte Corday, assassin! That’s your place,
    And character in history.

    CHARLOTTE

                              Let it be.
    Assassin. Well, assassins kill assassins:
    The words repel, destroy each other, sir.
    If any grieve for me I beg of them
    To think of me in the Elysian Fields
    With Brutus and the heroes.

    CHAVEAU-LAGARDE

                                Gentlemen!
    The deed’s admitted. What to say, but ask
    Your clemency? The girl’s fanatical.
    The prosecutor argues well for me
    In saying that a lie corrupted her,
    And maddened her to act; which is to say
    If that lie were a truth, she had the right
    To slay Marat. With this regard Voltaire,
    Great minds before him, painted Brutus great
    Because he slew a tyrant. But if Cæsar
    Was not a tyrant, how does Brutus stand
    But mad-man who believed, was honest, slew
    In honesty of heart? Then what’s the case?
    To punish for ill-judging of the facts,
    Or mercy show for human frailty
    Of judgment and of vision? Great Marat
    Has done his work, and left his legacy.
    We cannot help him, meting death for death.
    And would his noble spirit ask her death?
    Think of it! You will answer no, I think.
    He would say: kill the ideas of Caen,
    The world which fires these Charlottes with a lie.
    Smallpox is deadly as a butcher knife,
    He had to die. The syllabus is death
    In this our human logic: what’s the odds
    What premises produce conclusions? Knives,
    Consumptions, fevers, wars? We may be gods
    Withholding death where we have power to kill;
    Withhold it saying: She mistook, believed
    A lie, was faultless for believing it,
    And slew believing. Were it truth and all
    Believed we would applaud, as nations war,
    Bound in a common vision of one truth.
    The Revolution, France, will lose not, rather
    Gain by this clemency; ’twill lift a light,
    First in the world, of reason, justice purged
    Of hatred’s refuse: vengeance, fear, all passions
    Of bitterness of soul. We worship Reason,
    And this is Reason.

    CHARLOTTE

                        You have done your part
    And served me well. I thank you.

    THE JURY

                                     Let her join
    Brutus in the Elysian Fields. We say:
    The guillotine!

    THE MOB

    (_Outside_) To the guillotine! To the guillotine!

    CHARLOTTE

    I am content.




A MAN CHILD IS BORN

(_February 12th, 1809. Log Hut near Hodgenville, Ky._)

(_A neighbor woman is talking_)


    The wind blows through the chinks--it’s snowing too,
    Tom piles the logs on, but that door is loose.
    An earthen floor is always cold. You’re warm.
    I’m glad I brought a kiverlid along,
    An extra one comes handy at this time.
    You are all right--you had an easy time,
    Considering this baby, big and long.
    He’s very long, will be a tall man, too,
    A hunter and a chopper, Indian fighter,
    Lord, who knows what, a big man in the country,
    A preacher, congressman or senator,
    A president--who knows? God blesses you
    To give you such a son. He nurses well.
    Don’t let him have too much at first. You see
    That single window gives too little light
    To show you what he’s like. He looks a little
    Like Nancy Shipley Hanks, your mother, perhaps
    A little like your aunt, old Mary Lincoln.
    Since you and Tom are cousins, it may be
    This boy will be a mixture, but if folks
    Resemble animals, the traits of you
    Will be made stronger in this child, because
    You two are cousins.

                         You will be up to see
    What he looks like, in just a week or so.
    Perhaps when next the flames mount in the fire-place
    The light will show you. Have you named him yet--
    Tom likes the name of Abraham--well, that’s good--
    You’ve chosen that!

                        I thought I heard a step--
    Who do you think is coming? Dennis Hanks!
    He’s come to see his cousin Abraham.

    Good mornin’, Dennis! come into the fire--
    I’ll you see your cousin Abraham--
    A big, long baby--quick! and shut the door,
    The room is none too warm, the wind is blowing--
    Tom’s gone for logs again! Here, I’ll raise up
    The kiverlid and let you see--look here!
    You think he’s homely! Pretty is, you know,
    As pretty does--but see how big and long!
    In fifteen years he’ll make you up and come
    To beat him wrestling, I will bet a coon’s skin.
    Now you may kiss him; in a little bit
    I’ll let you hold him by the fire. The pot
    Is on for dinner, we are having squirrel
    And hominy for dinner--you can stay.
    Now clear out, Dennis--I must do some things--
    Open the door for Tom, he’s coming there
    With logs to mend the fire!




RICHARD BOOTH TO HIS SON JUNIUS BRUTUS

(_London, December 13th, 1813._)


    So you’re to play Campillo, all in spite
    Of my commands, at Deptford? Here’s the bill
    Found in your pocket. You are seventeen,
    Too young for this adventure in the world.
    What will you be, a strolling vagabond,
    Smelling of grease, impoverished, set apart
    From stable folk by this, your wandering art?
    And just to think I named you Junius Brutus,
    After the great republican who slew
    The Roman tyrant Cæsar--I myself
    A worshipper of Liberty all my life,
    And choosing such a patronym for you
    To dedicate you to the faith in me.
    Now you would leave this dignity to speak
    Mimetic words, and act. I beg of you,
    Listen, my boy, before it is too late,
    And let me tell my story to you now,
    That you may profit by the things I’ve lived....

    You see that face of Washington, hung up
    There on the wall where every entering eye
    Must mark it? You remember that I ask,
    Enforce respect to Washington and make
    The passer bow his head--well, listen now:

    It’s seventeen seventy-seven, I’m fourteen.
    Burgoyne’s surrender fires my tender heart.
    We hear Lord George Germain forgets to take
    A letter from a pigeon hole containing
    Instructions to Burgoyne that touches on
    The campaign on the Hudson. Anyway,
    Burgoyne gets tangled in the wilderness
    Around Champlain. He faces broken bridges,
    And trees felled in his way. His horses fail,
    Provisions are exhausted. Then he sends
    A thousand men to Bennington to get
    More horses and provisions. There he’s stumped:
    A veteran of Bunker Hill is there,
    A Colonel Stark, whose wife is Mollie Stark,
    Who says we beat the British here to-day,
    Or Mollie Stark’s a widow. August 16th
    They whipped the British soundly--and Burgoyne
    Was driven to defeat.

                          That made us flame!
    I was a hot republican. Slipped away
    To Paris with a cousin to set sail
    For America and help the Americans,
    And wrote from there a letter to John Wilkes,
    And asked his help to get me in the army
    Of Washington. As Englishmen, I wrote,
    It may be said we are not justified
    In taking arms against the English cause.
    That argument with you could have no weight,
    You, who have fought for Liberty so long.
    And England, what is she? All human rights
    Are lost in England under tyrant rule.
    It is the duty of an English heart
    To help those whom this lawless tyranny
    Oppresses in America. So I wrote,
    And sent to London. What do you suppose?
    John Wilkes went to my father with this letter.
    They caught me, brought me home, and here I am,
    A lawyer to this day. You think it strange!
    Who was John Wilkes, that he should thus betray?--
    I wonder, even now.

                        For he had been
    A rebel spirit from his boyhood up,
    Born here in London seventeen twenty-seven;
    Was sent to Parliament when he was thirty.
    Attacked the king in writing, was arrested;
    Refused to answer questions, then they chucked
    Our rebel in the Tower; he got out,
    Saying he had a privilege as a member
    Of Parliament. They passed a special law
    To warrant prosecution, ousted him
    From Parliament, and then he went to France,
    Was outlawed, but returned, again was sent
    To Parliament, before he took his seat.
    Was sent to prison on the sentences
    Passed on the old conviction, and expelled
    From Parliament again for libeling
    The minister of war. Three times again
    They elected him to Parliament, but they kept
    Our rebel out. He now became the people’s
    Idol for his sufferings and his courage.
    They let him out of prison, made him mayor
    Of London, and in seventeen seventy-four
    He goes from Middlesex to Parliament
    And takes his seat at last, and there he was
    When I wrote to him, seventeen seventy-seven.
    Why did he tell my father, send my father
    The letter which I wrote?

                              I know, I think:
    He knew the dangers, agonies ahead,
    For a boy who sets his feet along the path
    Of Liberty and working for the world
    To free the world--and did not know my stuff;
    Whether I had the will to fight and die
    With no regrets. He knew what he had suffered,
    And had a tenderness for the youth who flames
    And beats his wings for freedom, would release
    From tyranny and wrong.

                            And so they caught me,
    And brought me home and set me to the law.
    And here I am, who never lost the dream
    And named you Junius Brutus. Oh, my son,
    Leave off this actor calling, stay with me,
    I who was nipped would see you grow to flower,
    Fulfill my vision. What, you promise me,
    If I will let you act this time, to come
    And let me mould you, teach you what I know,
    Fill full your spirit with the hope I had,
    That you may do what I have failed to do?
    You promise that? Well, Junius Brutus, go
    And may you fail at acting and return.




A MAN CHILD IS BORN

(_July 14th, 1839. The Farm._)

(_Mrs. Booth is speaking._)


    After such pain this child against my breast!
    Oh what a cunning head and little face!
    What coal black hair! You have begun to feed!
    Look, doctor, how he feeds--why look at him,
    He is a little man! Is not God good
    To give me such a baby? Well, I think
    You will be something noble in this world,
    And something great, you precious little man!
    His daddy wants to name him John Wilkes. I
    Would name him Junius Brutus to hand down
    His father’s glory and perhaps his art.
    Look, doctor, is it not a miracle
    That God performs, this little life from mine,
    This beauty out of love! I pray to God
    To bless you, little John, if that’s your name.
    A colored mammy read the coffee grounds,
    And says he will be famous, rich and great--
    He may be so. I know he will be good.
    Look at that darling face--it must be so!




SQUIRE BOWLING GREEN

(_Rutledge’s Tavern, New Salem, July 14th, 1839._)


    You missed it--case all over! Lincoln’s gone.
    He’s just had time about to reach the mill.
    He couldn’t wait until the stage arrived.
    Had business in the courts of Springfield--well,
    You can believe he has become a lawyer.
    He borrowed Mentor Graham’s horse to ride.
    John Yoakum is in Springfield and to-morrow
    Will bring it back.

                        Who won the case? Why, Abe.
    He won it by his horse-sense and his wit.
    You must have met the jury down the road.
    What were they laughing at? About the case.
    We started yesterday on the evidence
    And finished up this morning. An appeal?
    The verdict satisfies both parties, and
    My judgment stands.

                        Abe is a natural lawyer,
    Knows things that can’t be found in books, although
    He knows the books. And why not? You recall
    When he was boarding with me how he studied?
    It’s just four years ago or so, that he
    Came home one night with Blackstone. Well, I’ve noticed
    A man attracts what’s his, just like a magnet
    Draws bits of steel. You can’t make me believe
    That Blackstone came to him unless ’twas meant
    That he should be a lawyer. Don’t you know?
    He read this Blackstone in his store all day
    And half the night as well. He said to me
    Not Volney’s “Ruins,” Shakespeare, Burns, had taken
    His interest like this Blackstone. Yes, he took it
    When he went fishing with Jack Kelso, read,
    And let jack row the boat and bait the hooks....

    I think he knows this Blackstone all by heart.
    But anyway, he knows the human heart.
    Well, now here is the case: Here is a colt.
    George Cameron says the colt is his--John Spears
    Says no, the colt is mine, and Cameron sues,
    And Spears defends, and sixty witnesses
    Come here to testify, on my word it’s true,
    On my judicial oath it is the fact.
    The thirty swear the colt is Cameron’s;
    And thirty swear the colt belongs to Spears;
    And not a man impeached, these witnesses
    Are everyone good men, and most of them
    I know as I know you. Well, what’s to do?
    The scales are balanced. And besides all this,
    Here’s Cameron who swears the colt is his,
    And Spears who swears the opposite, and both
    Are credible, I know them both. So I
    Sit like a fellow trying to decide
    What happens when a thing impenetrable
    Is struck by something irresistible--
    I’m stumped, that’s all.

                             You see the facts were these:
    Each of these fellows owns a mare, the mares
    Look pretty much alike, each had a colt
    In April. But the other day one colt--
    Which colt, that is the question--strayed away
    And can’t be found. George Cameron has a colt--
    These men are neighbors--but John Spears comes over
    And sees the colt at Cameron’s in the field;
    And says, “That is my colt.” “Not on your life,”
    George Cameron replies, “The colt is mine--
    Your colt has strayed, not mine.” They come to law.
    John Spears gets Lincoln, and they come to court
    With sixty witnesses; and here this noon
    With all the evidence put in, I sit
    And eye the jury, know the jury’s stumped,
    As I am stumped.

                     Then Lincoln says: “Your honor,
    Let’s have a trial on view.” I’d heard of that,
    But never sat on such a trial before.
    “Let’s bring the colt, the two mares over here,
    And let the jury see which mare the colt
    Resembles, let the jury use their eyes
    As witnesses use theirs.”

                              That seemed fair.
    And so we sent one fellow for the mares,
    Another for the colt. For Lincoln said:
    “Your honor, bring them separate, so the jury
    Can have the sudden flash of seeing them
    Separate, to study them.”

                              For an hour
    Abe sat here in the shade and told us stories.
    And pretty soon we heard the horses whinney,
    And heard the colt. And Lincoln said, “Your honor,
    Let’s have the mares led past the jury, trotting,
    Let’s see their pace.” And so they trotted them.
    “Now trot the colt,” said Lincoln--we did that.
    The jury watched to see the look of legs,
    And movement, if you please, to catch a likeness.
    But nothing came of this. Then Lincoln said:
    “Now turn the colt loose”--and they turned it loose.
    It galloped to the mare of Spears and sucked!
    Well, now it’s true a colt’s a silly thing,
    And may mistake its mother, but a mare
    Will never let a colt that’s not her own
    Put under flanks its nose. Of course the jury,
    And all of us know that--and so did Abe.
    The jury yelled and all the witnesses
    Began to whoop. And when I rapped for order
    And got things quiet--Lincoln rose and said,
    “I rest, your honor.”

                          So I entered judgment
    For Spears. They went to Berry’s for the drinks--
    There! hear them laughing.

                               Lincoln took his fee,
    Ten dollars, I believe, and went to Springfield.




LINCOLN SPEAKING IN CONGRESS

(_January 12th, 1848._)


“Any people anywhere being inclined and having the power have the right
to rise up and shake off the existing government and form a new one that
suits them better. This is a most valuable, a sacred right. A right
which we hope and believe is to liberate the world. Nor is this right
confined to cases in which the whole people of an existing government
may choose to exercise it. Any portion of such people that can, may
revolutionize, and may make their own of so much of the territory as
they inhabit. More than this, a majority of any portion of such people
may revolutionize, putting down a minority, intermingled with, or near
about them, who may oppose their movement. Such minority was precisely
the case of the Tories of our own revolution. It is a quality of
revolutions not to go by old lines, or old laws, but to break up both
and make new ones.”




JOHN WILKES BOOTH AT THE FARM

(_January 12th, 1848._)


    Mother, I’m breathless! I have seen a man,
    The strangest man I ever saw. I’m scared!
    I went down to the hollow, was at play,
    Was marching with my broomstick gun--and then
    While I stood there and said “attention,” playing
    Soldier, you know, reciting to my soldiers,
    I heard a voice--looked round and saw this man.
    He was enormous with a frightful face,
    Black eyes, black hair, a voice that sounded like
    Low thunder, though it could be soft and sweet.
    And he said to me, “What’s your name, my boy?”
    I told him. Then he said, “Where is your father?”
    I said, “My father’s gone.” “Where is your mother?”
    “Up at the house,” I answered. Then he asked,
    “What are you doing here?” “Why, playing soldier.”
    “Are you a patriot?” And I said yes.
    “Oh, no,” he said, “your father was an actor;
    I saw him play the part of Brutus often,
    And you will be an actor, you’ve the look.”
    How did he know these things, do you suppose?
    And then he said, “Recite for me.” “I can’t,”
    I said to him. “O yes, you can,” he said.
    “You must recite for me.” And I was scared,
    Began to cry, and he said, “Hush, my boy,
    I will not hurt you, but you must recite,
    I want to see what you have memorized.”
    So I was choking, but I tried to do it:
    “The tyrannous and bloody deed is done,
    The most arch act of piteous massacre
    That ever yet this land was guilty of.” ...

    “No Richard III,” he said. “Here look at me!
    Why do you dodge? Why not recite some words
    From Brutus, for you know them, why, my boy?
    You’ve heard your father speak the words of Brutus.
    Why do you hide your knowledge? Look at me!”
    He terrified me so that I began:
    “It must be by his death: and for my part
    I know no personal cause to spurn at him,
    But for the general. He would be crowned:
    How that might change his nature, there’s the question.
    It is the bright day that brings forth the adder.”
    I got so far and saw him looking down,
    As if he saw--I don’t know what--and then
    I stopped and looked--and there I saw an adder
    Coiled close to me. I jumped and screamed. He laughed--
    I ran away, and left him standing there.
    Mother, I am afraid. Who was this man?
    My head hurts. I’m afraid. Keep close to me--
    I am so frightened.




JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH

(_On a steamboat bound for Cincinnati from New Orleans, November 30th,
1852_.)


    You are a doctor? Ill? I’m very ill.
    My soul is worn, it is a ghastly life,
    This acting, traveling, living through the passions
    Of Brutus, and Orestes, Richard III.
    My father tried to make a lawyer of me,
    But fate is fate. My age is fifty-six,
    But counting by the moments I have lived
    A thousand years were nearer truth. Oh, well,
    What if this talking tire me, I am tired
    With such fatigue that nothing adds to it.
    And if I die, why what will be, will be.
    I’d like to see “The Farm” in Maryland
    Just once again, see Mary, that’s my wife,
    John Wilkes, my boy, and Junius Brutus, too--
    Edwin I left in California,
    Shall never see him more I fear--but then
    What comes to us must come.

                                              That brandy helps,
    I’m better now.

                    Oh, yes, it’s true my father
    Would make a lawyer of me, couldn’t do it--
    I am a better lawyer than he was
    For acting parts and living other lives,
    Thus finding laws of life--but what’s the good?
    You can’t find happiness, all is vanity.
    If you’re a strolling player, vanity;
    Vexation too and jealousy and strife.
    If all the house goes mad to see you rage
    As life-like as the Moor did, do they know
    What realest envy stalks behind the scenes,
    What you have done to keep your golden voice,
    Your strength to paint the frenzy of Othello?

    After one greatest triumph I sat alone,
    Was playing solitaire, who should come in?
    Chief Justice Marshall, friend of mine? Oh, yes.
    He said, “I think you’d be the happiest
    Of men, why not enjoy what you’ve achieved?”
    “Judge,” I replied, “you see me here alone,
    There is no ecstasy, no drop of joy
    For me save in that moment when I see,
    Both through my genius glowing and the cries
    And plaudits from the house, that I have struck.
    The fateful note that thrills--all other hours
    Are spent in saving power and making ready
    For just that moment. What’s an actor, poet?
    A medium round whom the spirits swarm
    Like bats in Tartarus and shrill Me! Me!
    Take now and write, speak for me--make it clear,
    You are our hope of truth, of being known
    For what we are. And so you’re never done.
    The spirits dash about you with their cries;
    Men note your eyes turned inward--move away.
    And you must keep in vigor. Hoarseness rasps
    The voice of Brutus, you must catch no cold.
    You drink sometimes to deafen ears against
    The spirits’ crying, but you pay for it,
    Must climb back into strength, but while you’re weak
    The spirits are a-crying, there you are,
    Ambitious but enfeebled, can’t respond,
    And tortured for it. There is no escape.
    And so you play at solitaire.”
                                   The Judge
    Replied: “A judge is lonely, for his reasons
    Must keep himself aloof.”
                              Yes, I knew Kean.
    He played Othello to my great Iago,
    And I say great, for I was twenty-one,
    And made the London English shout and howl:
    “Great Booth forever,” though they shouted, too,
    “No Booth” and “down with Booth,” the partisans
    Of Kean, the envious. And on a time
    It’s Drury Lane, and what an audience!
    Hazlitt is there and Godwin, Shelley’s friend,
    John Howard Payne, who wrote “The Fall of Tarquin.”
    He saw that Kean was envious, would not be
    Excelled by me and wrote as much.

                                      My friend,
    Another drink of brandy!

                                                 Well, at last
    I make America my home. ’Twere well
    If I am spared to write my memories,
    They throng so at this moment. God be praised,
    I knew Old Hickory and supped with him,
    A man from top to toe! And I have lived,
    Fought, suffered, triumphed, lived through self and lived
    Through Brutus, Lear, and Richard.

                                       Look at me,
    Am I a man you’d ever take for mad?
    Mad-men have struck at me, a lunatic
    Struck at me with an ax, I cowed his hate
    And fixed him with my eye. But as for me,
    Here have I been for life a lover of home,
    A husband blest with happiness in a wife,
    And yet reputed mad. For little things
    Like this reputed mad: I’m playing Shylock,
    The call boy searches me, my time has come,
    Where was I? In a closet. Was it queer?
    A symptom? No! I hid to shut the light
    Of other things external from the mind
    Of Shylock’s mood. Why, is it strange at all
    For a soul that incarnates itself with souls
    Like Brutus’ and Lear’s to lose itself,
    Seem sometimes naked, trembling, swaying too
    With such exhaustion, such tremendous change?
    These common minds see not the genius mind
    For what it is, forget the strength and wisdom
    That makes the genius, in my case, forget
    My books and scholarship, my toil, who learned
    Greek, Latin, German, French and Arabic,
    Hebrew and Spanish; the philosophies,
    I’ve mastered in my life.

                              I tremble too
    For thinking of my little son, John Wilkes,
    So beautiful and gifted, has the touch;
    Is full of dreams, goes charging on his horse,
    Spouting heroic speeches, lance in hand
    There on “The Farm,” a patriot and a lover
    Of liberty even now. What will he be,
    A statesman or an actor, warrior, what?
    God knows alone, and what his fate God knows.
    I named him after John Wilkes, patriot
    And English libertarian--but no matter,
    He’ll do what he will do. They named me Brutus
    And I became an actor, not a statesman,
    Warrior, no tyrannicide.

                             Hold there!
    What is this? Take my hand! Sharp pain again--
    Pray! pray! pray!

(_He dies._)




A CERTAIN POET ON THE DEBATES

(_At Alton, Illinois, October 15th, 1858._)

(_Arguing with a group at the hotel._)


    Why do I speak with such authority?
    I know this matter through from A to Z;
    I know it just as well as Lincoln knows it.
    There’s not a document I have not studied
    From Elliott’s Debates to this Le Compton
    Kansas constitution that has escaped
    My mind’s analysis. And you will see
    Lincoln is beaten now. You are absurd
    To think he’ll win the presidency for losing
    The senatorship--clean crazy all of you!

    Who am I? Well, it makes no difference.
    I am a mind, a mere intelligence
    Going about this year of fifty-eight
    An observer and a listener. Gabriel
    Could be no more impersonal than I.
    I’ve followed up these fellows like the boy
    That trails the circus, clear from Ottawa
    To Freeport, Charleston, Galesburg, Quincy, Alton;
    And made my way at first with sawing wood,
    Later by selling razors, soap and strops;
    And just to hear the speaking, see the crowds--
    These crowds that leave the shop and farms, these crowds
    Solemn and noisy, rapt, tumultuous,
    Sober and drunk, who carry whips and spit
    Tobacco juice around and drink and eat.
    The babies squall, wagons and democrats
    Befog the air with dust, and oh, the heat!
    Yet though these crowds will settle like the dust
    In graves all over Illinois, nothing leave
    Of what, or who they were, no less these crowds
    Have reason at the centre like the sun;
    Dimmed to the eyes this side; the sun is there!
    But yet the sun knows it is there--the dust
    Rises and shows the sun--there you have thought
    Which is now, will be handed down of this--
    These days. Oh, yes, the dust will rise at last
    When evening--that’s reflection, settles down;
    And then you’ll see a star--first magnitude,
    The name is Lincoln!

                         I have read. I know.
    Never in Rome or Greece were such debates,
    Never in all this world. Look at the theme:
    Slavery in a republic! As for men,
    Where is their equal? Is it Pericles,
    Demosthenes or Cicero, here with us,
    Great Webster? And the setting, think of that!
    Here in this western prairie state they pass
    From town to town, stand up before the mass,
    And battle with their wits--set falcons loose
    Of swift and ravenous logic to devour
    The other’s flights. The crowds perceive the trend,
    Gather enough to guide them and persuade,
    But much of it is over them. You heard
    Lincoln to-day, when he had subtilized
    The point to deadly ether, say to them:
    “An audience like this will scarcely see
    The force of what I say, but minds well trained
    Will follow me and see.” That is the point.
    Out of this popular oratory rises
    A durable spire of truth. This Lincoln leaves
    Great thought and beauty to the race. And yet
    Douglas will be our senator, and Seward
    Our President two years from now. As Webster
    Could never win the prize, this Lincoln too
    Will fail to win it.

                         Why, you silly fools!
    Lincoln has sprained his arms and back for good--
    But he has laid the South out flat and cold,
    And broken the slavocracy in two.
    He did it with one question; asking that
    He made the Little Giant cough and stammer,
    And blush his guilt before America.
    Oh, yes, he answered well enough to win
    This contest here in Illinois; but look,
    The Southern press is after him already,
    They scent the carcass moved, withdrawn a little;
    They croak like buzzards--and there will be war
    Between the eagles and the buzzards now,
    Perhaps when Seward is elected; truly
    If Lincoln should be chosen, as he won’t.
    It isn’t that this Douglas isn’t a master.
    It is that he is caught between the mill-stones.
    The upper is this Kansas and Nebraska,
    The lower is Dred Scott--and I am glad!
    Why did he father Kansas and Nebraska?
    Why did he flout the ancient ordinance
    Of 1787, which kept out
    This curse of slavery, out of Illinois,
    But brought us liberty of press and speech,
    The bill of rights? Did Congress have the power
    To pass this ordinance of ’87?
    Or did it lack the power, because the states
    That came into the union with their slaves
    Might keep their slaves, reclaim as fugitive
    Their slaves on freedom’s soil? Well, if it be
    That Congress had the power to plaster down
    The ordinance of 1787
    Upon this Illinois, this great Northwest,
    It had the power to say the western land
    Of Kansas and Nebraska should be free
    As territories ruled from Washington
    And no imperialism! So, I say again
    It serves this Douglas right to be destroyed,
    And ground to powder for this act of his,
    This Kansas and Nebraska.

                              Well, all right.
    It sounds all right, it makes the idiots whoop
    To hear the Little Giant say he favors
    The people’s rule in Kansas and Nebraska.
    Their right to say they’ll have this slavery
    Or have it not--yes, popular sovereignty!--
    But why not let the people vote on God,
    Or choose a king, or take me, all the whites,
    And make us slaves? It may be so, if truth
    Is just a mockery and there’s nothing real
    In human thought at all--one thing is true
    As anything, and everything is false.

    Thus ruin smites the temple of our life,
    And all of us lie down as beasts and grunt
    Around its broken arches and its columns!

    All right! He gets his Kansas and Nebraska.
    That makes him president! Not on your life!
    Momus is watching, growls a horrid laugh
    And whispers something to Slavocracy,
    Which whispers it to Taney--and behold
    The prophets and the guardians of the ark
    Of the covenant declare a slave’s a slave,
    And can be taken to a territory,
    And kept there in the face of national law
    That makes the territory free. Or else,
    Were this not so, the Congress is supreme,
    Has slipped the chain of the organic law,
    Which recognizes slavery. What is this
    But just imperialism?

                          God Almighty!
    They’re all for freedom, a republic too.
    Kansas, Nebraska--let the people rule.
    Dred Scott:--the Congress is a Parliament
    Like England has, unless it pins and tucks
    The constitution round its pocky body.
    That may be true, but then the question is:
    Is slavery charactered upon the robe,
    And must the figure of the slave be seen
    Wherever Congress walks?

                             I’ll come to that.
    The point is now that Douglas has been caught
    Between his Kansas and Nebraska act,
    And Dred Scott never his. And being lawful,
    Obedient to the law and to the courts--
    You heard him hammer Lincoln as a man
    Who flouted courts--while he, the Little Giant,
    Obeyed the laws--oh, yes!--So, being lawful,
    As I began, must hold in level hands
    Dred Scott in one, and in the other hand
    This Kansas and Nebraska.

                              Very good.
    Lincoln has got him now, and out of all
    This rhetoric, these sorties half successful,
    These scrimmages with Lincoln, half perplexed,
    You find your Little Giant on his back
    With Lincoln over him and pinning shoulders
    Down to the floor.

                      Here is the wrestling trick:
    Can any territory keep this slavery
    Out lawfully, that is, against the wish
    Of any citizen? What is the answer?
    If you say yes, where is Dred Scott? If no,
    How do the people rule?

                           What is his answer?
    Why, yes, he says, a territory can
    Keep slavery out. Dred Scott still sends it there,
    But then the people rule, and if the people
    There in Nebraska make it hot for slavery
    By local law and custom, frowns and blows,
    It will not thrive. That satisfied the crowd;
    Enough at least, elects him Senator,
    But loses him the South, the golden prize,
    Splits up the country, gives us war in time,
    When argument is silenced cannon boom--
    And when your Seward comes to Washington
    The South secedes.

                   Now, listen for a moment!
    What is Abe Lincoln’s genealogy
    In faith political? Sired by the Federalists,
    And mothered by the Whigs. A tariff man;
    Believes too in the Bank--tariffs and banks
    Filched from the plenary stores of privilege
    By hands that break the shackles of the law.
    He’s born a Whig, has turned Republican,
    What is his blood? Why, liberal construction,
    Twisting the constitution out of shape,
    And tearing holes in it to let the Congress
    Escape and wander--where? Why, anywhere!
    And though it be that touching slavery
    There’s nothing which forbids the Congress acting
    In freedom’s way--and that’s the very point--
    And granting that the Constitution’s over
    The territories, still the Congress can
    Bring freedom there--this theory is akin
    To loose construction, scarcely can be told
    From loose construction. For you see, if freedom,
    Since Congress is not hampered, can be brought,
    Why not then slavery, if it be not hampered?
    And why not colonies, dependencies,
    Ruled just as Congress wills, if never a word
    Lies in our charter to forbid or grant
    The power to do it.

                      Well, there’ll be a war,
    And hell thereafter. So you like my talk!
    What is my name? Why, Satan is my name--
    And I go wandering on the earth to see,
    Walk to and fro and laugh and drop a tear
    In spite of all my laughter. Tears and laughter
    For ideas in the heads of men that seethe,
    Pop, crackle, ferment, blow up bottles, kegs,
    Spill and destroy bacteria on the floor
    Of epochs, ruin wisdoms, cultures, faiths.
    Time scrubs the floor of all such verses--Time
    Matures fresh grapes, new ferments, and repeats
    The old catastrophes; and hence I laugh,
    And drop a tear on all the sorry waste.




PART II




THE DECISION

(_April 14th, 1861_.)

     _Lincoln is sitting absorbed in thought in an office of the
     executive mansion, where he has been in consultation with his
     cabinet. A telegraph instrument has ceased to click, but the wires
     are droning. Lincoln suddenly falls into a sleep, at once profound
     and trance-like. In the vision members of his cabinet and
     secretaries move in and out of the room._


    LINCOLN

    So there are five?


    A VOICE

                                Yes, five to two.


    SEWARD’S VOICE

                                     A month
    Has gone by and no policy. You should
    Take hold yourself, or on a cabinet member
    Devolve the task.


    LINCOLN

                                    Whatever’s to be done
    Is mine to do.

    SEWARD’S VOICE

                            Fort Sumpter leave alone!
    If we employ armed force we have begun
    A civil war--without armed force we fail.
    We cannot take the fort and keep the fort,
    Unless we subjugate the States as well.
    No, let us not first draw the sword.

    LINCOLN

                                               To say--

    A VOICE

    Yes, five to two.

    SEWARD’S VOICE

                                      Your cabinet opposes
    The Fort’s provisioning.

    LINCOLN

                                              The property
    And military posts, the forts which were
    In our possession when the government
    Came to my hands, I shall defend and hold.
    I shall collect the duties, but beyond
    Such things make no invasion.

    A VOICE

                                            And the mails?

    ANOTHER VOICE

    Fort Sumpter has been shelled!

    SEWARD’S VOICE

                                   So I forewarned you.

    ANOTHER VOICE

    That was an error.

    ANOTHER VOICE

                                May I ask a question?
    Will you invade the country to collect
    The duties, or relieve a fort alone
    Where duties are in question?

    Lincoln

                                  My inaugural--

    ANOTHER VOICE

    To hell with forts and duties--free the slaves!

    SEWARD’S VOICE

    Drop slavery! Before the people raise
    The question: Is it Union or Disunion!

    ANOTHER VOICE

    I say to let the erring Sisters go.

    ANOTHER VOICE

    I care more for the principles--

    ANOTHER VOICE

                                              Be still!
    I’m sick of principles--

    THE SAME VOICE

                                      The principles
    Of local democratic government are worth
    Twice over all the niggers.

    ANOTHER VOICE

                                              Senator,
    You are most eloquent when full of drink.

    ANOTHER VOICE

    Would you unite the North? Maneuver them
    To fire upon the Fort.

    ANOTHER VOICE

                                  The time has come
    To open up the question with the sword:
    Is this a league, is this a nation, which?

    ANOTHER VOICE

    What do you want, a tariff or a bank?
    Take off your nigger mask, you centralist!

    ANOTHER VOICE

    A contract broken by a signatory
    Absolves the other signatory.

    ANOTHER VOICE

                                 Yes
    The Yankee cotton spinner--

    ANOTHER VOICE

                               Singing psalms!

    ANOTHER VOICE

    The radicals have brought us to this pass,
    This agitation, hatred sectional.

    DOUGLAS’ VOICE

    All seem to overlook this vital matter:
    The President can use the military
    Where only States request it.

    ANOTHER VOICE

                                 You forget
    The act of ’75.

    DOUGLAS’ VOICE

                   I don’t forget.
    The act of ’75 does not apply,
    Except to laws resisted, where a marshall
    Is overpowered.

    ANOTHER VOICE

                   And there is no marshall,
    There is no judge in the seceded States.

    ANOTHER VOICE

    You will appoint one, so you promised.

    LINCOLN

                                          Yes.

    DOUGLAS’ VOICE

    Then, sir, what cause is there for apprehension?
    Who dares to say your President will pursue
    A policy of war, unless he call
    On Congress for the means and for the power?

    ANOTHER VOICE

    I ask about Fort Sumpter--are there ships
    With cargoes of provisions on their way?--

    ANOTHER VOICE

    Yes, they have sailed.

    OTHER VOICES

                          No! No!

    ANOTHER VOICE

    Oh, yes, the seven governors from the North
    Have changed his policy. He now intends
    To overthrow the federative law.
    O great conspiracy--O seven-headed
    Apocalyptic Beast!

     _The vision grows confused. Lincoln seems to himself to attempt to
     arise from the chair but is unable to do so. The scene whirls
     about like drifting mist, struck by a sudden current of air, in
     which there are lights and faces. Voices are mingled together
     indistinguishably and then fade away. There is a silence. Out of
     the confusion two figures emerge, one bright, the other shadowy.
     Both are images of Lincoln. They become seated in a boat which is
     moving with great rapidity. The only sound is the droning of the
     telegraph._


    FIRST PHANTOM

    Twice have I seen this fateful scene before.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    The depths are moving, but no waters roar.
    A mountain silence clasps the air and sea.
    Look through the glassy fathoms far below:
    Beneath us glides the ocean’s dizzy floor
    Which we skim over with a swallow’s speed.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    I see a shadowy shore and precipices.
    Yes, this portends my spirit’s earthly woe.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    You shall not shrink! What though your heart shall bleed
    Its last drop out walking the abysses,
    You must go forth--the hour has struck for you!
    The little freedoms of your life are past,
    As youth may choose its work or happiness;
    Now you must steer the boat through fog and blast.
    This rock encircled water is no less
    Than your soul captured in the trap of Fate.
    Far over stands ’twixt earth and heaven a gate
    Where souls depart and enter into Time,
    You must set foot upon this shore and climb
    And blindly your election make, renew
    Your will and spirit.

    FIRST PHANTOM

                         Tell me what to do?

    SECOND PHANTOM

    Heal, if you can, the nation’s growing scars,
    Let harmony come out of harsh discord.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    Suppose the seven States first draw the sword?
    Have they not drawn it now?

    SECOND PHANTOM

                               All bloody wars
    Furnish great argument to place the blame
    For the first blow. But even if it’s blood
    That blots the bond of human brotherhood,
    Behold the pangs that flow from human pride
    When slaughter by such blood is justified.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    What shall I do with giants who rebel?

    SECOND PHANTOM

    You do but traffic in a word, a name,
    A word it is with which you may inflame
    To mob-like fury a judicious nation--
    So you may enter on an usurpation.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    What do you say? Am I a tyrant then?

    SECOND PHANTOM

    Already have you thought of arming men
    Without the sovereign sanction of the law.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    But if I don’t mad Treason will have gained
    Such progress that it will have quite attained
    Its purpose to bind down and overawe
    Conciliation or resistance even.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    You arrogate the very will of heaven,
    As tyrants do, and in your purpose find
    A small reflection of the eternal mind.
    What do you know of this? But if you rest
    On human will and thought you must concede
    A contradiction in your dream, who break
    The law a rebel spirit to arrest.
    This is a way of sowing nettle seed.
    Once you were faithful to a better creed,
    That men may found new nations when the old
    No longer have the people’s fair consent.
    Rights are not hostile. If this be a right
    How may you overthrow it with your might?

    FIRST PHANTOM

    Have you not heard this story of me told:
    At New Orleans I saw the children cry
    When from the auction block their sire was sold.
    I then resolved to strike this curse a blow
    If ever Heaven gave
    My arm the strength. It is my deepest hate.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    This is the thought then lying further back
    In your fanatic spirit, child of woe,
    Reached through a devious and hidden track!
    For this you will prepare your country’s grave.
    You will free some, but only to enslave
    A wider realm of being.

    FIRST PHANTOM

                           I would know
    What may be best.

    SECOND PHANTOM

                     The country is at peace.
    You do not dare to ask your Congress for
    Troops on the Southern people to make war.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    I do not need to ask. I have enrolled
    An oath with God the Nation to uphold.

     SECOND PHANTOM

    But if you call the troops will you not ask
    Congress to validate your powers’ increase
    And sharpening of the sword for such a task?
    You do not answer. Well, if this may be
    Do you not contemplate a tyranny?

    FIRST PHANTOM

    What is this rupture but a mere defection,
    What might be called rebellion, insurrection
    Against the laws, which I must overthrow,
    As others did before me from the first?
    No word writ in the charter of the nation
    Has made provision for its termination.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    But not to argue this--you have reversed
    Your mind upon the right of revolution.

     FIRST PHANTOM

    Not for a righteous or a holy cause.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    You test it in your own soul’s resolution.
    But tell me when there are no writs or laws
    For you to execute in the Southern land
    How are you acting?

    FIRST PHANTOM

                       But I still command
    The property and forts, and other places
    Belonging to the Nation.

    SECOND PHANTOM

                            Understand
    Their territory all such forts embraces
    And sovereignty thereover is resumed.
    You cannot have a war on that account,
    When they would pay you for the places lost.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    First the rebellious spirit must surmount
    The barriers that keep them home with us.
    They cannot leave us, cannot take and hold
    What is not theirs, or what if they had sold
    They could not grant.

    SECOND PHANTOM

                         That is but bloody gold.
    And what you say if acted on will bring
    A million deaths.

    FIRST PHANTOM

                     They are responsible
    For all the consequences if they cling
    To this rebellious purpose.

    SECOND PHANTOM

                               To compel
    This fortress’s provisioning
    Will be a blow first struck. It is the law:
    The first blow of a war is struck by him
    Who makes the first blow needful to be struck.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    You put the woven substance in a ruck.
    I leave the issue of a war with them.
    They shall not be assailed, nor may they have
    Conflict with me unless they first aggress
    The government.

    SECOND PHANTOM

                   Oh, then they must withdraw
    Resistance to your plan.

    FIRST PHANTOM

                            Well, I confess
    No open plan, as yet. But now attend:
    I have an oath in heaven registered
    The Union to preserve, protect, defend;
    They have no oath the Union to destroy.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    What is the Union but a verbal toy
    Like Justice, Beauty, Liberty or Truth?
    And as for them they need not take an oath,
    They need but act.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    The Union is unbroken, is a pact
    Which cannot be erased or torn apart
    By less than half of those who gave it breath.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    How does a State sink partly into death
    By joining other States? Can it accede
    And thereby lose its virtue to secede?

    FIRST PHANTOM

    The Union is much older than accession.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    Some Union, not the Union which you rule.
    The states which formed the old Confederacy
    Withdrew to form the Union. Liberty
    Is older than all States.
    Her handmaiden has always been secession.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    These arguments are used but to befool
    The minds who loathe the wrong they would conceal.
    No justice will be lost by him who waits.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    They ask a council for the general weal
    Of all the States these matters to arrange
    Without the flow of blood.

    FIRST PHANTOM

                              I shall not change
    What I have said: If God who rules above,
    Almighty Ruler of all nations, deems
    Eternal truth with them, or with our side,
    That truth eternal ever must abide.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    But after all the truth is that which seems
    The truth to you. And if mankind you love,
    Why draw the sword to justify such truth?
    Has any warrior of the world said more?

    FIRST PHANTOM

    The people may be trusted to restore
    All broken rights, to them I leave all things.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    What do you say? These dubious wanderings
    Travel along a pathway scarcely smooth.
    You vowed to let no forces intermit
    The Nation’s laws in no place, save the means
    Which should be requisite,
    Were by the people from your arms withheld.
    You do not let them choose when you’ve compelled
    Their action by your act, which intervenes
    Their virgin will and what you do before
    You learn its voice. Yes, so arise all wars!
    What people ever had a chance to voice
    Free and deliberate their honest choice
    ’Twixt war and peace? Kings leave them to deplore
    The initial step while fighting to retrieve
    Or mitigate its ills. Your counselors
    Have spoken, and your counselors believe
    The pending step unwise. So at the last
    Out of all dialectics stand two men
    Each judging, each appealing to the shrine
    Of God, Eternal Justice, all unknown,
    Save as they see reflections of them cast
    In their refracted speculations--then
    What is it but the clash of sovereignties
    Grown firmer from offense and wounded pride?
    Yet cunning to manipulate decrees
    With forethought in successive acts to hide
    Provocative offenses, put in fault
    The other sovereign for the first assault.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    One man may risk his life, or suffer wrong,
    He has no other but himself at stake.
    A ruler has been chosen to be strong,
    And save his people for his people’s sake.
    The clearest vision, most commanding power,
    Interprets and must rule the hour,
    Must call its purest sense of duty God.
    Must stake its being now, in worlds to come
    Before what thrones of judgment chance to be.
    One phase alone of life’s immensity
    May one o’ermaster, though it bring him doom
    For things unseen, the path he never trod
    Strewn with his errors. Yet he may be free
    By acting through that genesis and win
    Approval for the warp. No soul has room
    For growth in love, but may it also thrive
    To needed power in thought. If heaven require
    Excess in either, while the other shrinks
    In heaven’s ends, should heaven then requite
    The sacrifice with penitential fire?
    It is enough that whosoever drinks
    Of such success finds bitterness within,
    The cup on earth. Can anyone begrudge
    The work before me, sword that I possess?
    Nor do I of another’s motives judge.
    If rights conflict not, yet one master right
    Attuned to highest law must still prevail
    And lesser laws must fail.
    The winds of destiny may bear me far,
    Which out of deepest heaven are arising.
    I have one compass and one guiding star,
    One altar for my spirit’s sacrificing:
    The Union is my soul’s profoundest love.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    If you knew heaven’s wish you might fulfill it,
    Seen heaven’s law revealed, then you might will it,
    What man can say he knows the word thereof?
    Oh, not alone you dedicate your life
    To this adventure in uncertain strife!
    You give the Nation’s blood and spirit too.
    If you could know the Nation would renew
    Its strength in years or cycles from your thought,
    And through your godlike daring might be wrought
    To finer triumphs in the time to come,
    You would have warrant to pronounce the doom
    Of blood and tears to fertilize the soil,
    Where at the start revenge and hate will grow.
    But what unending sorrow may recoil
    Upon your purposes, who do not know?

    FIRST PHANTOM

    What are these cliffs of purple which we near?
    Gray castes of stagnant mists above them lie.
    The boat glides downward as if in a sphere
    Of liquid crystal mowing, dizzily
    The forked rocks point upward to the sky--
    Have I then died?

    SECOND PHANTOM

                     There is a place of moss
    Whereon the prow must strike lest it be crushed.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    This is the world’s end. How the air is hushed!

    SECOND PHANTOM

    Come now! You have been ferried well across.
    There! We have landed. Hear the whispering keel.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    I’m growing faint.

    SECOND PHANTOM

                      Much still must I reveal.
    We two must stand on yonder highest rock.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    It cannot be!

    SECOND PHANTOM

                 I will the door unlock.
    They may not be away. First let me knock.

(_He knocks on the cliff. The vision grows cloudy._)

    FIRST PHANTOM

    What heights are these where midway to the sea
    The gulls like flakes of snow eddy around!

    SECOND PHANTOM

    The purple wastes lie under a shorn sun.
    They do not bleed, no golden ooze is seen,
    No arrows pierce them.

    FIRST PHANTOM

                          And how could it be?
    A barrier of mud, a sunken realm
    With shores where wrecks are rotting are before you.
    They sleep upon the tideless water.

    SECOND PHANTOM

                                       Yes,
    This is a quiet sea of perished dreams!

    FIRST PHANTOM

    Greater than Asia was this kingdom once,
    But in a war it sank.

    SECOND PHANTOM

                         What is the tale?

    FIRST PHANTOM

    There was a city set upon a hill
    Which heaven governed as a pilot guides
    The vessel from the stern, by force of thought.
    Till spirits here were given air and light
    To prove their natures, for it was the wish
    Of that first pair which built its earliest hearth.
    There since the husband worked with iron and fire,
    Where twenty bellows blew, and all the day
    The anvil sounded in a shop, which seemed
    A palace thick with stars, and giants bore
    Great burdens, wielded sledges, and obeyed
    The master workman, so the city heaped
    Great store of armament and priceless works.
    Meanwhile the woman in whose eyes and brow
    The final reason, compress of all light
    Made of all lights absorbed, resolved, and tamed
    Lay like a high serenity of power,
    Or balanced wisdom, bore great sons to rule
    The state and to preserve it in the wars
    When wars should come. In peace to keep the courts,
    And laws like to their mother’s face, a face
    Which awed the dullest slave, out of whose brain
    The idea like a statue carved in rock
    By hammers broken, rolled, beholding it.
    She taught her sons that some are born to rule,
    And some to serve, and some to carry torches,
    And some to blow the bellows for the fire
    Where torches may be lit; and how a state
    Where high and low remain as high and low
    So long as nature wills, move in a sphere
    Of democratic laws, where all may have
    The bread they earn, and where no strength may seize
    Another’s happiness, another’s bread.
    Hence was it that she fired her sons to drive
    A giant troubler from the city’s gates,
    And shut him up in Sicily.

                              But the land
    Over whose hills and vales the waters lie
    There where we look had other life. I speak:
    It was a land of many lakes and rivers,
    And plains and meadows, mountains full of ore,
    Both gold and silver, copper, precious stones.
    And valued wood, most fruitful of all things,
    Herbage or roots, or corn, whatever gives
    Delight or sustenance. And the ruler’s strength
    Brought riches from all ports. But to relate
    Its founder’s part, the country was divided
    Among ten rulers who had sworn to obey
    Injunctions carven on a shaft of gold,
    Erected in the middle of the realm.
    And here the people of the several States
    Gathered for conference on the general weal,
    And to inquire if any of the states
    Had trespassed on the other, or transgressed
    The writing on the shaft of gold, and pass
    Appropriate judgment; for upon the shaft
    Curses were graven on the recreant.
    And it was written none should take up arms
    Against the other; and if one should raise
    His hand against the central strength (for where
    The shaft of gold stood, there a palace stood
    Where lived a ruler speaking for them all),
    Then should the others rescue it and fling
    The rebels back.

                    Such was this empire lost
    And so did it remain so long as men
    Obeyed the laws and heaven loved. At first
    They practiced wisdom, they despised all things
    Save virtue only, lightly thought of gold,
    Were sober, hated luxury, knew control
    Of passions and of self. And knew that wealth
    Grows with such virtues, and by unity
    With one another, but by zeal for wealth
    All friendship dies. And so they waxed in store
    Of gold and spirit. But at last the soul,
    Which was divine and moved in them, fell off
    And weakened, grew diluted with too much
    Of human nature, and became unjust,
    Cruel and base, voracious, drunken, lost
    To wisdom, discipline; and the seeing eye
    Saw all good things forgotten, but to those
    Who had no eye to see true happiness
    They still appeared most blest and glorious,
    Filled as they were with avarice and lust.
    So then arose one state, and then another
    Against the central ruler, none was free
    Of disobedience to the graven words
    Upon the shaft of gold, until at last
    The city on the hill watching the strife
    Embarked with troops.

    SECOND PHANTOM

                         Have you not prophesied
    Your country’s fate if you assault the South?
    It is the zeal for wealth that cries for war.
    From such a war our spirit shall be lost,
    Our justice fouled, our friendship turned to hate,
    Our laughter rendered drunken. We shall be
    The city on the hill, the island lost--
    Have both not perished?

    FIRST PHANTOM

                           Stay! It is enough
    To live amid the misery of today,
    Without this contemplation of the past.
    What is this sky, this earth to which we come?
    This nothingness, this substance, air and rock
    Which to our life is hard reality
    And to our thought a dream? All nature sings,
    Creates, rejoices, man alone has life
    In pain as life, unfolding life as pain,
    As if a child could live but never be
    Delivered from the womb. And for myself
    What am I but a creature, heart and head,
    Hands reaching up to catch at rock or bough?
    Hands, heart and head of flesh, immortal fire,
    With feet unshapen, still a part of earth
    Where from that undistinguished mass of clay
    Hands, heart and head would pluck them? I could faint,
    Fly from the task before me but for this:
    The will which when confronted bares its face
    And says go on, or lie down with the beasts
    In silence and corruption. Let me look
    No more upon this sea!

    SECOND PHANTOM

                         Where shall we go?

    FIRST PHANTOM

    To some place less disquieting, more secure.

     (_They leave the heights and descend, approaching a mysterious
     place where heaven and earth are connected by gates._)

    FIRST PHANTOM

    I can no further walk or fly.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    You enter at these gates near by.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    I fall through space. Your hand, my friend.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    Quietly like a star descend.


(_They pass through the gates into a meadow._)


    FIRST PHANTOM

    What is this meadow which I see?

    SECOND PHANTOM

    Here come the souls of men to be.
    Can you remember what you said
    Among the living and the dead:
    I would know heaven’s deepest law
    And flood the world of men with light,
    I would bring justice and be just.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    Out of each soul’s prenatal night
    Something of what you say returns.
    The soul descending into dust
    Loses its memory as it burns
    Less brightly when the spirit wanes.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    Behold that pillar of splendor shining
    And bound to earth and heaven by chains!
    You see the distaff to it fixed
    And in the distaff whorls of iron,
    Each rising to a higher rim,
    And on each whirling rim a siren
    Chants, as you hear, her solemn hymn.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    I hear it with the singing mixed
    Of one upon whose giant knee
    The distaff turns to hands that reach
    From thrones which stand at equal spaces.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    The giant is Necessity,
    The Fates are reaching from the thrones.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    Such garlands for such darkened faces!
    What are these solemn monotones,
    Which are not music, are not speech?

    SECOND PHANTOM

    They labor through Eternity.
    The Universe of visible things
    Turns with the distaff here again.
    The dead come back with questionings
    Of earthly failure, loss or pain,
    And would choose better than before.
    Some say that Agamemnon chose
    The loneliness of eagle wings
    In hatred of his mortal woes.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    From dreams like these I must be free! I know,
    Dread phantom, you are nothing but myself.
    You stand before me lately, mocking elf,
    Too much, and follow me where’er I go.
    What this portends I know not, death I fear.
    But what seems just to do I shall perform.
    A nation’s destiny is mine to steer,
    A people’s hope is on me in the storm.
    Behind these voices when they sing or laugh
    I hear the droning of the telegraph:
    Come! I would study now the last dispatches.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    No meaning it is clear your soul attaches
    To thrones, or sirens, or the giant knees.
    You have not fixed upon a policy.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    I shall be guided--

    SECOND PHANTOM

                       By necessity--

    FIRST PHANTOM

    Well, yes, but by the will of God as well.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    How can you tell it from the will of hell?

(_Voices from the thrones._)

    FIRST THRONE

    Here I sit spinning
    From what beginning
    Did I begin?

    SECOND THRONE

    Give me the thread!
    I will assign him
    Grief to refine him,
    Thorns for his head.
    Toil never ending
    Up from his birth
    This shall be leaven
    To lift him from earth
    Up into heaven.

     (_Many souls are crowded into the meadow. A figure takes from the
     lap of Lachesis lots and scatters them._)

    SECOND PHANTOM

    Who honors heaven, heaven wins.
    Not here your fate on earth begins.
    I only show you where you stood
    Amid the fates and now your work
    Of justice and of brotherhood.
    You’re weary, yet you cannot shrink
    The task assumed--how it increases!
    A giant hand thrust in releases
    The numbered lots of mortal life,
    There from the apron of Lachesis,
    And throws them to the multitude
    Awaiting mortal strife.

    SECOND THRONE

    One fluttered to his hand. He ran
    Between the thrones, the distaff under
    Which swayed and rolled upon her knees.
    The chains that bound it clanked and creaked.
    The far-off depths the lightening streaked
    Uprolled the deep symphonic thunder
    Which rumbled like a chariot, till
    Its echoes died and all was still,
    Save for the tinkling pipe and purl
    As faster sped the seventh whorl.
    We nodded, laughing at the game,
    And said: He’s dreaming Pericles
    Who gave his soul to ancient Greece.
    What will he do with such a name?

    SECOND PHANTOM

    Do you remember?

    FIRST PHANTOM

                    I remember
    A dream I had in early youth:
    My birth was humble, still I dreamed
    To consecrate my life to Truth
    And for the truth to be esteemed.
    I love the Republic, I would see
    Its soil and all its people free!

(_The Furies enter_.)

    THE THRONES

    Heaven and God are under us. Reveal
    We never may what end the law achieves.
    He shall be free who with increasing zeal
    Still labors and believes.

    THE FURIES

    You may deceive this fellow with such stuff;
    We have seen history woven long enough
    To know the good men plan at least by half
    Results in evil.

    THE THRONES

                    Be the epitaph
    Of him who moulds his being by this thought:
    “He doubted, failure marked the work he wrought.”

    THE FURIES

    What is the law, then, that he must obey?

    THE THRONES

    The law that has most universal sway.

    THE FURIES

    What may that be? Is it to choose the good?

    THE THRONES

    You know his dream of human brotherhood.

    THE FURIES

    He must seize power such dreams to realize.
    In usurpation great corruption lies.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    What is this shape I deal with? It is whole,
    Inseparable forever, with a soul.
    It is a life of undivided breath.
    To break its body is to give it death.

    THE FURIES

    There might be two souls where before was one.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    From heaven’s battlements a clarion
    Shivers the mystic chords of memory,
    Stretched forth from every grave and battle-field,
    My life may pay the forfeit--let it be.
    Destroy me if you will, I shall not yield
    To anarch forces.

    THE FURIES

                     Then by tyranny
    You’ll break the giants if they dare rebel.
    Men through the giants only may be free.
    Destroy them or enchain them and you quell
    The Titan powers by whom there came
    Freedom’s Promethean flame.

    THE THRONES

    Whence is the Voice,
    Which sings the eternal theme
    Of giants whirled
    Beneath the thunderbolts of Strength supreme;
    Of angels who have made the fateful choice,
    From heaven headlong hurled?
    Of Odin, in Valhalla, keeping guard
    Against the malice of the giant world,
    Slaying the mighty Ymir?
    And what was their reward
    Who warred upon the Thunderer
    For sovereignty for pity of mankind?--
    Go bear in pain the burden of the earth,
    Or under mountains blind
    Breathe hateful fire,
    Or moan your agony and fallen wrath
    Chained to the rocks,
    So shall thought rule, not force, or their desire
    Which is the law of music not of bread
    Or lower ordinance. Do you now tread,
    Mortal, the path of service to the race?
    Do you bring fire, or quell disharmony,
    Destroy the Titans? In all time and space
    Freedom is only for the wise and free!

    THE THRONES

    A hand like lightning from a thunder cloud
    Reaches from heaven to the apron’s folds,
    And takes the inscrutable lots,
    And scatters them among the spectral crowd.
    On them are written labors, wars and plots.
    Thus are they thrown, like snow they fall where’er
    They may be driven by the unseen air,
    Which moves so thinly here no eye beholds
    Its coming and its going. They shall fall
    Where chance may govern. Look! These two shall find
    Their fate and incarnation, work above
    This meadow under earth. Not wholly blind
    Shall they select the soul they would be like--
    That they may will in part--the rest shall be
    Ruled by the working of a destiny
    Of our appointing when the hour shall strike
    Commissioned under seal to say “Arise
    The hour has struck.”

    FIRST PHANTOM

                         My other self, your hand.

    SECOND PHANTOM

    We must be one, not two.

    FIRST PHANTOM

    We must not stand
    In strength, intentions, visions separate.

(_The two phantoms become one._)

    THE THRONES

    O soul, now one which just before was two,
    What is your deepest love?

    THE PHANTOM

                              It is the True.
    I love the Right, the Good, confederate
    And in this order, ruling, not apart:
    If this may be, mind, conscience, heart
    In harmony and balanced equipoise,
    I would possess, and I would have a voice
    To sway with truth.

    THE THRONES

                       Choose then O soul your fate!

    THE PHANTOM

    Down bending I obey. What have I done?

    FIRST THRONE

    Come Destiny and over-watch your son.

    THE DESTINY

    Behold I loved and kept the public good
    Forever in my eye. At my command
    Were many armies, cities, islands, realms
    Which I ruled over with a master hand.
    And where I could not lead by gentle word
    I forced compliance, so my power withstood
    Internal quarrels and the foreign sword.
    But when I left the life of earth they came
    Around my bed, a worthy group, and spoke
    My trophies and authority and fame.
    Not one took notice of my greatest deeds:
    No father’s heart for my fault ever broke,
    Nor wailing woman tore her widow’s weeds.
    Law, Freedom, Progress, Virtue, Beauty, Truth,
    Humility, Religion, Knowledge lay
    Along the pathway of my city’s youth.
    Ill fortune forced imperial temptation
    And these divided even by heaven sundered
    Leaving to Empire and to Riches sway
    O’er Beauty, Knowledge, Progress, till the day
    Of hatred, envy, bitter disputation,
    All good was sunk. Its walls and temples thundered,
    My city on the hill was crushed and fell
    Through lust of riches, from its elevation.
    Study my problem and my spirit well.
    Yours are not greatly different--beware
    Great riches for your country lest they come
    With weakness and debasement for a snare.
    And to this end curb studied greed and those
    Spirits luxurious, and adventuresome,
    And those unjust, their hatred, guile oppose.
    Right is a thing ’twixt equals, and the strong
    Do what they can, the weak must suffer wrong.
    Therefore the balance hold for all, assuage
    The fury and revenge which yet may rage
    Around your fallen brothers, when you ride
    Triumphant.

    SECOND THRONE

               Now conduct him to our side
    Beneath the distaff in my hand.
    Thus is his fate forever ratified.

(_The Image Passes._)

    THIRD THRONE

    Now hither bring him,--thus I breathe my spell.
    His doom is now made irreversible.

    THE THRONE OF NECESSITY

    Pass under me. Now of this cup drink deep.
    There, he has drunk it and so falls in sleep.
    Now guard him, Destiny!

    _(A sound of cannon. Lincoln awakes. The Secretary
    of War enters.)_

    THE SECRETARY OF WAR

    Fort Sumter has been fired on!

    LINCOLN

                                  Call the troops!




PART III




LINCOLN MAKES A MEMORANDUM


(_November 23rd, 1864._)

“The will of God prevails. In great contests each party claims to act in
accordance with the will of God. Both may be, and one must be wrong. God
cannot be for and against the same thing at the same time. In the
present Civil War it is quite possible that God’s purpose is something
different from the purpose of either party; and yet the human
instrumentalities, working just as they do, are of the best adoption to
effect his purpose. I am almost ready to say that this is probably true;
that God wills this contest, and wills that it shall not end yet. By his
mere great power on the minds of the now contestants he could have
either saved or destroyed the Union without a human contest. Yet the
contest began. And having begun he could give the final victory to
either side any day. Yet the contest proceeds.”




WINTER GARDEN THEATRE


     (_New York, November 23rd, 1864._) JOHN WILKES BOOTH _is speaking
     behind the scenes to his brother_.

    If you--if you had told me this before,
    If I had known of it--if I had known,
    I had not played to-night, no, by the gods,
    I had not played Marc Antony, nor heard
    You speak the words of Brutus. You--my brother,
    You nursed in liberty--you nourished upon
    Great thoughts and dreams, have soiled me, soiled the name
    Of Booth, our father’s name. Yes, you have soiled
    All spirits free, all lofty souls, the soul
    Of Brutus and of Shakespeare. Why, till now
    Conceal from me your vote for Lincoln--why?
    Why? In your heart of hearts you are ashamed,
    And loose the secret now for penitence!
    For you have helped the hand that wrecks and slays
    Who will be king and on these ruined States
    Erect a throne. He who commenced this war,
    And broke the law to do it. He who struck
    The liberty of speech and of the press;
    He who tore up the ancient writ of freemen,
    And filled the jails against the law. Lincoln!
    Into whose ears the shrieks of horror rise
    From Gettysburg, Manassas--yet who says
    The will of God be done, for him you vote!
    And walk these boards to-night and live the soul
    Of Brutus, speak his words--Oh! “Had you rather
    Cæsar were living and die all slaves than
    That Cæsar were dead to live all freemen.” God!
    You had this secret in your breast the while:
    This vote for Lincoln, and these words of Brutus
    Blown from the Shakespeare trumpet to our ears,
    Hearts, consciences, meant what to you--meant what?
    Words for an actor, words for a lisping girl
    Repeating them by rote! But why not truth
    For men to live by, to be taken into
    The beings of men for living? Oh, my God--
    I hate you and I leave you. I shall never
    Look on your face again!




THE SPARROW HAWK IN THE RAIN


(ALEXANDER STEPHENS _hears news_.)

(_Liberty Hall, April 9th, 1865._)

    That’s done! And well, I’d rather not have gone
    To take such news. But now I’m glad you picked me--
    I saw and heard him. I was ushered in,
    And after hems and haws, I said at last,
    “Lee has surrendered.”

                               What a face he had
    When I said that: “Lee has surrendered.” Once,
    When I was just a boy, I shot a sparhawk,
    Just tore his breast away, and did not kill him.
    He hopped up to a twig and perched, I peered
    Through bushes for my victim--there he was
    His breast shot all away, so I could see
    His heart a-beating--but the sparhawk’s eyes
    Were bright as dew, with pain! I thought of this
    When I saw Alec Stephens, said to him,
    “Lee has surrendered.”

                                  There the midget sat
    His face as wrinkled as thin cream, as yellow
    As squirrel skin--But ah, that piercing eye!
    As restless as my sparhawk’s, not with moving
    But just with light, such pained uneasiness.
    So there he sat, a thin, pale, little man,
    Wrapped in a monstrous cloak, as wide and dark
    As his own melancholy--I shed tears
    For such soul sickness, sorrow and such eyes,
    That breast all shot away, that heart exposed
    For eyes to see it beat, those burning eyes!

    I stood there with my hat within my hand,
    Said: “Mr. Stephens, I have come to tell you,
    Lee has surrendered.” He just looked at me
    Then in a thin, cracked voice he said at once,
    “It had to come.” That’s all, “It had to come.”
    “Pray have a seat,” he added. For you see
    He’s known me for some years, I am his friend.
    “It had to come.” He only said that once.
    Then, after silence, he chirped up again:
    “I knew when I came back from Hampton Roads
    It soon would be. Home-coming is the thing
    When all is over in the world you’ve loved,
    And worked with. And this Liberty Hall is good.
    My sleeplessness is not so tiring here,
    My pain more tolerable, and as for thought,
    That goes on anywhere, and thought is life,
    And while I think, I live.”

                                He paused a minute,
    I took a seat, enthralled with what he said,
    A sparhawk in the rain, breast torn away,
    His beating heart in view, his burning eyes!
    “But everyone will see, the North will see,
    Our cause was theirs, the South’s cause was the cause
    Of everyone both north and south. They’ll see
    Their liberties not long survive our own.
    There is no difference, and cannot be
    Between empire, consolidation, none
    Between imperialism, centralism, none!”

    I saw he was disposed to talk, let fall
    My hat upon the floor. There in that cloak
    All huddled like a child he sat and talked
    In that thin voice. Bent over, hands on knees,
    I listened like a man bewitched.

                                            He said:
    “As I am sick, cannot endure the strain
    Of practice at the bar, am face to face
    With silence after thunder, after war,
    This terrifying calm, and after days
    Top full of problems, duties in my place
    In the South, vice-president, adviser,
    Upon insoluble things, now after these
    I cannot sit here idle, so I plan
    To write a book. For, if I tell the truth,
    My book will live, will be a shaft of granite
    Which guns can never batter. First, perhaps,
    I’ll have to go to prison, let it be.
    The North is now a maniac--here I am,
    Easy to capture, but I’ll think in prison,
    Perhaps they’ll let me write, but anyway
    I’ll try to write a book and answer questions.

    “A soldier at Manassas shot to death
    Asked, as he died, ‘What is it all about?’
    Thousands of boys, I fancy, asked the same
    Dying at Petersburg and Antietam,
    Cold Harbor, Gettysburg. I’ll answer them.
    I’ll dedicate the book to all true friends
    Of Liberty wherever they may be,
    Especially to those with eyes to look
    Upon a federation of free states as means
    Surest and purest to preserve mankind
    Against the monarch principle.”

                                          Just then
    A darkey came to bring him broth, he drank
    And I arose to go. He waved his hand
    And asked me: “Would you like to hear about
    The book I plan to write?”

                                      I longed to stay
    And hear him talk, but feared to tire him out.
    I hinted this, he smiled a little smile
    And said: “If I’m alone, I think, and thought
    Without you talk it out is like a hopper
    That is not emptied and may overflow,
    Or choke the grinding stones. Be seated, sir,
    If you would please to listen.”

                                        So I stayed.
    When he had drunk the broth, he settled back
    To talk to me and tell me of his book,
    A sparhawk, as I said, with burning eyes!
    “First I will show the nature of the league,
    The compact, constitution, the republic
    Called federative even by Washington.
    I only sketch the plan to you. Take this:
    States make the Declaration, therefore states
    Existed at the time to make it. States
    Signed up the Articles of Confederation
    In seventeen seventy-eight, and to what end?
    Why for ‘perpetual union.’ Was it so?
    No, nine years after, states, the very same
    Withdrew, seceded from ‘perpetual union’
    Under the Articles and acceded to,
    Ratified, what you will, the Constitution,
    And formed not a ‘perpetual union’ but
    `More perfect union.’

                                     “If there is a man
    Or ever was more gifted with the power
    Of cunning words that reach the heart than Lincoln,
    I do not know him. Don’t you see it wins,
    Captures the swelling feelings to declare
    The Union older than the states?--it’s false,
    But Lincoln says it. Here’s another strain
    That moves the mob: ‘The Constitution has
    No word providing for its own destruction,
    The ending of the government thereunder.’
    This Lincoln is a sophist, and in truth
    With all this moral cry against the curse
    Of slavery and these arguments of Lincoln
    We were put down, just as a hue and cry
    Will stifle Reason; but you can be sure
    Reason will have her way and punishment
    Will fall for her betrayal.

                                    “Let us see:
    ‘Was there provisions in the Articles
    Of that perpetual union for the end
    Of that perpetual union? Not at all!
    How did these states then end it? By seceding
    To form a better one! Is there provision
    For getting out, withdrawing from the Union
    Formed by the Constitution? No! Why not?
    Could not states do what they had done before,
    Leave ‘a more perfect union,’ as they left
    ‘Perpetual union?’ What’s a state in fact?
    A state’s a sovereign, look in Vattell, look
    In any great authority. So a sovereign
    May take back what it delegated, mark you,
    Not what it deeded, parted with, but only
    Delegated. In regard to that
    All powers not delegated were reserved.
    Well, to resume, no word is in the charter
    To end the charter. And a contract has
    No word to end it by, how do you end it?
    You end it by rescinding, when one party
    Has broken it. Is this a contract, compact?
    Even the mighty Webster said it was.
    And further, if the Northern States, he said,
    Refuse to carry in effect the part
    Respecting restoration of fugitive slaves,
    The South would be no longer bound to keep--
    What did he say? the _compact_, that’s the word!
    Next then, what caused the war? I’ll show and prove
    It was not slavery of the blacks, but slavery
    The North would force on us. For seventy years
    Fierce, bitter conflict waged between the forces
    Of those who would maintain the Federal form,
    And those who would absorb in the Federal head
    All power of government; between the forces
    Of sovereignty in the people and control,
    And sovereignty in a central hand. Why, look,
    No sooner was the perfect union formed
    Than monarchists began to play their arts
    Through tariffs, banks, assumption bills, the Act
    That made the Federal Courts. And none of these
    Had warrant in the charter; yet you see
    They overleaped its bounds. And so it was
    To make all clear, explicit, when we framed
    For these Confederate States our charter, we
    Forbade expressly tariffs, meant to foster
    Industrial adventures.

                                    “No, my friend,
    Our slavery was not the cause of war.
    They would have Empire and the slavery
    That comes from it: unlicensed power to deal
    With fortunes, lives, economies and rights.
    We fought them in the Congress seventy years;
    We fought them at the hustings, with the ballot;
    And when they shouldered guns, we shouldered guns,
    And fought them to the last--now we have lost,
    And so I write my book.

                              “What is the difference
    Between a mob, an army shouting God,
    Fired by a moral erethism fixed
    On slaughter for the triumph of its dream,
    A riddance of its hate--what is the difference
    Between an army like this and a man
    Who dreams God moves, inspires him to an act
    Of foul assassination? None at all!
    Why, there’s your Northern army shouting God,
    Your pure New England with its tariff spoils,
    Its banks and growing wealth, uplifting hands,
    Invoking God against us till they flame
    A crazy party and a maddened army,
    To war upon us. But if slavery
    Be sinful, where’s the word of Christ to say
    That slavery is sinful? Not a word
    From him who scourged the Scribes and Pharisees
    For robbing widows’ houses, but no word
    Against the sin of slavery. Yet behold
    He found no faith in all of Israel
    To equal that--of whom?--a man who owned
    Slaves, as we did. I mean the Centurion.
    And is this all? St. Paul who speaks for God
    With equal inspiration with New England,
    As I should judge, enjoins the slaves to count
    Their masters worthy of all honor, that
    God and his doctrine be not blasphemed.

                                        “But
    If it be wrong to hold as property
    A service, even a man to keep the service--
    Let us be clear and fair--then is it wrong
    To hold indentures of apprenticeship?
    And if, as Lincoln says, it is a right
    Given of God for every man to have,
    Eat if he will the bread he earns, then God
    Is blasphemed in the North where labor’s paid
    Not what it earns, but what it must accept,
    Chained by necessity, and so enslaved.
    And all these tariff laws are slavery
    By which my bread is taken, all the banks
    That profit by their issues, special rights,
    Enslave us, in the future will enslave
    Both North and South, when darkeys shall be free
    To choose their masters, but must choose, no less
    Take what the master hand consents to pay,
    And eat what bread is given. Yes, you know
    Our slavery was a gentle thing, belied
    As bloody, sullen, selfish--yet you know
    It was a gentle thing, a way to keep
    A race inferior in a place of work,
    Duly controlled. For once that race is freed
    It will go forth to mingle, mix and wed
    With whites and claim equality, the ballot,
    Places of trust and profit, judgment seats.
    Lincoln denies he favors this, no less
    We’ll come to that. And all the while the mills
    And factories in the North will bring to us
    The helpless poor of Europe, and enslave them
    By pauper wages, and enslave us all
    With tariff-favored products. Slavery!
    God’s curse is on us for our Slavery!
    What do you think?

                            “They say we broke the law,
    Were rebels, insurrectionists; I’ll treat
    Those subjects in my book. But let us see,
    They did not keep the law; they had their banks,
    They had their tariffs, they infracted laws
    Respecting slaves who ran away, they joined
    Posses and leagues to break those laws, and we
    In virtue of these breaches, were released
    From this, the compact, just as Webster says.
    Did Lincoln keep the law and keep his oath
    The Constitution to support, obey?
    He did not keep it, and he broke his oath.
    Did he have lawful power to call the troops?
    Did he have lawful warrant to blockade
    Our southern ports? No one pretends he did.
    His Congress by a special act made valid
    These tyrant usurpations. Had he power
    To strike the habeas corpus, gag the press?--
    No power at all--he only seized the power
    To reach what he conceived was all supreme,
    The saving of the Union--more of this.
    Well, then, what are these words: You break the law
    On those who break it and confess they do?
    You have two ideas: Union and Secession,
    Or two republics made from one, that’s all.
    And those who think secession criminal
    Turn criminals themselves to stay the crime,
    And shout the Union. To this end I come,
    This figment called the Union, which obsessed
    The brain of Lincoln.

                                “For the point is this,
    You may take Truth or Liberty or Union
    For a battle cry, kill and be killed therefor,
    But if our reasons rule, if we are men,
    We take them at our peril. We must stake
    Our souls upon the choice, be clear of mind
    That what we cry as Truth is Truth indeed,
    That Liberty is Liberty, that the Union
    Is not a noun, a word, a subtlety,
    But is a status, substance, living temple
    Reared from the bottom up on stones of fate,
    Predestined. Yet the truth is only this:
    The Union is a noun and nothing more,
    And stands for what? A federative thing
    Formed of the wills of states, not otherwise.
    Existing; and to kill to save the Union
    Is but the exercise of a hue and cry,
    An arbitrary passion, sophist’s dream.
    And Robespierre, who killed for liberty,
    And Cæsar, who destroyed the Roman liberties
    To have his way, are of the quality
    Of Lincoln, whom I know. Take Robespierre,
    Was he not by a sense of justice moved,
    Pure, and as frigid as a bust of stone?
    And Cæsar had devoted friends, and Cæsar,
    The accomplished orator, general and scholar,
    Charming and gentle in his private walks,
    Destroyed the hopes of Rome.

                              “Now, mark me friend,
    I do not think that Lincoln meant to crush
    The institutions of his country--no,
    His fault was this--the Union, yes the noun,
    Rose to religious mysticism, and enthralled
    With sentiment his soul. And his ideas
    Of its formation, structure in his logic
    Rested upon a subtle solecism.
    And for this noun, in spite of virtues great
    Of head and heart, he used his other self,
    His Cæsar self, his self of Robespierre,
    In the great office which he exercised,
    To bring us Oak Hill, Corinth, Fredericksburg.
    Think you, if when he kept the store at Salem
    A humble, studious man, he had been told
    He would make wails of horror, wake the cries
    Of pestilence and famine in the camps,
    Bring devastation, rapine, fire and death--
    Had he been told this, he had said--‘My soul!
    Never,’ and with Hazael said, ‘Behold,
    Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?’
    Power changes men! And when the people give
    Power or surrender it, they scarcely know
    The thing they give, surrender.

                                        “But I ask
    What is there in the Union, what indeed
    In any government’s supremacy
    Or maintenance that justifies these acts--
    These horrors, slaughters--near a million men
    Slaughtered for what? The Union. Treasure spent
    Beyond all counting for the Union. When
    No life had been destroyed, no dollar spent
    If they had let us go, left us alone
    To go our way. You see they did to us
    What England did; succeeded, where she failed.
    And thus you see that human life is cheap,
    And suffering a sequence when a dream,
    An Idea takes a man, a mob, an army.
    Which makes our life a jest, our boasted Reason
    An instrument too weak for savagery.
    Then for the rest--you see--I think you see.--”
    Sleep now was taking him. My little sparhawk
    Was worn out, and his eyes began to droop,
    His voice to fail him. In a moment then
    He sank down in his cloak and fell asleep--
    And I arose and left.




ADELAIDE AND JOHN WILKES BOOTH

(_At the National Hall, Washington, April 9, 1865._)


    ADELAIDE

    Yes, even this you can surmount by art,
    Lee has surrendered, but--

    BOOTH

                                  No! all is lost.
    God judge me, right or wrong, but never man.
    I love peace more than life, have loved the Union.
    Have waited for the clouds to break, have prayed
    For justice, peace; but now all hope is dead.
    My prayers are futile, as my hopes have been.
    God’s will be done. I go to see and share
    The end, though bitter.

    ADELAIDE

                                John! you must be calm.

    BOOTH

    I am most calm, but fixed.

    ADELAIDE

                                      You are not calm;
    Strange light is in your eyes, your face is pale.
    You cannot stretch your hands out but they tremble.
    You have avoided me, you walk alone,
    Sup, sit alone, lest concentrated thought,
    This thought of yours be turned aside. My friend,
    Take Beauty in your heart to heal its hurts.
    Art is for you. You are a son of Art--
    Why waste your spirit on such things as these?
    Rulers and nations pass, and wars are lost,
    Their issues are forgotten, pushed aside--
    Art is eternal and the sons of Art
    Live in its calm, above the dust and sweat
    Of politics and statecraft. O my friend,
    Why should this Brutus, the tyrranicide,
    The patriot, move you so; and why not Brutus
    As a soul made clear by Shakespeare for your Art
    To glory in and re-create for men
    To see what Brutus was?

    BOOTH

                                        Why, what is this
    But playing with life, that’s all it is to play,
    Hard play at that, to sleep, to walk, to rest
    For strength to trip the stage and imitate
    The soul of Brutus! If it be so much,
    Art as you say, to live him on the stage,
    What would it be to live him to the life,
    And do his act in deed?

    ADELAIDE

                                What do you say?
    John, you are mad! So that is in your heart!
    Look! pause! and muster all your strength of mind,
    Forecast, survey--fly from yourself--away--
    Even for a week withdraw your mind from this--
    That you may see, return with freshened mind
    To look upon the horror that you plot.
    John, by the love you woke in me for beauty
    Of face and genius, listen, on my knees
    I ask you, pause and think!

    BOOTH

                                But I have thought.
    I know I shall be hated by the North,
    And doubted in the South, it may be, yet
    God’s will be done. For in a day to come
    My name will shine as shines the name of Brutus,
    Whose spirit is in me and speaks to me.
    Could you have seen, as I have seen, the woes
    And horrors of this war in every state,
    Then you would pray, as I have prayed, to God
    To give the Northern mind pity and justice,
    And dry this sea of blood. Alas! my country!
    What is this trifling Art beside my country,
    This rhetoric spoken, memorized? My friend,
    I would have given a thousand lives to see
    My country whole, unbroken. Even now
    I’d give my life to see her what she was,
    Before this man, this tyrant, bloody Cæsar,
    This Cæsar worse than Cæsar, who--behold,
    In the name of God--why, think in the name of God
    Made her a pitiless sovereignty, a force
    As cold as steel, and dragged her glorious flag
    Through cruelty, oppression, till its stripes
    Are bloody gashes on the face of heaven.
    How I have loved that flag! How I have longed
    To see it flap free from the scarlet mist
    That spoils its glory. As for me, this country
    Which I loved as a lover loves his bride,
    Seems now a dream! The South has all my love,
    What has it done? Withdrawn, and that alone,
    From the Union which was formed by states withdrawing
    From the old confederacy, and leaving states
    Out in the cold that did not wish to join.
    What has the South done that it might not do
    Under the Declaration? Then to think
    That all these tens of thousands of our kin,
    Our blood, our brothers, should be massacred
    For loving God and Liberty, serving God.
    And now this day! The South is crushed at last,
    The negroes freed by what?--by force, by force
    Which John Brown used, and for the which he paid
    With his damned neck! O Reason! Adelaide,
    Of all men I am sanest, they are mad
    Who cannot see these truths: that slavery
    Is sanctioned by the Creator, read St. Paul;
    That men may revolutionize, as matter of right,
    Secede from what they have acceded to,
    And not be murdered for it. Do you think
    I have not measured motives, thoughts? My friend,
    I could be happy, if I could forget
    The duty laid upon me, have the means
    For happiness, so many friends and you,
    Great competence and fame, and greater fame
    In store for deeper art. So much for this!
    As for the South, as citizens, persons, love
    The South is not my friend. Then there’s my mother,
    Whom I adore: See what I sacrifice:
    Fame, money, friends, my mother--and for what?
    Were it the South, I should not think to act--
    But it is God, is Justice, and I love
    God, Justice, more than wealth or fame, yes more
    Than home or mother. All is lost at last.
    The South has been erased and is no more.
    The Republic of the North and South is dead,
    Gutted by a guerilla. Yes, my country
    Has vanished from the earth and is no more,
    I have no wish to live, my country being
    Dead and a stench.

    ADELAIDE

                          I put my arms around you--
    Be patient--listen--do not thrust me off--
    John--

    BOOTH

                  You must not hold me, Adelaide--farewell.

    ADELAIDE

    John! John!

    BOOTH

                             God calls me--I obey!

(_He goes out._)




BRUTUS LIVES AGAIN IN BOOTH

(_Ford’s Theatre, Good Friday, April 14th, 1865._)


    FIRST STAGE HAND

    What time is it?

    SECOND STAGE HAND

                              Time for the curtain nearly.

    FIRST STAGE HAND

    There’s Miss Keene in the wings.

_The orchestra starts up; the audience sings_:

    Honor to our soldiers,
    Our Nation’s greatest pride,
    Who ’neath our Starry Banner’s folds,
    Have fought, have bled and died.
    They’re Nature’s noblest handiwork,
    No king as proud as they.
    God bless the heroes of the land,
    And cheer them on their way.


_Scene II. The White House._

    _Colfax_
    _Oglesby_
    _Lincoln_

    LINCOLN

    This for you, Colfax.

(_Hands him a pass_)

                                Come in at nine to-morrow.
    I’m off soon for the theatre with my wife--
    A little party. Grant was going too;
    Has changed his mind, goes north with Mrs. Grant.
    There’ll be an audience to see the hero
    Of Appomatox.

    OGLESBY

                            Well, rather you, I think
    Who picked Grant for the work, and brought the war
    To end, as it has ended.

    LINCOLN

                                          Oh, not me.
    I am familiar as an old shoe here.
    I’d say the war is ending. There may be
    Some battle yet.

    COLFAX

                              Mere sputterings of the flame.

    LINCOLN

    Well, something’s on. I had my dream last night
    Which I have had before, so often, always
    Before some great event: I’m in a boat,
    And swiftly move toward a shadowy shore.
    I had this dream preceding Bull Run, Vicksburg,
    Gettysburg, Antietam. It may be
    A battle’s on this minute. I think so.
    It must relate to Sherman. For I know
    No other great event to follow my dream.

    OGLESBY

    Our dreams are made of days lived long ago:
    Your boat’s perhaps your flat boat at New Salem.

    COLFAX

    I’m happy to live now, the war is won.
    God bless you, Mr. President, keep you too.

    LINCOLN

    You will excuse me, gentlemen. I go,
    For Mrs. Lincoln waits.

(_He goes out._)

    OGLESBY

                                  The other day
    Lincoln was with Charles Sumner down the James,
    Was reading Shakespeare, read aloud three times
    Those lines which read: “Duncan is in his grave,
    After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well;
    Treason has done his worst: nor steel nor poison,
    Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
    Can touch him further.”

    COLFAX

                          Did you note to-night
    He looked those words: “Nothing can touch him further”?
    These months before how ghastly gray his face!
    What droop of melancholy in his eyes!
    What weariness without words, what ultimate woe!
    And now to-night he stood transfigured here
    Clothed in a great serenity and a joy
    As if his life had wrought what he would have it.

    OGLESBY

    Yes, he is changed. Shall we go on?

(_They go out._)


_Scene III. The entrance of Ford’s Theatre._

    BOOTH

(_Passing the doorkeeper without a ticket._)

    Is this all right?

    DOORKEEPER

                                  All right for you.

    BOOTH

                                      Can you leave,
    Go with me for a brandy?

    DOORKEEPER

                                          No.

    BOOTH

                                      Why not?
    The play’s commenced, and everyone is here.

    DOORKEEPER

    Not everyone--the presidential party!

    BOOTH

    They enter without tickets.

    DOORKEEPER

                                  Yes, I know.
    Go in and watch Miss Keene a little, John.
    You might get wakened up to play again,
    Marc Antony to your brother’s Brutus.

    BOOTH

                                        No!
    Never with him again. And as for that
    My next part will be Brutus.

(_He goes into the theatre._)


_Scene IV. Lincoln and Mrs. Lincoln Driving to the Theatre._

    LINCOLN

    Mary, the war is over. We have had
    Hard times since we came here. But now, thank God,
    The war is over. We may hope for peace,
    And happiness for the four years that remain,
    While I close up my work as President.
    Then back to Illinois to rest and live.
    I have some money saved. Wrote recently
    To friends to find a house for me in Chicago--
    We can live there, or Springfield. Law again,
    At least enough to keep us.

    MRS. LINCOLN

                                    That’s my dream,
    And from this night we start to live, rejoice.

(_They drive on._)


_Scene V. The stage of Ford’s Theatre._

(_Laura Keene as “Florence Trenchard”; John Dyatt as “Dundreary” in
dialogue in Tom Taylor’s “American Cousin.”_)

    FLORENCE

    “Can’t you see the point of that joke?”

    DUNDREARY

    “No, really.”

    FLORENCE

    “You can’t see it?”

    DUNDREARY

    “No!”

(_Lincoln, Mrs. Lincoln and party enter the box._)

    FLORENCE

(_Making a profound courtesy to Lincoln._)

    “Everyone can see that!”

(_The audience breaks into great applause. The band plays “Hail to the
Chief.” Lincoln bows to the audience._)


_Scene VI. Back of the stage._

    FIRST STAGE HAND

    Whose horse is at the door?

    SECOND STAGE HAND

                                Booth’s!

    A VOICE

                                  Ten twenty-five.

    FIRST STAGE HAND

    Ten twenty-five.

    SECOND STAGE HAND

                                  Ten twenty-five.


_Scene VII. The Presidential Box._

    LINCOLN

    Oh, no! No persecution, bloody work,
    How to articulate the states again,
    Just how to handle the states that left us--well,
    There will be problems up from day to day,
    During my term, at least. But no revenge,
    No hate, no hanging, killing--rather shoo!
    Like Hannah Armstrong used to shoo her chickens.
    Let the obstreporous, unreconciled
    Go clear to--Halifax--get out! But, Major,
    My feeling is to treat the Southern people
    As fellow citizens. To be their fellows
    And not their masters is my way.

    MAJ. RATHBONE

                                        We need
    Your genius, Mr. President, for the work
    Of reconstruction more, if that may be,
    Then we had need of you to push the war.

    MRS. LINCOLN

    How do you like the play?

    LINCOLN

                                  Oh, very good.


_Scene VIII. Dress Circle._

    FIRST AUDITOR

(_Gazing at the Presidential box._)

    What’s keeping General Grant? I came to see
    The conqueror of Lee.

    SECOND AUDITOR

                              He will not come.
    Too late now.

    FIRST AUDITOR

(_Looking at his watch._)

                                Yes, ten twenty-five.

    SECOND AUDITOR

                                Who’s that?

    FIRST AUDITOR

    Who?

    SECOND AUDITOR

                              Why, a man as pale as snow
    Or ivory, with hair black as a horse’s tail
    Passed back of the seats there, and approached the entrance
    To Lincoln’s box.

    FIRST AUDITOR

                                    A secret officer,
    With message of a battle. Oh, perhaps
    Sherman has vanquished Johnston!


_Scene IX. In the passageway leading to the Presidential box._

    BOOTH

    Right or wrong, God judge me--never man.
    Liberty is dead--I would not live,
    Beyond my country’s life. Oh, Liberty!
    Brutus, sustain me!


_Scene X. The Presidential box._

    MAJOR RATHBONE

(_Observing Lincoln rise._)

    Can I get something for you?

    LINCOLN

                                                  I want my coat.
    I felt a chill and shudder down my back.

    (_He gets his coat and is seated._)


_Scene XI_. _Booth at the door of the Presidential box aiming a pistol_.

    BOOTH

    Brutus! (_He fires. The President’s head falls upon
    his breast. Booth rushes into the box, slashes Major
    Rathbone with a dagger, leaps from the box to the stage.
    Falls, arises._)


_Scene XII. On the stage._

    BOOTH

    _Sic semper Tyrannis!_ The South is avenged!

(_He rushes off. Great confusion._)




BOOTH’S PHILIPPI

(_Garrett’s Tobacco House, Bowling Green, Virginia, April 26th, 1865.
Booth and Harrold._)


SCENE I

    BOOTH

    If this must be, I take it. Be a man.
    Don’t whine like that. You suffer only from fear.
    But if you had this torturing leg. My God!
    If you rode sixty miles as I did, flesh
    Prodded at every jump by broken bones ...

    HARROLD

    What’s that?

    BOOTH

                              A dog there in the yard.

    HARROLD

                                  Those troopers
    We hid from on the way here--Federals--
    Did they go on, or follow, hunting us?

    BOOTH

    We’re ended likely. Let us stand our ground.
    We have our carbines for the ending up ...
    But oh, to be thus hunted, like a dog,
    Through swamps, woods, thickets, chased by gunboats too,
    With every hand against me. And for what?
    For doing what brought honor unto Brutus,
    And deathless fame to Tell. Who’ll clear my name?
    Who’ll print what I have written? There’s the pang
    To die and have my spirit and sacrifice
    Sealed up in silence, or drowned out in cries
    Of “cut-throat” or “assassin.”
                                          I struck down
    A greater tyrant than great Brutus slew.
    And my act was more pure than his or Tell’s.
    One would be great, and one had private wrongs
    To heap his country’s up for quick revenge.
    But I, what greatness could I hope for this?
    What wrongs had I except the common wrong?
    I struck for country and for that alone;
    I struck for liberty that groaned beneath
    A tyrant’s monstrous tyranny--and now look
    The cold hand they extend me in the South
    For which I struck! Our country bleeding, broken,
    Cried to me for relief, and I was made
    The instrument of God by God alone.

    HARROLD

    A rooster crows!

    BOOTH

                            Two hours till morning yet.
    It’s only two o’clock.

    HARROLD

                                What shall we do?

    BOOTH

    To-night we’ll try the river once again ...
    Why not return to Washington and end it?
    They’d try me and I’d clear my name. Repent?
    No, I do not repent. But I’ve a soul
    Too great to die a felon’s death. Swift guns
    Against a firing wall are honorable.
    Before them I can clear my name. O God!
    Give me a brave man’s death, for I have wronged,
    Nor hated no one. And was this a wrong
    To kill a tyrant? God must deem it so,
    By making it a curse upon our time,
    Our country and our countrymen. My fate
    How miserable soever it may be
    Proves not I did a wrong.

                                  Great Milton come
    And comfort me in this my agony!
    You who could write a tyrant forfeits life
    To those whom he oppresses, and ’tis just
    To take him off. O curse of Cain no less!
    Now I must pray again.

(_He prays._)


SCENE II. (_At the Garrett House._)

(_Lieutenant Baker, and a squad, including Boston Corbett._)

    BAKER

    (_Knocking at the door._) Halloo! halloo!

    A VOICE

                                            What’s wanted?

    BAKER

                                          Open the door!


SCENE III. (_Inside the Tobacco House._)

    HARROLD

    They’ve come.

    BOOTH

                  Yes! rapping at the door. Perhaps
    Old Garrett will not tell that we are here.
    Hold to your carbine. Do as I command.


SCENE IV. (_At the Garrett House._)

    BAKER

(_Taking Garrett by the throat._)

    Where are these fellows? In your house?

    GARRETT

                                          No! No!

    BAKER

    We’ll search! Men, search the house!

    GARRETT

                                    They are not here!

    BAKER

    You make yourself accomplice if you hide them.
    Last time: where are they?

    GARRETT

    In the Tobacco House.


SCENE V. (_Inside the Tobacco House._)

    HARROLD

    They’re walking toward us.

    BOOTH

                                    Do as I command.

    BAKER

    (_Outside._) Come out of there.

    BOSTON CORBETT

    (_Outside._) Lieutenant, they can pick
    The whole of us through cracks with their carbines.
    Old Garrett says they’re armed.

(_He goes back of the tobacco house._)

    BAKER

                                    Come out of there.
    Five minutes to come out, then I set fire
    To the tobacco house.

    BOOTH

(_Inside._)

                        Who are you? What do you want?

    BAKER

(_Outside._)

        We want you. And we know you. Come, you are
    Booth, assassin of the President. Surrender arms.
    Come out!

    BOOTH

(_Inside_.)

    I want a little time to think about it.

(_A silence._)

    BAKER

(_Outside._)

                                      Well, now come out.

    BOOTH

(_Inside._)

                You are a brave man, captain, I believe,
    Honorable too. I am a cripple, have
    One leg, the other broken. Yet no less
    If you will take your men a hundred yards
    From the door of the tobacco house, I’ll come
    Out as you command and fight you all.

    BAKER

(_Outside._)

                I have not come to fight, but capture you.

    BOOTH

(_Inside._)

    Give me a chance for life. I’ll better terms.
    If you will take your men off fifty yards
    I’ll come out, fight you all, till I am killed,
    Or kill you all.

    BAKER

(_Outside._)

                            No!

    BOOTH

(_Inside._)

                        You are a coward, sir,
    Denying to a brave man chance for life.

    HARROLD

(_Inside_.)

    They’ve set the house afire! Now, let me out!

(_The house burns._)

    BOOTH

(_Inside._)

    You hellish coward, would you leave me now?
    Go! Go! and leave me. It would be dishonor
    To die with such a coward.
                              Let this man
    Come out of here!

    BAKER

(_Outside._)

                      All right! Hand out his arms
    And come.

    BOOTH

(_Inside amid flames._)

    A coward goes to cowards.

(_The flames are coming up around Booth._)

(_He stands on a crutch, pale and defiant._)


SCENE VI. (_Boston Corbett looking through a crack in the Tobacco House
at Booth amid the flames._)

    CORBETT

    I hear you God and will obey!

(_He points a carbine through a crack and fires at Booth. Booth leaps
and falls. The soldiers go in and bring him out on the lawn._)


SCENE VII. (_On the lawn._)

    BAKER

(_To Corbett._)

                  Why did you shoot? You had no orders to?
    I’ll take you back to Washington in chains!
    Why did you shoot?

    CORBETT

                    God told me to.

    BAKER

                                   It looks it.
    You hit him just behind the ear. Same place
    Where Lincoln got the mortal wound.

    BOOTH

                                       Tell mother
    I died for country, liberty, as Brutus
    Did what he did for Rome. I thought it best
    To do what I have done. God’s will be done
    As I have tried to do it.

(_He dies._)




THE BURIAL OF BOSTON CORBETT


(_One warden to another._)

(_Asylum for the insane, Kansas, 1885._)

    So this is what we bury? How his face
    Seems like a smear of yellow wax. This beard
    Grown fine and curly. Something nasty here,
    Hermaphroditic, feminine. Like a dog
    That has run loose with rabies, yelps and snaps,
    And makes a terror for a day, is slain,
    And lies where passers-by can foot the corpse,
    So he lies here: this steadfast paranoic!
    How vanished from these sealed lids dreams of God!
    Where are they now? For all this outer world
    Of lunatics, care-takers, wardens, world
    Of fields and villages, the state and states
    Smiles at these lids so neatly sealed, the God
    That had his altar in the spectral light
    Of his mad eyes!

                      This is the man who slew
    The slayer of the noble Lincoln. First
    For the common good was Cæsar slain by Brutus,
    And Booth slew Lincoln in a dream of Brutus,
    This Corbett slew the slayer in a faith
    Of God. Catch up the corner of the sheet.
    He gets a grave where many hundreds lie,
    Each with his epitaph of “Rest in Peace”;
    Who had no peace in living, for the dreams
    Of God, or Duty, Terror, Visions Vain.

    Some say he came to Kansas, hither drawn
    By hope of sympathy, since all are mad
    In Kansas; otherwise the true God know,
    And keep His ritual of reform. He found
    God mocked in Kansas, or he had not tried
    To shoot the state assembly to a man,
    When he was keeper of the door. Perhaps
    ’Twas right enough to slay the actor Booth,
    Obeying God; we might accept his word
    God told him to kill Booth. But was it God
    Commanded him to slay so many honorable
    Members of the Kansas legislature
    For legislating, or not legislating
    As God would have them? Well, I have a doubt.
    And many doubted his divine appointment
    For massacre like that. And so we flung
    The lasso round him, gathered him, and quick
    We shut him in the pound, dishonored God,
    As he conceived it, doing so.
                                            I’ve heard
    Brutus at last said, Miserable Virtue, Bawd,
    Thou wert a world alone, a cheat at last!
    This Boston Corbett never did recant
    The faith, or God, the word.

                              So ends it here.
    Mad unto death! This Corbett is the corneous
    And upcurved withered calyx of a flower
    Rich out of time. His madness is the lisping
    Of that same stricken calyx in the wind
    Of Infinite Mysteries.

                                  Are you ready now?
    Knot fast your corners of the sheet to hold.
    All ready, to the field. There in corruption
    We’ll sow him, to be raised--but why at all
    Should he be raised?




THE NEW APOCRYPHA




BUSINESS REVERSES


(_Mark, Chapter VI._)

    Everything! Counter and scales--
      I’ll take whatever you give.
    I’m through, and off to Athens,
      Where a man like me can live.

    And Hipparch, the baker, is going;
      My chum, who came with me
    To follow the crowds who follow
      The prophet of Galilee.

    We two were there at Damascus
      Dealing in figs and wine.
    Nice little business! Some one
      Said: “Here, I’ll give you a line!

    “Buy fish, and set up a booth,
      Get a tent and make your bread.
    There are thousands who come to listen,
      They are hungry and must be fed.”

    And so we went. Believe me,
      There were crowds, and hungry, too.
    Five thousand stood in the desert
      And listened the whole day through.

    Famished? Well, yes. The disciples
      Were saying to send them away
    To buy their bread in the village,
      But the prophet went on to say:

    “Feed them yourselves, O you
      Of little faith.” But they said:
    “We have just five little fishes
      And two little loaves of bread.”

    We heard it, me and Hipparch,
      And rubbed our hands. You see
    We were there to make some money
      In the land of Galilee.

    We had stock in plenty. We waited.
      I wiped the scales, and my chum
    Re-stacked the loaves. We bellowed,
      But no one seemed to come.

    “Fresh fish!” I bawled my lungs out:
      “Nice bread!” poor Hipparch cried,
    But what did they do? Sat down there
      In fifties, side by side,
    In ranks, the whole five thousand.
      Then--well, the prophet spoke,
    And broke the five little fishes,
      And the two little loaves he broke.

    And fed the whole five thousand.
      Why, yes! So gorged they slept.
    And we stood beaten and bankrupt.
      Poor Hipparch swore and wept.

    They gathered up twelve baskets
      Full from the loaves of bread;
    Five little fishes--twelve baskets
      Of fragments after they fed.

    And we--what was there to do
      But dump our stock on the sand?
    That’s what we got for our labor
      And thrift, in such a land.

    We met a man near Damascus
      Who had joined the mystagogues.
    He said: “I was wicked as you men
      Until I lost my hogs.”

    Now Hipparch and I are going
      To Athens, beautiful, free.
    No more adventures for us two
      In the land of Galilee.




THE FIG TREE

(_Matthew, Chapter XXI._)


    With all of the rest of my troubles my fig tree’s withered and gone.
    It stood in the road, you know, I haven’t much of a lawn.
    I step from my door to a step, and from that right into the street.
    Just the same I sat under my tree, as a shade from the noonday heat.

    Camels came by and asses, caravans, footmen, too;
    Soldiers of Cæsar saw me and ate of my tree, nor drew
    Ax nor sword to the branches, nor even a hack on the bole.
    Now what had I done or my tree? I call it an evil dole

    To a tree that must rest as a man rests. Why last year what a crop!
    Figs all over the branches, from lower limb to top.
    The tree was resting this year, contenting itself with leaves,
    If magic comes of believing, beware the man who believes.

    If faith can remove a mountain, then faith, I say, beware.
    Some morn I’ll look toward Olivet and find it no longer there.
    These fellows can blast our vineyards, level our hills or remove.
    And what does it prove but faith, what other good does it prove?

    Nothing at all! Just magic, like Egypt’s cunning breed.
    And to do such things with faith the size of a mustard seed!
    What is there need of more? If you gave them faith as a pear
    They would set Orion dancing around the paws of the Bear;

    Make the heavens fall on our heads, the whole world ruin and wreck;
    Slay us and our children, slave us, put the yoke on our neck;
    Smash cities to strengthen the village, have life just as they would.
    And make that evil which is not, make evil into a good.

    Anyway he came, he was hungry, and it was break of dawn.
    He ran to my tree expectant, saw nothing but leaves thereon.
    Then raged for the lack of figs, no grace for the years that it bore.
    And he said may no fruit grow hereon forevermore.

    With that my tree curled up like a leaf in a windy blaze.
    I was standing here on my step half blind in a sudden maze.
    Then he said: have faith and do what I have done to this tree,
    Or say to the mountains move and be cast into the sea.

    So now I have no shade at noon under leafy boughs,
    Why the tree was good for resting, cooler than in the house,
    If it never bore again, if the life is more than meat
    Why not this tree for my dreams, though he found no figs to eat.

    But I swear it had borne next year, it was only taking a rest.
    There’s too many saints who are straining the world to a dream
        in the breast.
    Next year no figs for Cæsar, and none for myself, what’s worse,
    If this be the work of faith, then faith itself is a curse.




TRIBUTE MONEY

(_Matthew, Chapter XXII: 24-27._)


    This is all of the story
    Capernaum stood in the way,
    The takers of tribute came:
    “Does your master tribute pay?”

    And Peter ran to Jesus,
    And Jesus answered him: “Nay!
    Do the kings of the earth have tribute
    From their own children, pray?

    “Or do they get it of strangers?”
    And Peter answered him: “Yea.”
    Then Jesus said: “This is Galilee,
    Should Galileans pay?

    “But yet lest we offend them
    There’s a fish out there in the bay
    With a silver coin in his mouth--
    Go catch the fish and pay.”

    Did Jesus mean to mock
    The tariff laws of the day:
    That Peter could catch the fish
    As likely as he would pay?

    Did he mean to resist or yield
    If Peter was lucky that day?
    I, Matthew, tell you no more,
    And Mark and Luke don’t say.

    Did we enter the gate, or sit
    Where the rocks and olives are gray?
    Right then there was better matter
    For a follower to portray.

    The multitude gathered. He called
    A child to him from its play,
    And set the child in our midst;
    And then he began to say:--

    “This is the kingdom of heaven.”
    And he took its hand and smiled.
    “The kingdom of heaven,” he said,
    “Is like the heart of a child.”

    And I say, if this be true,
    The Kingdom is surely defiled
    By laws, and tariffs and kings
    Unknown to the heart of a child.




THE GREAT MERGER

(_Exodus, Chapter XX._)


    Philo, the worst has come,
    All we foresaw and feared:
    Delphos will soon be dumb,
    Eleusis felled and cleared.

    Not only Marduk and Bel
    Shamash, Nana, and Sin
    Are doomed to be swallowed. Rebel?
    It is too late to begin.

    They have worked for this merger for years;
    They have bullied, lied and coerced.
    They have played with curses and tears.
    And now at last is the worst:

    For Zeus goes into the bowl
    Of Cyclops, thoroughly blended.
    The brew is Jehovah, a Soul
    Envious, sour, commended

    And forced to our lips. His son
    And another, the Holy Ghost,
    Are mixed with him, there is none
    Not stirred in the mixture and lost

    Of the gods we loved. They say
    There is only one god, not many.
    Well, who knows, we of clay,
    If there be a thousand, or any?

    They say there is one--all right!
    They take over all the rest.
    And so there is one, we can fight,
    Argue, pray and protest;

    Set up a booth to Apollo,
    Athene; bawl and persuade.
    The crowds no longer follow--
    Jehovah has got the trade.

    For the Jews have used the scheme
    Of commerce for making a god:
    A harbor where no trireme
    But their own can dock or load.

    Now who will come to dissolve
    This theo-monopoly?
    And the power they took devolve
    On a mightier deity?

    It will come. But as for Zeus,
    Osiris, Ptah, Zoroaster,
    They are stewed in the dominant juice
    Of Jehovah, lord and master.

    We accept the fate. We laugh.
    The earth, the sea and the sky
    Are at last the cenotaph
    Of gods, who always die.




AT DECAPOLIS

(_Mark, Chapter V._)


1

THE ACCUSATION

    I am a farmer and live
    Two miles from Decapolis.
    Where is the magistrate? Tell me
    Where the magistrate is!

    Here I had made provision
    For children and wife,
    And now I have lost my all;
    I am ruined for life.

    I, a believer, too,
    In the synagogues,--
    What is the faith to me?
    I have lost my hogs.

    Two thousand hogs as fine
    As ever you saw,
    Drowned and choked in the sea--
    I want the law!

    They were feeding upon a hill
    When a strolling teacher
    Came by and scared my hogs--
    They say he’s a preacher,

    And cures the possessed who haunt
    The tombs and bogs.
    All right; but why send devils
    Into my hogs?

    They squealed and grunted and ran
    And plunged in the sea.
    And the lunatic laughed who was healed,
    Of the devils free.

    Devils or fright, no matter
    A fig or a straw.
    Where is the magistrate, tell me--
    I want the law!


2

JESUS BEFORE MAGISTRATE AHAZ

    Ahaz, there in the seat of judgment, hear,
    If you have wit to understand my plea.
    Swine-devils are too much for swine, that’s clear.
    Poor man possessed of such is partly free.

    Is neither drowned, destroyed at once, his chains
    May pluck while running, howling through the mire
    And take a little gladness for his pains,
    Some fury for unsatisfied desire.

    But hogs go mad at once. All this I knew,--
    But then this lunatic had rights. You grant
    Swine-devils had him in their clutch and drew
    His baffled spirit. How significant,

    As they were legion and so named! The point
    Is, life bewildered, torn in greed and wrath;--
    Desire puts a spirit out of joint.
    Swine-devils are for swine who have no path.

    But man with many lusts, what is his way,
    Save in confusion, through accustomed rooms?
    He prays for night to come, and for the day
    Amid the miry places and the tombs.

    But hogs run to the sea. And there’s an end.
    Would I might cast the swinish demons out
    From man forever. Yet the word attend.
    The lesson of the thing what soul can doubt?

    What is the loss of hogs, if man be saved?
    What loss of lands and houses, man being free?
    Clothed in his reason sits the man who raved,
    Clean and at peace, your honor. Come and see.

    Your honor shakes a frowning head. Not loth,
    Speaking more plainly, deeper truth to draw;
    Do your judicial duty, yet I clothe
    Free souls with courage to transgress the law.

    By casting demons out from self, or those
    Like this poor lunatic whom your synagogues
    Would leave to battle singly with his woes--
    What is a man’s soul to a drove of hogs?

    Which being lost, men play the hypocrite
    And make the owner chief in the affair.
    You banish me for witchcraft. I submit.
    Work of this kind awaits me everywhere.

    And into swine where better they belong,
    Casting the swinish devils out of men,
    The devils have their place at last, and then
    The man is healed who had them--where’s the wrong,

    Save to the owner? Well, your synagogues
    Make the split hoof and chewing of the cud
    The test of lawful flesh. Not so are hogs.
    This rule has been the statute since the flood.

    Ahaz, your judgment has a fatal flaw.
    Is it not so with judges first and last--
    You break the law to specialize the law?--
    This is the devil that from you I cast.




THE SINGLE STANDARD

(_St. John, Chapter VIII._)


        It was known through Judea, we knew it:--
        That Joseph beguiled
        By mercy for Mary espoused,
        And already with child,

        Before they had come to each other,
        Would put her away
        In secret, before the Sanhedrin
        Could summon, array,

        The witnesses, judge her and make her
        A noise and a shame--
        We knew this, and what would he do
        If the case were the same

        As his father believed was the case
        With his mother? would he,
        A prophet, fulfill all the law,
        Or let her go free?--

        This Sarah, you know, that I caught,
        Was a witness and saw.
        Now what would he do, shade away,
        Or judge by the law?

        For Moses decreed if a woman
        Who is married shall lie
        With a man, whether wedded or not,
        The woman shall die

        With the man in a volley of stones;
        And Moses decreed
        If a virgin already betrothed
        Shall lust in the deed

        With a man not the bridegroom, and whether
        The man shall be wed,
        The people shall stone them with stones
        Until they be dead.

        Now mark you, how equal the law
        Of weight and of span:
        One law for the woman in sin,
        The same for the man.

        If Moses be still the law-giver,
        By nothing dethroned,
        And this be the law, then this Sarah
        Was fit to be stoned.

        And if it be true, as he says,
        That he came to fulfill
        The law, nor destroy it, why then
        We thought he would will
        The death of this woman we took
        In adultery, yes in the act,
        So we argued together beforehand
        The law and the fact.

        Now the case was this way: this Josiah
        Late journeyed from Tyre,
        Three wives to his household already,
        Yet alive with desire,

        And free by our custom and law
        To add to his hearth
        A fourth for the heirs to his house,
        And for comfort and mirth,

        Came back in the cause of a field
        He had bought; as it chanced
        Met up with this Sarah, a wife,
        They feasted and danced,

        Her spouse being absent, what’s more
        In Egypt for good.
        So Josiah and Sarah were found
        In the act in the wood.

        We brought her before him, accused,
        And told him the case.
        He stooped, as it seemed, to conceal
        A blush on his face,
        And wrote in the sand, as we stood
        And pressed him he wrote:
        “Anise” and “cummin” and “gnat”
        And “Moses” and “mote.”

        We cried all the more, he uplifted
    Himself, said: “Begin
        Your throwing of stones, let the first
        Be him without sin.”

        So there I was caught, for he knew--
        Like wheat from the scythe
        We shrank--I was guilty of sin,
        I had failed in my tithe

        Of anise. But why have clean hands
        To work at our smudges?
        And how will you ever stop sin
        If you ask of the judges

        To be without sin ere they punish
        A matter of lust?
        I call this a ruling where morals
        Fall down in the dust.

        The most of us left then. He asked her:
        “Does no man condemn?
        Nor do I.” And so he made one
        With me and with them.

        So here in a sense was the world
        Spiritual, civil,
        Prophet and Pharisee, judge
        Leagued up with the devil.

        For what did it matter to say
        To go and no more
        Sin as she had, if the sin
        Would fare as before?

        It followed that Sarah went free,
        And Josiah the man.
        One standard for both is the rule,
        And the modern plan.

        What’s that? Why to sin if you wish--
        For what is a sin
        If no stones are hurled for the lack
        Of a man to begin?

        And so it all ended. This Sarah
        Was given a bill.
        She married Josiah, they say,
        And lives with him still.




FIRST ENTRANTS

(_St. Matthew, Chapter XXII: 31._)


    We know the game of lawyer and priest;
    We know the cunning of Pharisee, Scribe;
    We know the malice of soldier, jailer;--
    Hearts of those who abstain, imbibe.

    And when we saw a God-mad fool
    Like John the Baptist who cursed and grieved
    For the hate of the elders, the harlot’s sorrow
    We listened to him and we believed.

    We know we are wronged, he voiced it for us;
    We know we are mocked, he gave us place
    With the children of grief, the simple hearted,
    The broken spirits deserving grace.

    He knew men use us and throw us away.
    He knew we give and the gift is loathed.
    We are the givers to men who scourge us,
    Drive us to darkness, cold, unclothed.

    And when he said: “Behold he is there
    Whose latchet I am unworthy to loose,”
    Jesus took us, the humble hearted,
    The broken vessels that none will use.

    And we believed again, and saw
    A youth who loved us without desire;
    Feasting, drinking with us the harlots,
    Outcasts, sinners, wrecks of the fire.

    These were our brothers: John the Baptist,
    Jesus of Nazareth. Brothers I say.
    Brothers and sisters bound in the service
    Of giving comfort and pity away.

    Pity and solace and hope of heaven,
    Healing and tenderness came of Christ.
    And we, the harlots, have given pity
    And given delight to men who enticed

    This little gift, so easy to give;
    This wonder gift to them, as they said.
    That is the passion that moves a woman
    Before it becomes a matter of bread.

    Before the lashes of scorn and the chains,
    The dungeons, before the scowls and sneers;
    Before the wrath of the priest, the temple’s
    Bolted door for our hunger, tears.

    Before the delight we sell is stale
    As the steps of a dancer, growing old.
    All is delight, kisses and dancing--
    Men can buy, for they have the gold.

    And we, he says, shall enter heaven
    Before the priests and the elders do.
    Why do we enter? Because as sorrow,
    Poverty, humbleness, we are true.

    Without pretense or pride. We are children
    Who have shirked the task, but repent the sin.
    But they, the elders and priests have promised
    To work for heaven and never begin.

    Why do we enter, save spite of our craft
    To wheedle with lies we all stand forth
    Known to the world as painted harlots,
    Taken by no one over our worth?

    And it’s good to enter, if we can be
    With Jesus and John, and given reprieve
    From priests and elders who run the city
    And hound the harlots who see and believe.




JOHN IN PRISON

(_St. Luke, Chapter XVI. St. Matthew, Chapter XI._)


    John said to the jailer: “Where are my disciples? Befriend
    My grief and my doubt, and entreat them to come, to the end

    That they ask him for me if we look for another, or deem,
    As I did, that this prophet shall save and fulfill and redeem.”

    And the jailer replied: “Since the wrath of King Herod a dish
    Your head shall contain by to-morrow, I give you your wish.”

    So he brought the disciples to John and the two of them led
    To the cell where he sat, and John to the two of them said:--

    “At this end of my life and my hopes, at the door of my doom
    Go ask him for me and report: is it he that should come,

    Or shall we yet look for another?” Amazed were the two
    And one of them spoke to the Baptist and said: “Is it true

    That you preached in the wilderness saying repent and prepare
    The way of the Lord, whose shoes I am worthless to bear;

    Who will fan out the chaff, gather wheat, purge the floor
    With fire and the Spirit baptize you, bring down and restore

    The kingdom of heaven? And are we abused in the word
    That as he came out of the waters of Jordan you heard

    A voice call from heaven which thundered: ‘This son of my love
    With whom I am pleased you shall hear,’ and a dove

    For the Spirit descended upon him--and yet can you ask
    If he be the one that should come? Yet we take up the
    task

    And go at your bidding.” And John said: “I suffer without
    You seek him and ask, for this is the cause of my doubt:--

    I have heard of his works and rejoice. But why does he feast
    When I fasted myself? And how have the rumors increased

    That he fellows with publicans, sinners and drinkers of wine,
    A bibber himself, when the springs of the desert were mine?

    And how is the ax, as I said, laid close to the root of the tree,
    And my curses fulfilled of the Pharisees, if this must be?

    And if, as they say, he is preaching the word that we make
    Of the unrighteous mammon a friend for the day when we break

    With the lords of the riches of truth, as he put it, for then
    The unrighteous mammon shall take us, console us again:--

    I have wasted the goods of my lord! I am caught and accused!
    Shall I make good the theft from my lord in a trust I abused?

    Why, no! I go out to the debtors, my master to foil,
    How much do you owe him? Why, so many measures of oil!

    Sit down then, I say, make the bill but a half, quickly write:--
    I am wiser in this, so he says, than the children of light--

    As I make for myself by the trick of a thief, and a theft,
    The confederates’ home for my own for my honor bereft.

    Go! learn if he said this. Return ere the rise of the sun:--
    Shall we look for another to save us, or is he the one?”




ANANIAS AND SAPPHIRA


    Who is that coming? Look! They are bearing a body again.
    It’s a woman now, I think. And the very same young men

    Who brought Ananias’ body we buried a moment ago.
    Pat down the earth a little, the grass will sooner grow.

    Yes, now I see it’s Sapphira. What did she do to win
    Death at the hands of Peter, or was it her husband’s sin?

    To which she agreed, or kept her husband’s secret in faith.
    They sold a sheep, as I hear it, and suffered sudden death

    For hiding part of the price, for a thing commendable:
    Their boy is sick, and they needed money to get him well.

    Just look how things are going: Cæsar the despot rules,
    The state is his. For the rest, we are run by a pack of fools;

    Zealots and mystics who say that the end of the world is near.
    Tyranny around us, on top, under us dullness and fear.

    Songs and the wine-cup banished, freedom throttled blue.
    It’s the same here being a Greek, Persian, Median, Jew.

    Roman sovereignty over us, merciless, cold and bright.
    Fogs over the land of dust, day no different than night.

    Listless we labor or idle, creep into an early bed.
    Sleep is the best thing now, and the best is the sleep of the dead.

    Prepare for the end of the world! Build up the church, the throne,
    Sell all your goods and give, have nothing to call your own;

    Put everything in common. That’s one cry. What remains?
    Taxes, soldiers, prisons, edicts, laws and chains.

    There never was such a time! What man is lord of his soul?
    Someone entered my barn and took my ass with foal

    For the prophet to ride on in triumph. I was there and saw him ride,
    Crowds crying hallelujah pressing on every side.

    They would have all things in common. They kill a man and his wife,
    And Cæsar rules as always, and yet they call this life!

    Wars forever and ever, manned by hovels and huts;
    And what is it all about? lands, and gold and guts;

    And baptists stirring the dreamers, and bankers that thrive thereby.
    Why kill off Ananias when the whole of life is a lie?

    All right, young men, put her down. Go to it now with the spade.
    We’ll bury the woman Sapphira here where her husband’s laid.

    They’re out of it. Neither Cæsar nor Peter can wake their sleep.
    I lost my ass, and they lost their lives for the price of a sheep.

    And Cæsar will rule forever! And Peter if he grows strong
    Will make a pact with Cæsar, and Israel’s woe and wrong

    Will spread all over the earth. It takes no prophet to see
    That while there is Gold and Fear man will never be free--

    Until the world is fed, and hunger steals like a wraith
    With the ghost of Cæsar’s lust, and the mist of Peter’s faith.




THE TWO MALEFACTORS


    Ask Matthew, or ask Mark, and get the truth.
    I know myself, was there and heard them both--
    Both railed at him. No! one did not rebuke
    The other for his railing; did not ask
    To be remembered when into his Kingdom
    Jesus should come. What kingdom? David’s?--pah!
    That had gone whirling with the desert’s dust.
    What kingdom? That within you? A fool’s kingdom!
    “To-day thou shalt be with me in Paradise,”
    He never said that. I was there. I know.
    And if he did, where is that paradise?
    Where is he? And where is the man they say
    He said this to? Ask Matthew, learn the truth:
    Both railed at him. Both died, nerved to the last
    By bitter disappointment.

                          Listen, friend,
    These malefactors were my brothers! Well,
    I saw them grow up lusty. I beheld
    Their course from hope to action, till defeat
    And prison took them.

                          For we are the sons,
    We Jews, of those who went to Babylon;
    Returned to fall by Alexander’s sword;
    Were snatched by Syria, then Egypt came,
    Put heels upon our necks. Rome sailed to us,
    And took us over. And these bitter years
    Made poets, prophets of us, spurred us on
    To inflate the dream Jehovah with our breath
    Of threats and curses; yet these bitter years
    Kept at white heat the hope of David’s throne,
    Restored, triumphant, and our prophecies
    Were from Jehovah of a king to come
    Who would free Israel, drive the oppressor off,
    And let us live as men.

                            Now it may be
    A certain Jacob was his grandfather,
    As Matthew says; or it may be that Heli
    Was his grandfather, as Luke says, but still
    Both say he was of David. And Luke says
    The angel Gabriel came to Mary, his mother,
    And said he shall be great and shall be called
    The Son of the Most High, and God shall give him
    The throne of his father David. He shall reign
    Over the house of Jacob, and his kingdom
    Shall have no end. We looked for such a one
    To free us and with portents such as stars,
    And Gabriel descending, Bethlehem
    Become his birth-place, and the prophecies
    Of old fulfilled, we looked for Israel freed,
    And for a king of Jewish blood to rule us--
    No Cæsar any more. For it was prophesied
    Of Bethlehem: For out of thee shall come
    A governor, a shepherd of my people!
    And look, he’s born in Bethlehem! And why not
    Our hope re-kindled?

                            And now look at us;
    These centuries bruised, imprisoned and made poor,
    Jerusalem a city of wails and woes,
    The whole of Israel slaved! And look at him!
    How does he start his work, whatever it be?
    By reading from Isaiah at Nazareth:--
    “The spirit of the Lord is upon me, because
    He anointed me to preach good tidings to
    The poor, hath sent me to proclaim release
    To captives and to set at liberty
    Them that are bruised.”

                            What doctrine may this be,
    But change, or revolution, and the ferment
    Of new wine bursting bottles frail and old,
    This tyranny of Cæsar, this dependence
    On alien rulership? You know yourself
    Barabbas was not single in the crime
    Of insurrection, ask the fellow Mark.
    He’ll tell you this Barabbas lay in bonds
    With many who rose up, committed murder.
    Of these were my two brothers, crucified
    With Jesus on that day.

                          Well, so it was
    He preached, was followed by the poor, the weak,
    The slaved, despoiled until ’twas noised abroad
    Through all the hill country and in the cities
    That he stirred up the people everywhere,
    Devising revolution, overthrow
    Of Cæsar’s rule. But there was murmuring too:
    For some said he was good, and others said
    He deceived the people. For upon a day
    When he was asked directly of our tribute,
    Whether to pay to Cæsar, not to pay,
    He dodged and said: “Give Cæsar his due and God
    His due”; but what we wished to know, was what
    Was Cæsar’s due, and give it him, and if
    No tribute was his due, but rather casting
    The yoke of Cæsar, then give Cæsar that.
    He did not answer what the Pharisees asked,
    That which _we_ wished to hear him answer, though
    The Pharisees had asked him. For we poor,
    Enslaved and disinherited had followed
    His leadership thus far.

                          Behold the change:
    Passing from work unfinished he becomes
    The Son of God and God himself, becomes
    A mystery, the Word that lived and wrought
    Before John who announced him. Tidings preached,
    I grant you, to the poor, but who remain
    Poor as before, but worn for broken hope
    Of words that changed no thing. And no release
    To captives, and no liberty to those
    Bruised and in chains. And so I say his work
    Is left unfinished, nothing done in truth.
    And quickly, like a sun-rise on the hills,
    He flashes forth his God-head, and we’re left
    To Cæsar’s will, and end up with the words:--
    His kingdom is of heaven, not of earth;
    Refines the point: this kingdom is within us.
    And he will die and rise again from death,
    Ascend to heaven, and return again
    Before this generation passes to take up
    His own to heaven, and will rule forever
    In heaven, not in Israel. For the world
    Is to be burnt, with all its disbelievers.
    And when it’s burnt, sitting at God’s right hand
    He’ll rule forever with his own! You see
    What we expected vanished in such words,
    Such madness, idle dreams.

                              But, as I said,
    His lineage was David’s; Matthew, Mark
    Will tell you so. But David said of Christ,
    Calling him Lord; sit thou on my right hand
    Till I make enemies of thine thy foot-stool.
    “How is Christ son of David, being his Lord?”
    Asked Jesus of the Pharisees, closed their mouths
    With asking that. The common people heard
    Him gladly when he said this--true enough!
    But I, my brothers, did not hear him gladly.
    For if he were the son of God, yet equal
    In being and in time with God, why not
    The son and lord of David? Both perplex
    The spirit of man; one mystery is as dark
    As another mystery, and if one be so, then
    Another may be also. Pass the point....

    They crucified my brothers with him! Both
    Railed on him for deliverance from the cross.
    If he were God, he could have plucked the nails
    And let them down, escape. And listen now:
    My brothers kept their faith in him to the last,
    And since they were condemned and had to pay
    For insurrection on the cross, chose out
    His day of crucifixion for their own;
    Believed that he would save them, and so make
    This choosing of his time of penalty
    An hour of luck. And so I tell you truth:
    Though both were railing it was rather pain
    Than lack of hope that made them rail at him.
    Nor was it mockery that made them rail.
    They hoped to stir him by their words, evoke
    His greatest strength to help them that they railed.
    They even smiled a little when the nails
    Were driven through their hands, as if to say:
    “You cannot harm us when this god is here;
    Go, do your butcher business, for at last
    He’ll save himself and us.” And just as men
    Refuse to think death near, and still believe
    They will escape it somehow, when no aid,
    But human hands is near, my brothers thought
    This god would surely save them. So they talked,
    Hunched up their legs and shoulders to ease up
    The strain of hanging on the nails, and waited,
    Joked with the lookers on, and smiled and begged,
    And sweated agony and railed at last.
    But when the voices in the crowd called out:
    “If you trust God, let God deliver you,
    If you are God’s son, let Him save you now;
    Save thou thyself!” my older brother said:
    “If I were off this cross I’d break your heads,
    You crooked priests, you whited sepulchers,
    You carrion Scribes and Pharisees.”

                                        And such noise
    As they cast lots to get his garments, shouts
    When they were won and parted! In a silence
    He asked his Father to forgive them, saying
    They knew not what they did. My brother bawled:
    “They know what they are doing, they have killed
    The prophets in all ages! Don’t say that!
    Don’t end up soft, you cursed them hitherto,
    These are the vipers that you cursed before;
    These are the vultures that you said you’d shut
    The gates of heaven against; these are the wolves
    That thirst for blood and lap it, unrepentant
    Blasphemers against you and the Holy Ghost;
    Committers of unpardonable sins, the band
    You drove with knotted cords from out the temple.
    And what is usury or selling doves
    To killing you? Why ask your Father this?
    Why now this softness? Change of mood, why prayers
    Instead of curses? If you’re dying, sire,
    Be what you were when you were flush with life,
    And curse them into hell. Hold to your strength,
    And curse them into hell.” And so it went
    With talking back and forth, mixed in with groans,
    And curses, railings, while my brothers twisted
    Their bodies, and hunched up their thighs and backs
    To ease the strain of hanging on the nails,
    And dribbled at the mouth, and babbled things
    And laughed like devils in a soul possessed.

    But when he thirsted and they took a sponge
    And gave him vinegar, and he sucked it in,
    They looked at him with eyes that bulged with fear:--
    They saw him drooping, fainting, losing strength,
    They struggled then and shouted: “Keep on breathing!
    Breathe deep! Call on your Father! Don’t give up!
    Fight for your life, your god-head and ourselves!
    We’re here because you came and preached, and stirred
    The people! Don’t desert us now! Great Lord,
    Messiah, Son of God, are we first martyrs
    To what you failed to do? We cannot die,
    You must not die. Let David’s throne be lost
    As lost it is, but not our lives! Great Lord!”
    Thus as they chattered, chattered, bawled and shouted
    Jesus threw back his head and cried so loud
    That all the valleys echoed it: “My God,
    My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” And then
    His head dropped on his chest--and he was dead....

    They looked at him--my brothers looked at him,
    And whimpered--they were beaten, but fought on.
    Tears stained with blood went coursing down their cheeks.
    And then the soldiers came to break their legs.
    And one had fainted, but the other one
    Was fighting still and said: “Have mercy friend,
    Cæsar would save me, what does Cæsar care
    For one poor rebel?”

                      Then they broke their legs,
    And all were dead. So ended up another
    Chapter in this poor world’s hopeless hope.




BERENICE


    AGRIPPA

    How is it with this people?

    FESTUS

                              Much the same.
    They kick the Roman rule. Like flame in stubble,
    Which being slapped with sticks, leaps up and spreads,
    Oppression makes them hotter.

    BERENICE

                                        And why not?
    Seeing their customs, altars, arks and temples
    The beauty of their faith, as they have dreamed it,
    And fashioned it with hands from gold and wood
    Is desecrated.

    FESTUS

                              How to firmly keep
    The rule of Cæsar, leave their god untouched,
    That is the problem. Where the state and god
    Are one, inseparable, can Cæsar rule
    And not subject their god? There was this Judas
    Together with a Pharisee named Sadduk
    Who fought the Roman census of the Jews,
    Raised revolution in religion’s name,
    A cunning strategy. You could not crush
    The revolution, leave their faith unharmed.
    And now this new sect called the Nazarenes--
    The country’s in a tumult.

    AGRIPPA

                                  Yes, these Nazarenes,
    The worst of all.

    BERENICE

                                  I have heard the desert
    Fosters a little burr of poisonous spines
    Which sometimes as the lion roams the sands,
    Sticks in the hairy clefts between his claws.
    It itches, stings, and maddens; with a growl
    The lion lays him down and with his tongue
    Licks out the pest. It sticks upon his tongue.
    He has no second tongue to lick it thence.
    It sticks and stings. The poison spreads apace
    And puffs the rebelling member till his throat
    Narrows for breath. And then he runs and roars,
    And with his nose plows through the sand, lies down,
    Digs in the desert, leaps, rolls over, froths,
    Grows green of eye; chokes to his death at last.
    Rome is your lion, and the burr these Jews.

    AGRIPPA

    Sweet sister, be as apt with counsel as
    Your parable is apt.

    BERENICE

                                    You have my word.
    Let them alone, their internecine strife
    ’Twixt sect and sect fight out. Madmen they are
    And zealots--let them choke and strive and wail.
    Jesus they killed and Stephen. But should Rome
    Repress religions, doctrines, script or speech?
    If what they teach be false ’twill die, if true
    You cannot kill it.

    AGRIPPA

                                You could say as well
    If thickets bear no apples they will die;
    If they bear apples you can kill them not.
    But thickets bear no apples. Apple trees
    Fall easily to the ax. And so with truth,
    And false truth. Where you have one man who’s wise
    You have a million fools, who take the stones
    Of ignorance and error in their hands
    And overwhelm the wise. Rome shall not fall,
    Recede, relent before a mob like this.

    FESTUS

    They seem to thrive by being mowed, and yet
    If left uncut they choke us. There is Paul,
    My heritage from Felix, jailed two years,
    And brought before me by the Jews, who charged
    Offenses numerous against him, such
    As breaches of the Jewish law, attacks
    Upon their temple, on the emperor,
    Contemned perhaps, the which they could not prove.
    Now to report to you, O King, my judgment
    Divided in the case of Paul. I sought
    To do the Jews a pleasure. So I asked:
    Will you go to Jerusalem and be judged?
    But Paul replied: I stand at Cæsar’s seat,
    There should my judgment be.

    AGRIPPA

                                    O, wicked Rome,
    Whose laws become a haven to her foes
    When they are troubled.

    FESTUS

                            Yes, I told these Jews
    Rome does not give a man to die before
    He meets his accusers face to face, has time
    To answer for himself. And so it was
    I came to Cæsarea, had him brought
    And heard the case. As I supposed, they charged
    This Paul with nothing, only matters raised
    Of their own superstitions, and of Jesus
    Whom Paul affirmed, affirms to be alive,
    Though dead long since. But as he had appealed
    To Cæsar I commanded he be kept
    Till I might send him. But what shall I say?
    How shall I send him, after all, to Cæsar
    Without a writing that shall signify
    Why and for what I send him? Cæsar’s time
    Is not for crimeless causes.

    AGRIPPA

                                      Nevertheless
    As he’s appealed to Cæsar he must go.
    But I would hear him.

    FESTUS

                              I have sent for him
    That you may hear him. There, he enters now!

(_Paul is brought in._)

    He has a speech that he has often made
    How first he persecuted, for in truth Agrippa
    He is a catapult that has sprung up
    As far as he was pulled the other way.
    And he will tell you how he stoned this Stephen,
    And hunted Nazarenes: and how he went
    With writs of persecution from the priests
    Up to Damascus, on the way saw light
    From heaven, heard the voice of Jesus cry
    That he should be a minister to the faith,
    And preach as he had persecuted. You see
    The rebound of nature, mind.

    BERENICE

                                      How thin,
    How pale he is, how bright his eyes! Agrippa
    Confine him to the matter of this god
    Who died, and from the dead arose. O Death,
    You are man’s horror, and we brood upon you,
    Our altars are placations to your wrath.
    This Paul is mad for thinking of you, mad
    With faith that he has conquered you. Look there!
    See how his eyes are staring bright as fire--
    I am afraid. And yet if it were true
    Jesus arose, nay if the world could be
    Persuaded that he rose, the faith would sweep
    The world with fire, and crumble every temple
    And altar of our gods in almighty Rome.
    Look how he stares!

    AGRIPPA

                          There is a noble madness,
    A madness which has slaved nobility
    And energy and eloquence. Say now
    Who saw this Jesus after he arose?
    Did Paul? Who saw him?

    FESTUS

                                No one that I know.
    Not Paul. He says a multitude. Some disciples,
    Some women, and one Peter.

    AGRIPPA

                                  Where are they?
    Bring one to me. Bring Peter; bring a woman.
    This is the cause I’d hear. And if this Paul
    Can bring me witness, though his crime were great
    As Hannibal’s on Rome, I’ll set him free.
    Why look at him! Is this new matter to me?
    Is he the first who for the gods went mad?
    Or for the mystery of life went mad?
    Or madness took for what we are and why,
    And what this life means? For this world has seen
    A perfect harmony and working thought
    And inspiration in a thousand minds
    Of madness on some matter. Fellow, come
    Close here before me. Look at me. Yes, well,
    There is the light of rising suns, and stars
    That burn immortally, in your eyes. Now speak.
    Did Jesus die?

    PAUL

                                        He died.

    AGRIPPA

                                        Did he arise?

    PAUL

    He arose.

    AGRIPPA

                              How long being dead?

    PAUL

                                    Three days.

    AGRIPPA

    Saw you him in life?

    PAUL

                                        No.

    AGRIPPA

                                          In death?

    PAUL

                                            No.

    AGRIPPA

    After he rose?

    PAUL

                                No! I only heard his voice.

    AGRIPPA

    Where?

    PAUL

                                  On the way to Damascus.

    AGRIPPA

                                        What did he say?

    PAUL

    “It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.”

    AGRIPPA

    What else?

    PAUL

                          I asked, “Who art thou Lord?”

    AGRIPPA

    And then?

    PAUL

              “I am Jesus,” he said, “whom thou persecutest.
    To thee have I come to make of thee a witness
    And a minister.”

    AGRIPPA

                      Since then you have preached,
    For which the Jews have persecuted you
    As you stoned Stephen?

    PAUL

                                          Yes.

    AGRIPPA

                                  And you affirm
    That Jesus from the dead arose?

    PAUL

                                        Thou hast said.
    But also I affirm that all shall rise
    From death who in the Christ believe, save those
    Who live now, and shall die not ere he come.

    AGRIPPA

    He comes again?

    PAUL

                              Quickly, even before
    This generation passes.

    AGRIPPA

                                      You are mad.
    Do you appeal to Cæsar?

    PAUL

                                          I appeal.

    AGRIPPA

    Why not be stoned as Stephen was and rise?
    If you believe in Jesus, you believe
    They cannot kill you.

    PAUL

                              As you will, O King.
    I must finish my course, whatever time I die.

    AGRIPPA

    I could have set you free, if you had taken
    To Cæsar no appeal. Being as it is
    I send you up to Rome. Who can find out
    The workings of a mind? Yet true it is
    He saves himself out of a cunning thought
    Of this appeal to Cæsar. Turn him over
    To the Centurion Julius--on to Rome.
    We have conferred together. He has done
    No thing deserving death. Take him to Rome.
    He’ll find a house and hire it, in Rome
    Live unmolested, preach, hear Mithra preached
    Who cheated death, they say, as Jesus did.
    Now let us rise and to the banquet room.
    Come Sister, Festus, to the banquet room.




NEBUCHADNEZZAR: _OR_ EATING GRASS


    Nebuchadnezzar the King, called Ha-Rashang,
    Which is to say, the wicked, by the Jews;
    I, King of Babylon, the beautiful,
    The mighty who have spread the prospering code
    Of Hammumrapi, and the obelisk
    Of diorite whereon the code is stamped,
    Kept in the Temple of Marduk, myself
    The lover of progress, beauty, breathe this prayer:
    Peace to all peoples, nations, languages
    That dwell in all the earth, and also peace
    Be multiplied to you; this I record
    Upon these bricks of Babylon, and as well
    My glory and my madness.

                                    First attend:
    What would the gods, the god Jehovah even
    Have me to do, me gifted with this strength,
    This wisdom, skill in arms? Sit in a hut
    Of mud beside the Tigris, be a marsh
    Of spirit, sleeping, oozing, grown with flags?
    Or be Euphrates rushing, giving life
    And drink of life to fields? What should I do?
    Suffer this Syra to dream and drool?
    Jerusalem to boast, dispute and trade,
    And vaunt its favoring heaven, or go forth
    And smite Jerusalem and Tyre and take them,
    And lead their peoples back to Babylon,
    And make them work and serve me, build canals,
    Great reservoirs, my palace, city walls,
    The Hanging Gardens, till my Babylon
    In all this would become a wonder, terror
    And worthy of my spirit, hope and dream;
    A city and a kingdom in the world
    Become the external substance, form and beauty,
    Administration, order of a soul
    Lordly and gifted--mine, my Babylon,
    My dream expressed!

                            That which I did they tried
    To do and failed in doing, even themselves
    Would rule as I have ruled, build as I builded,
    Win glory as I won it; to that end
    Did they invoke their gods, and in the mouths
    Of gods and of Jehovah put the curses
    And wails of failure. I have triumphed, now
    My gods are full of song; I have maintained
    My kingdom and my spirit, driving out
    The aggressor Necho, who came forth from Egypt,
    Syria and Palestine to take from me,
    Him I destroyed at Carchemish--my spirit
    Have I regained and healed. And now in age,
    These eighty years of life gone over me,
    And rulership of forty years, I sit
    Within the level sun-light of my age,
    And at this close of day upon my roof
    And view my Babylon; but without fear
    Madness will come upon me ever again.
    The glory of my kingdom has returned,
    My honor and my brightness have returned;
    My counselors and lords have come to me;
    I am established in my age, and excellent
    Majesty is added unto me.

                              All this
    Though here upon this roof, upon this spot,
    My madness came upon me, when I looked
    Over the roofs and temples of my city
    And said: Is not this Babylon, the great,
    That I have builded for my kingdom’s house
    By the might of my power and for the honor
    Of my great majesty? Why was it so?

    First genius and the dream, then toil and pain
    While hands lay stone on stone, and as the stones
    Rise from the earth, where naked slaves cry out,
    Wheel, lift and grunt; and mortar, scaffolding,
    Pillars of cedar strewn confusedly,
    Your dream is blurred, even while your city rises
    Out of the dream. I was like to a woman
    In the pain of travail, who is mad with pain,
    Scarce knows her friends or what is being done,
    Nor needs to know, since nature orders all,
    Delivers her, but lets the mid-wife lift
    The infant to her breast. Even so with me,
    I had conceived this Babylon, nourished it
    In the womb of my genius where it grew, came forth
    Whole like a child at last from scaffoldings,
    Confusion, waste of mortar, stone and bronze.
    And when it was accomplished, then my madness
    Came on me in a moment of clear seeing
    That this which was within me, was without me;
    Was substance and reality before me;
    Was even myself gone out of me, as the child
    Goes from the mother--then my madness came
    Not when I saw it first, for I had seen it
    Both from this roof and from the Hanging Gardens,
    And from the temple of Bel, and in the streets;
    But seen it without knowing, as the mother
    Exhausted, dulled with agony may know
    The child is born, without the consciousness,
    The wonder and the rapture of the child,
    As the miracle that was of her, but now
    Is a miracle external and a life,
    A beauty separate, that walks from her
    And has its life and way, herself and hers,
    But different and its own.

                          And so it was
    When I beheld my Babylon, saw my dream
    Spread out before me, clear and definite,
    A beauty separate, my very soul
    Torn out of me and fashioned into stone,
    Having its life and way, myself and mine,
    Yet being itself, its own. If I had seen
    Myself divided and become two men,
    My other self come toward me, stand, extend
    His hand to me, my terror were not more
    Than this to see my Babylon. In that moment
    My madness came upon me.

                              But before,
    Some nights and days before this I had lain
    In troubled dreams upon my couch, had dreamed
    Of images and trees, for daily cares
    Of empire and the fears of change and loss
    Had entered in my dreams. Cyaxeres
    Dreamed that a vine grew from his daughter’s womb
    And overshadowed Asia, which denoted
    Her offspring should be clothed with majesty
    And rulership of Asia. As for me,
    My tree was felled, only the stump was left,
    Bound to the earth with brass and iron--this
    Foretold what I am now, as Daniel said,
    Interpreting my dream. These dreams had come
    Which shook me for the thought of human life--
    How frail and fleeting! But again to hear
    Curses about me for my work and genius
    Called by these Jews Ha-Rashang; and to feel
    Though I had chosen Daniel, Hananiah,
    Michael, Azariah for mine own,
    And to be taught to help me in the task
    Of my administration; even though
    I chose all men for duty, wisest use
    And in my great humanity and strength
    Had placed my subjects where they best could serve
    The beauty and the progress of my city--
    Though, as I said, to feel that I had done
    All things for good and with no thought but good,
    Yet still to hear these curses and to see
    The worthlessness of human kind, the crowd,
    I bowed my head and prayed to Ishtar saying:
    Make me an animal and let me feed
    With beasts instead of these: So had I prayed
    Before my madness in that moment came.

    Then as to that, my madness: it was sunset,
    I walked upon my palace’s level roof,
    And looked upon my Babylon; then I thought
    Of all my labors, how I had restored
    The temples of Borsippa, Uruk, Ur,
    Sippar and Larsa, Dilbat; made the plains
    Below the great Euphrates rich in corn;
    Brought plenty to my people, bread and wine
    To all my people; laughter, as it may be,
    Between our fated tears to all my people,
    And then I looked on Babylon lying there
    Beneath the evening’s sunlight, safe behind
    Its sixty miles of walls unscalable,
    Rising four hundred feet, impregnable
    For near a hundred feet of width in stone.
    I saw its hundred gates of durable bronze;
    My eyes were lifted to the terraces
    Up, up above the river to the temple
    Of Bel who blessed my city, and I saw
    The temples built to Nebo, Sin and Nana,
    Marduk and Shamash, saw my aqueducts,
    The houses of my people, in between
    The palm grooves and the gardens bearing food
    Enough to feed the city if besieged;
    Beheld the Hanging Gardens which I built
    To soothe Amytis, who had memories
    Of mountainous Media, gazing on
    The Babylonian plains.

                          So as I stood
    And looked upon my city, voices passed
    Below me muttering Ha-Rashang, and then
    This Babylon, my Babylon, lay before me
    As my genius realized, grown out of me,
    Myself become another, and a being
    Which once was me, but now no more was me,
    Was mine and was not mine; and with that thought
    Rising like Enlil, god of storm and thunder,
    Over my terrored spirit, I grew mad
    And fled among the beasts, where for a season
    I ate grass with the oxen, let the dew
    Fall on my body, till my hairs were grown
    Like eagle’s feathers and my nails were grown
    Like claws of birds. In madness and in hate
    Of men and life, in loathing of my glory,
    My genius and my labors did I live;
    In loathing of these tribes who hate the mother
    Goddess of our ritual and belief;
    Tribes who have made religion of the hate
    Of procreative nature, curse the flame
    Of beauty, and of love wherewith I built
    This Babylon of glory, lust of life;
    Till nature cured me and I came again
    To rule my Babylon, my excellence
    Of majesty returned.

                        What am I now,
    Bowed with these eighty years? My Babylon,
    What is it now to me? I am a father
    Whose son is aging, even has made his place
    And lived to see it fade, diminish. A son
    So old his sonship is a memory,
    Has almost ceased to be--that’s Babylon.
    And I, the father, know this Babylon
    As creature of my loins, yet indeed
    This city scarcely differs from the cities
    That lie afar, as aging sons are men
    Among the men of earth, but scarcely more
    To a father bent with time than other men.
    For in my riotous genius, like a vine
    I did put forth this branch, the vine decays,
    The branch will live a season. Out of genius
    And lust of life to madness, out of madness
    To this tranquillity, and this setting sun,
    This peace with heaven.




HIP LUNG _ON_ YUAN CHANG


    You like store? You like Chinese tea? You like me?
    You like silk, fan, screen, dragon, pearl chair, jade;
    You like Chinese tobacco, picture, Budda too,
    Well, as Geesu Klist? All light Lee,
    You Chinaman, maybe. I like Chicago too.
    I like you, and Hinky Dink, lots I like.
    Good city here, much friends. I make some money,
    Go back to China sometime. Keep store here,
    Come back to store.

                      China old country, vely old country,
    Wise country, much wise men long time ago.
    Here book Shu Ching, about old time,
    More’n tree tousand year ago. Here Lun Yu book
    About Confucius, live long time ago, much time
    Before live Geesu; taught love one another,
    Be good to good men; bad men be fair to; speak truth.
    Where sun and moon shine, all place, love and honor
    Come to Confucius, brother of God.

                                        More yet:
    Lao Tzu great man, too, who say be good
    To bad men; Chinaman read; close book and speak
    What book says; to be wise, Chinese learn to speak
    What book say closed, on shelf, burned up, or lost.
    Chicago good town, Amelika good country, England,
    Europe good country too, but China good country,
    Wise long time ago, when no Amelika was,
    No town in England, and no book in Europe,
    Two tousand year before Geesu Kliste came.
    Some say Budda greater than Kliste;
    Chinee say Confucius greater than Budda.
    I say all gods; leave alone--what you care?
    Kill Chinaman if you wish, golden rule is golden rule
    In Pekin, or Jerusalem.

                            Geesu Kliste people,
    Salvation Army come and say: “Hip Lung,
    Be saved, love Geesu Kliste, be baptized.”
    I know the Four Books, I say the Four Books
    And never look; but when I say Confucius
    Taught Golden Rule and love, they say, not clear
    Like Geesu Kliste, Confucius heathen man,
    Not good like Geesu Kliste. All light! All light!
    I sing about the Dragon Boats, go round
    The store till they go on. They no read
    The Four Books, no care. Sometime I ask
    Why China not hear about Geesu Kliste for years.
    Why? Eh? We hear of Budda, why
    No hear of Kliste?

                      Kliste people say
    Tree hundred year they know Kliste comin’--
    China no hear. China hear ’bout Budda
    Tree hundred year after Budda die.
    Ming Ti, great king, sent down India
    To hear ’bout God Budda.
    China no hear of Kliste then ...
    Tousand year after God Budda die,
    Great man come to China; Fa Hsien,
    Kliste dead now four hundred year,
    But China no hear. Why?
    Fa Hsien go to India to get books about Budda.
    Go trou Gobi desert--no birds, tigers,
    But much dragons and devils.
    Fa Hsien go to Benares, Budda, Gaya, Ceylon
    Come back with books about light way;
    See light, hope light, speak light,
    Do light, live light, try light; light mind,
    Light happiness. And China hear
    And love Budda!...

    Kliste dead four hundred year--
    Alle time much people in China, temples, cities,
    Much books, many wise men.
    And Kliste dead now six hundred year,
    And China no hear. Kliste!
    Same time god Budda grow in China.

    Kliste dead more’n six hundred year,
    And Arabs come from Medina to Canton,
    Tell about prophet of God Muhammed--Allah!
    But no Kliste much.

    Next year, Kliste dead now ’bout 630 year.
    Salvation Army come from Persia, and China hear
    ’Bout Kliste, too late; god Budda worshipped now
    By much China people.

    Year before Salvation Army from Persia
    Great man come again: Yuan Chang.
    He go to India to get books
    ’Bout god Budda, and see holy place.
    You no hear ’bout Yuan Chang? No?
    Greek men, great men, and Cheeser,
    Napoleon great men and popes, and Roosevelt--
    All light! Yuan Chang great man too.
    Like Fa Hsien he go trou Gobi desert,
    Fight robbers, dragons, no water, no food;
    See much broken cities;
    Go from Samarkand to Nepal;
    Gone fourteen years;
    Come back to Singor,
    Tai-tsung emperor now,
    And vely glad to see Yuan Chang,
    Who bring tousands of books by god Budda,
    Gold, silver, crystal images of god Budda,
    And bones of god Budda, hair, nails, leaves of Bo tree,
    All like that. Where is Kliste now? I don’t know.
    China hear not much....

    Tai-tsung great emperor! Know much too!
    Know about Allah, know about Budda,
    Know about Kliste, and Salvation Army.
    But Tai-tsung no give a damn,
    Only say to Yuan Chang:
    Write Budda books in China language.
    And write Lao Tzu in Indian language.
    Trade gods that way! We no lose.
    Maybe India see more in Lao Tzu
    Than China, who knows? All time
    Kliste dead more’n six hundred year,
    And no body say much bout Kliste,
    And China goin’ to hell, as Salvation Army say,
    Alle time.

    Kliste dead six hundred year,
    Salvation Army come to England,
    And baptize everybody; but China no hear.
    Kliste dead eighteen hundred year,
    England come to China for Kliste and opium--
    Make nice dreams--what you care
    ’Bout Budda, Kliste--Smoke? Eh?




ULYSSES


    Settled to evenings before the doorway
    With Telemachus, who sat at his knee,
    “Why did you stay so long from Ithaca,
    Leaving my mother Penelope?”

    The eyes of the hero rolled and wandered,
    Thinking of Scylla and Sicily.
    “That’s a hard question,” answered Ulysses,
    “Harder, if answered, for you to see.

    “There was the Cyclops, there was Æolus,
    There were the Sirens, and Hades for me;
    Apollo’s oxen, Hades’ horrors,
    Circe, and then Ogygia.

    “All these after the war, Telemachus--
    Too long a tale, as you will agree.
    The bards must write it, when you are older
    Read till the gray hairs give you the key

    “Of the wonder and richness that were your father’s
    Life in the war, the long way home.
    No man has lived, as I, Telemachus,
    None ever will live in the days to come
    “A life that followed the paths and hollows
    Of Time, the wayward ways of the streams
    That flow round earth, the winds and waters
    Of passion, wisdom, thought and dreams.

    “There are two things, my boy, and only
    Two in the world, remember this:
    One thing is men, the other women,
    And after the two of them nothing is.

    “I have known men as king and warrior,
    Known them as liegmen, spears of the line.
    Good enough lamps for workaday darkness--
    They are not food, they are not wine;

    “They are not heat that stir the secret
    Core of the seed of a man, be sure.
    And I, Ulysses, needed the planets,
    And suns of the spring to live, mature.”

    “What do you mean?” asked Telemachus,
    “And, say is it true you lost eight years
    Away from Ithaca, me and my mother
    Because of a certain Calypso’s tears?”

    The eyes of the hero rolled and wandered.
    “There now, my boy, you have the truth.
    I’ll try to tell you perhaps you’ll get it
    In spite of your filial love and your youth.

    “First, understand there are two things only;--
    One is women, the other men.
    And men I knew before and at Troyland,
    And searched their hearts again and again.

    “What do you get? Secrets of cunning,
    Cruelty, strength, and much that you use
    In the battle with them; but what’s a woman?
    She is the mother, she is the Muse

    “That leads and lifts to life--Telemachus
    How can I tell you?--have a care!
    Young men seize on the words of wisdom,
    And find their hands in a silken snare,

    “Hearing blindly, seeing literally,
    What is a sword, a lamp, a shield?
    Touch and learn, the name is only
    The shell wherein the thing is concealed.”

    “What do you mean?” asked Telemachus.
    “What do I mean? Attend to me!
    I’ll try to tell you, telling a story
    Of the island called Ogygia.

    “I know women--how shall I tell you?
    Women are good, and good is wine.
    Yet how to tell the wine and women
    That turn her adorers into swine.

    “You must have aid of Hermes, swiftness
    Of spirit and sense to tell them apart;
    How to be strong, how to be tender,
    How to surrender and keep your heart.

    “Easy for me to baffle Circe,
    Easy the Sirens to slip--just wax!
    I steered for Ithaca, you and your mother,
    Isle to isle on the ocean’s tracks,

    “Until I came and saw Calypso.
    Son you would be with Calypso yet.
    It takes a hero suppled in flame
    To see Calypso, and leave, forget

    Face and voice enough to leave her,
    Spurn her promises, turn from her tears,
    Come to Ithaca with this doorway,
    Age that hovers, the little years.”

    “What do you mean?” asked Telemachus.
    “Live and learn,” Ulysses replied.
    “Calypso promised me youth eternal
    If I would stay and make her my bride.”

    “And why not stay?” asked Telemachus
    “To have her for wife, if not a youth
    Eternal given you?” “Boy of me listen
    Now for the core of the deepest truth:

    “We dined in grottoes of blooming ivy;
    We supped in halls of cedar and gold;
    We slept on balconies, sapphire tented--
    But even I found this growing old.

    “I saw her beauty bare by star light,
    And by the sea in the sun, and stoled
    In silk as white as snow on Parnassus--
    But even I found this growing old.

    “Her tresses smelt of the blooms of Hymettus,
    Her breasts were cymbals sweet to behold;
    Her voice was a harp of pearl and silver--
    But even I found this growing old.

    “Her Lips were like the flame of a taper
    Scented and musical, as she would fold
    White arms over the brawn of my shoulders--
    But even I found this growing old.

    “She promised me this and youth forever,
    So long as the sun and the planets rolled.
    I knew they were gifts she could not give me,
    Empty promises too grow old.

    “And even if given, why forever
    Live the things that have grown enough?
    She loved me, wonderful Calypso.
    But what is love? It is only love.

    “And the salt of a man turns to his doorway,
    He makes his will for his blood at the end.
    My boy, that’s why I left Calypso
    And came to you--do you comprehend?

    “To sit unshorn, and clothed as I choose,
    Talk with the swineherd, potter or shirk,
    Babble at ease, my boy, with your mother
    Around the house at rest or at work.

    “And you must not forget, Telemachus,
    In order to have immortality
    It had to be with Calypso--therefore
    I came to you and Penelope,

    “Who soon will leave me, at best, or else
    I’ll leave you for the Isles of the Blest.
    I find this doorway good, Telemachus,
    As a place to dream and a place to rest.”

    “I do not understand, Ulysses,
    Father of me. At first the call
    Of the blood, I thought, would hasten you homeward.
    And now I wonder you came at all

    “Here to Ithaca. What, my father,
    Is here but my mother growing old;
    Aged Lærtes, Telemachus--
    What of Calypso’s hair of gold?

    “What of the island, what of the feasting,
    What of her kisses, were it I
    I’d spurn eternal youth, as a mortal
    Live with Calypso until I should die.”

    “I have no doubt,” said the many minded
    Great Ulysses. “It’s plain to see
    You are a boy yet. When is supper?
    Go ask your mother Penelope.”




THE PARTY


    Our wishes not consulted whether
    We chose to come, not even the hour,
    Some would have asked for fairer weather
    Than on a day of sun and shower.
    No chance to choose! And some got wet,
    Were sick and nervous while they stayed;
    Others came in the sun, the debt
    Of Fortune to them overpaid.
    We all came ignorant, willy-nilly,
    Pell mell, piebald, grave and silly,
    Resistless to the party drawn,
    Which had gone on and would go on
    From dawn to night and night to dawn.
    Though some, it seemed, had scarcely come
    Before they left; and some at noon,
    Or morning bade adieu. The moon
    Saw others take departure home.
    All talked about it as you would;
    Esteemed it dull, over too soon,--
    Bad, sad, or wearing, very good!

    Over too soon! Yet truth to tell
    It was a lasting festival.
    Guests had to leave--and that was all.
    To each some different thing befell.
    The party went on just the same.
    First guests departed, late arrived;
    Fresh candles burned with brighter flame;
    New cakes were cut, and laughter thrived
    Over a wit re-sharpened. Crumbs
    Of eaten things were brushed away;
    Dishes were cleared and lovelier bowls
    Were piled with new picked grapes and plums.
    The place the while was mad and gay
    Because of sad and merry souls.
    There was a room for love’s romancing;
    A room for talk, a room for dancing;
    A room for globes and maps and books;
    A room with sky lights, a room of nooks;
    A room of pictures, marbles, bronzes;
    Guns, gauntlets, spears, armor, sconces;
    A room of racks and torture hooks;
    A room of ikons, shrines and josses;
    A room of crosiers, cups and crosses;
    A room--but everything was here--
    That brain can think of, plan or make
    To shackle spirits, honor brows,
    To thrill the heart, or start the tear,
    Or stir a rapture, or an ache--
    It was a wonder house!

    I noticed this: You enter with
    Fellow arrivers, ill at ease.
    The rooms are full, and some of these
    Know you, but only with their eyes
    Acknowledge you in mild surprise.
    Listen! and you will get the pith
    And meaning of what went before
    From these. The high ones talk in myth,
    Who own the rooms--in loose ellipsis
    Show what their tried out fellowships’
    Inner communion is and lore.
    But kinder souls say: “Some one great
    Was here before you came.” “This thing
    Happened this morning.” “Look! that one
    Just going out, is so and so.”
    “There comes the waiter with your plate!”
    “You should have heard that woman sing!
    She’s going!” “Oh, we’ve had such fun.”
    “What happened? What’s ahead? Its slow!”
    Late stayers stare your ignorance:
    “Why don’t they tell us?” “Oh, no use,
    You wouldn’t understand. You’ll know
    Later, perhaps, by happy chance.
    And if you don’t, it’s too abstruse,
    We have no words. Feed on and run
    The rooms around. You’ll see what we
    Have felt, seen, suffered and enjoyed.”

    And so it is to father and son,
    Mother and maid. Then what should be?
    The bell rings, some are glad, annoyed:
    New guests are coming, and for some
    The Chauffeur rings, the Car has come!
    And we who were the novices,
    And wondered, stared, deferred, inquired,
    Are now in charge, and take amiss
    Curious questions, have acquired
    The Party’s manner, secrets, speech.
    And see, as those before us saw,
    New and old groups are troubled, each
    Is deaf and dumb. How can we draw
    Their wordless wonder to the point?
    What would you know? How can we reach
    And vocalize your dumbness? What
    To ask of us you do not know,
    And what to tell you we know not--
    Groups, therefore, clearly out of joint.

    Yes, but they do not know us now.
    Most here are strange. Where is the throng
    With whom we came? Where is the brow
    Sunny of hair, the voice of song?
    Where is the hand that understood,
    Without a word? There’s none to hear,
    And know our meaning as he would ...
    New wine is opened. No more wine!
    New cake is cut. I must instead
    Drink brandy, bitters, heavy beer.
    I rather like this coarse, black bread.
    Strange music plays, not high and clear.
    No matter! For you might inspect
    The pictures, marbles, once again,
    Look at the books some more, correct
    First errors. Surely that were well.
    And you can do it, having fared
    So differently. Was that the bell?
    “Your chauffeur’s here!” “Why speed me so?”
    “Too bad! Too bad you have to go!”

    Yes, but the party’s over! No?
    Over for me. And I am tired.
    Desire for what I once desired
    Is dying or is satisfied.
    Tell him to wait a moment--yes
    I wish to see what may betide;
    Watch the new corners laugh and feast;
    Watch eyes that glance, and breasts that heave;
    Watch cunning, aspiration, pride;
    Watch soldier, statesman, poet, priest;
    Watch those who doubt and who believe,
    Untangle, tangle, spin and weave.
    I’ve helped to make the party, still
    The party is not to my will.
    I can re-make it, now I know
    How to enjoy it better, use
    Its hour more wisely. “By your leave.
    Just wait a moment!” “Well, your car
    Is at the door and must not park;
    The way you go is rather far,
    Besides it’s growing dark.”
    Bowed out! No matter! I am due
    At a better party, so they say.
    To-morrow is a better day--
    Always to-morrow. “What of you?
    You’re coning? Well, I hope you may.”
    “Meantime good night, a safe return,
    And blessings on your way.”




CELSUS AT HADRIAN’S VILLA


    This is the place, my friend Aristo. Here
    We sit and muse on the state of the world. Alas!
    What are we coming to?

                            The tufa walls
    Inlaid with yellow lichens look like bronze
    Gold filagreed. And through those rifts and breaks
    There are the trunks of ilex, gnarled and dark.
    Look! Nature mocks us. Hadrian is asleep
    These nearly hundred years. Does cyclamen
    Crimson about these walls grow less profuse?
    Or these anemones laugh less to the sun?
    Or bramble, honeysuckle, bougainvillea
    Desert the gardens of the emperor?
    The merle and golden-crested wrens build nests,
    Sing the hymeneal song! But man, poor man,
    Forsakes his triumphs, work, his palaces.
    And barbarous weeds sprout over them and creep,
    And choke his wisdom and his art.

                                    Let’s sit
    Here in this colonnade. Philosophers
    From Rome and Athens, Alexandria,
    From mystic India, walked this colonnade,
    And let the mind run free. It is no more,
    Unless we fight the human weeds that spring
    Under the rains that darken Rome. Let’s up
    With hoes and root them.

                            Here’s cat-brier--chop!
    Cat-brier, Christian meekness, fair to view--
    But how it stinks! And briars: pain and loss
    For ecstasy and gain beyond--I chop!
    Chop here, Aristo, get your friends to chop,
    Lest all the world be given up to weeds,
    As Hadrian’s Villa is about to be.
    Rome soon will stretch her templed neck to breathe
    Above the thorns, the hyssop. Even now
    The state is crumbling with the heresy
    That Rome should not be reverenced and saved,
    But every soul saved. The Imperial City
    To which each Roman is a servitor
    Put by for doctrine making every heart
    Worthy of saving from the wreck of life--
    I chop this weed. And for the soul of Rome,
    The lazar soul, the slave, the fuller, cobbler,
    The fool, the God-forsaken and the child ...
    What if Rome fall? The City of God remains
    Eternal in the Heavens. Yes, but Earth,
    Where is thy city, if it be not Rome?
    Destroy your Romans, Hadrians, what is left?--
    Itinerant exorcists and prophets, idlers,
    And sacred beggars, leper lips that curse
    Rome and her beauty? These the citizens
    Of the City of God! What will that city be?
    Themselves externalized, as Rome has flowered
    From Roman minds; but never a Hadrian Villa
    In the City of God, never from scowls and sores!
    No You shall have a world of trade and lies,
    Of itching and denials, for a world
    Of freedom and expression, wine and song.
    These huckstering Jews are planting in our Rome
    The faith that they persuaded God to kill
    His Son to save them. And a huckstering
    Will taint the flesh of all who eat this god.
    But yet how they will rub their palms and coo
    And ape a meekness. Here! Aristo, chop!...

    But just so long as stories remain in place
    Of Hadrian’s Villa, eyes will look upon them
    And sense the mind of Rome, and what it was:
    That eyes were made for seeing, ears for hearing,
    Hands made to touch, tongues made to taste, minds made
    To think, imagine, love given to indulge
    For rapture. There’s no law of heaven or earth
    That trims eyes, ears, the senses,
    Of use; but all were made to leaf and bloom
    The idea of the eye, the ear, the hand.
    And only reason with regard for health
    Of eyes, ears, hands, may guide and say: how far....
    See now what Hadrian’s mind created here:--
    A tragic theatre, a comic theatre.
    What for? For eyes’ sake, for exploring life.
    Katharsis? Yes. But use? No use to him
    Who thinks life sin, the world’s end near, for Jews
    Who like the frogs in marshes croaking, say:
    “For our sakes was the world created, we
    Alone are chosen of God.” No use for him
    Who sees enough of suffering in life
    Without its mimicry; sees not the art
    Of shooting light between the mystery
    Of human fate, and waking sympathy
    Through understanding. Christian weeds I chop,
    Whose roots begin to sap the tragic roots
    Of Sophocles.

                  But I say eyes may see:
    And if I wish to watch the lions fight
    What interdicts me, and what reason for it?
    Now look how Hadrian’s mind puts into flower:
    A temple for Greek books, and one for Latin;
    And there’s the stadium, and there’s the baths.
    These Christians frown the bath. If I make out
    Jesus may come today, and wherefore wash?
    Besides the naked bathers cling and kiss
    Within the tepidarium at times, and hence
    Out with all bathing!

                            There’s the palace too
    Which o’ertops Nero’s Golden House, they say.
    And what guest chambers here! The laughing soul
    Of Hadrian glows amid his friends. What’s best
    In life, Aristo? Why, when the soul is freed,
    From business, traffic, grasping, thought of self,
    The aches of the day, and being freed shines forth
    As star companions star, in smiles and words
    Of praise, affection. Hadrian loves the faith
    Of happiness, and lets his guests fare free,
    Wander eight miles of garden, enter vales
    Of Tempe, watch a mimic Peneus
    Flow by; encounter fauns amid the brakes;
    Surprise Bacchantes sleeping; hear from hills
    A chorus of Euripides soothe their souls
    With dreams before Faustina’s sculptured face,
    Or Antinous, Apollo, Venus; bathe
    Their glowing bodies in the pools; partake
    Of food or wine, gifts of the gods. Such life
    Is passing, soon will pass. Aurelius
    Lies under thought, which thrived before the day
    Of Paul for all of that, the folly sees not
    Of slaving Christians, while himself is teaching
    The Christian doctrine! Ugliness, denial,
    Self-laceration, beggary, are older
    Than Jesus--and I chop!

                                But let the world
    Submit to weeds, in time what will you have?
    Not Hadrian’s Villa, but a villa walled,
    Walls spiked and guarded, and a house of walls
    Empty of sculpture, where a miser-man,
    Guarding his gold, a lone man eating bread
    And milk, rules realms and countries from the book
    Of Enoch, Exodus, the Septuagint,
    And these purported writings of one Paul;
    And who has made his heart a granary
    For seed of faith and trade. This weed I chop!
    For then your world lies flatter than the land
    Of that campagna, made a marsh for frogs,
    Dull grass and feculent roots, as it would lie
    If once invaders smashed the aqueducts
    And drowned our lovely plain!

                                  You see, my friend
    Why I fight back the weeds. This is not all,
    For I know what engenders Christian faith:
    Man dreams he can be saved, but saved from what?
    Sin? What is sin? Age? What can save from age,
    What keep the spring of youth, its rosy flesh,
    Its spirit never tiring, hope undarkened,
    Its courage without fears, long dreams and days?
    Why nothing! All’s illusion that holds forth
    A medicine for wrinkles, shrunken arms.
    Therefore what saves from death? Does Jesus save?
    Does Jesus ease a soul’s pain, cure a loss
    Save as these devotees may soothe their hearts
    With prospects of to-morrow, or of heaven?
    No! good Aristo, all this Roman realm,
    Washed by this sea, for centuries has been
    As fertile as the valley of the Nile
    For seed of this salvation dream, the seed
    Of Mithra and Osiris, Krishna, Budda,
    Adonis, Tammuz, Dionysus, Attis,
    What is this seed of Jesus? Nothing new:
    The virgin birth? That’s old as human dreams.
    There’s Dionysus born of Semele,
    A virgin, and of Zeus; great Dionysus
    The resurrection of the year, the mad
    Intoxicating power of nature, wine.
    There is a myth that Jesus at a feast
    Turned water into wine, a Bacchic feat.
    One myth blends in another like mosaics
    Of microscopic jewels. I go on.
    Zeus fathers many sons of virgins born,
    Is not content with one. He takes Danæ
    And Perseus is the fruit, who slays the Gorgons
    And saves Andromeda, the human soul.
    Devaki is a virgin, weds Vishnu,
    And Krishna comes. A virgin is the mother
    Of Budda. Horus springs from virgin Isis,
    Our Lady, Queen of Heaven, Star of the Sea,
    Mother of God, so called for centuries
    Before the days of Mary. Neith, the virgin,
    Was mother of Osiris. Mithra’s born
    Of a virgin mother.

                        This is what I mean
    By fertile soil of Egypt, Persia, Greece,
    That crops the seed of Jesus. Is this all?
    All saviours tally fully. All were born
    In caves or stables, chambers under ground;
    All labored for the welfare of the race;
    All were light bringers, healers, mediators
    Between the gods and men. All fell in death,
    Descended to the underworld. All rose
    To strive for men in heaven; all created
    Communions, churches, rites of water, wine,
    Last suppers, brought the entheos, spilt their blood;
    God, Krishna, Dionysus, Hercules.
    And as for that Tammuz was crucified,
    Prometheus was nailed and chained.

                                        You know!
    These from the mysteries of the heart, from life;--
    Death of the year, birth of the year, the hope
    That shines amid the mist of doubts and days;
    The dream that says if nature leave the grave
    Of winter, what’s the life of man, to be
    Shut from the law that wakes the fallen seed?
    If God renews the wine, I drink the juice
    Of the grape and live! If God be in the bull,
    And must be, life is life, and all is life
    Of one divinity, I drink the blood,
    I wash therein, cleanse sin, and celebrate
    A ritual of salvation, endless life!...
    I trace all Krishnas, Mithras in this god,
    Hope’s latest dream.

                            What’s needed but a flame
    That draws these older flames? What but a man
    Of inspiration, labor, sacrifice,
    A poet, hater of the scurvy times,
    Killed for his blasting eyes, accusing tongue,
    To have your Christos? Jesus lived. Why not?
    ’Tis credible; killed by the Jews, why not?
    And made a sacrifice for many--doctrine
    World old and wide. From Babylon the Jews
    Brought Hammurapi, brought Sacaea too,
    A ritual for prisoners doomed to die,
    By which they would be decked in kingly robes,
    Stripped, scourged and hanged even as we have done
    At Saturnalia. How else “King of the Jews,”
    Except by ancient custom? Think, Aristo,
    Would great Tiberius suffer such sedition
    Except as drama and in mockery?
    Aristo, if this Jesus were the god
    As Mithra, Dionysus are, ’twere well
    With Rome and Hadrian’s Villa. Understand
    If these infatuate zealots, Jews would keep
    Their god, belief, but still conform to Rome,
    Rome’s gods, the empire reverence, who would care?
    No Roman! No one! But to hear these prophets
    Cry through our cities, camps: to everlasting
    Flames commit our cities and our lands,
    And curse us out of Jewish scriptures, draw
    The imprecations of the epileptic
    Paul upon us, this I fight, I chop!
    I stand with sword against the enervation
    Of private judgment, that the common man
    Is heaven’s prize. This demos mania
    And ruin of the empire I oppose.
    And when these plagues of Christians grow too loud,
    And Rome arouses, wants the lions fed,
    Or crosses painted with a little red,
    I go to see. These anarch colleges,
    Illicit schools, called churches, quiet down
    When in the circus Christian bones are crunched....

    Now for my consolation if Rome fall;
    If lowliness and other worldiness;
    If meekness, sacrifice; if life’s denial;
    If all this creed out of inverted thought,
    Shame for the lust of life, the Orient’s
    Sick perfume, drugs, if all of this be taken
    Into the body of Rome, the world; the poison
    Of Jesus swallowed--this my consolation:
    Life, being God, is stronger than God’s Son;
    Life will digest it, and evacuate
    What cannot be digested, and retain
    What can be used. Another Rome will rise
    If our Rome fall. Let’s go up there, a while,
    And watch the waterfalls, and have some wine.




INVOCATION TO THE GODS


I

    Goddess, born of the mother of all things, the sea,
    Goddess of beauty, goddess of rapture,
    Goddess whose girdle is life,
    Come down to us, O Aphrodite.
    We are sunk in the slough of our shame;
    We are torn with denials and fears,
    Who have turned from thy altar,
    And rejected thy worship
    And mangled the gift of love
    For the ritual of Mary the Virgin.
    Come down to us that we may re-make ourselves
    In the likeness of thy face--
    We have no goddess like thee
    O Aphrodite!


II

    And thou, equal sister, O goddess
    Whose temple yet stands enthroned rock-bound above
    The grotto of Mary of Galilee,
    Eternal symbol!
    Come down to us:
    Preserver of the state
    In peace and war,
    With the healing of harmonious thought.
    Stern goddess of an equal law,
    And ruler of the mind.
    Guardian of temples and republics.
    Lover and inspirer of the arts,
    Come down to us that we may re-make ourselves
    In the likeness of thy face.
    We have no goddess like thee
    Pallas Athena!


III

    Thou soul of the Sun
    And master of fire,
    Law-giver, ruler, warder,
    Founder of templed cities,
    Founder of states invincible and free;
    Thou voice of prophecy, wisest friend
    Of commonwealths;
    Lord of music, lord of words and sounds,
    And brother of the muses.
    Come down that we may re-make ourselves
    In the likeness of thy face.
    We have no god like thee
    O great Apollo!


IV

    Of old amid the mountains sat the father
    Of gods and men!
    Broad souled as nature, being nature.
    Human and gracious, laughing, wise as time.
    Ruler of earth and heaven--all but fate;
    And promising no life that was not fate;
    No wonder and no change
    Beyond the rule of fate.
    Great Zeus whose fruitful loins
    Peopled Olympus
    With gods and goddesses, well belovéd.
    Not father of one son, but many sons;
    Not father of one daughter, but many daughters,
    Begotten of thee, immaculately,
    Being begotten in nature.
    Great father of redeemers who redeemed
    Through truth which frees through being known,
    Not faith in truth which is not known.
    Beauty and not belief,
    Mystical waters, curses, flames and death!
    Come down, O Father Zeus, while we re-make
    Our faces in the likeness of thy face.
    We have no god like thee
    O sovran Zeus!


V

    Thou Thunderer, whose mood was wine and love,
    Miraculous life, creativeness
    Of color and sound,
    Out of the lightning, out of the mist,
    Out of the beat and urge of the sea,
    Out of mountains, sacred groves and streams.
    Thou king and father of the virgin daughter
    Templed in pure, in deathless stone
    In sacred Athens.
    Not always striking at the foes of Hellas;
    Nor sending fury on her enemies;
    Nor bathing swords in heaven
    To smite the foes of Hellas;
    Nor treading grapes in anger;
    Nor sprinkling blood on garments
    To make all peoples worship thee, O Zeus!
    Nor breeding worms that die not,
    To make all peoples worship thee, O Zeus!
    Nor stirring envy like a man of war
    To make all peoples worship thee, O Zeus!
    Nor preaching words of gladness to the meek;
    Nor opening prison doors
    To sound the day of vengeance,
    To make all peoples worship thee, O Zeus!
    Nor saying, eat the riches of thy foes,
    And suck their milk;
    And make them plowmen;
    And take dominion over them and power.
    I am the one, the only god, go forth
    And make all peoples worship, I am Zeus!


VI

    The hunted ghost of Delphos steals
    From land to land.

    Thy lyre has been weighed in the balances
    Of the money changers, and rejected.
    The Prince of Peace has brought the sword
    Even as he prophesied.
    All peoples are at strife
    Between his ritual and the will to life.
    Vengeance, hypocrisy and darkness
    Are over us, we are vipers
    Coiled in a cistern.
    We wait for blood in the moon,
    For darkness in the Sun,
    For a voice from clouds of glory:
    Depart from me, accursed; into fire.
    I shut the gates of heaven
    And burn the world with wrath!

    Thou in Olympus tombed
    With all thy sons and daughters,
    Palace no more, a footstool
    For Jehovah of Judea,
    Come back that we may re-make ourselves
    In the likeness of thy face.
    O, father Zeus,
    Wake when Jesus shuts
    The gates of heaven,
    And take us to Olympus!




PENTHEUS IN THESE STATES


I

    Muse of the meditative hymn, and Muse
    Of chronicles and the scroll, to us refuse
    No gift to sing the daimon, the divine
    God-head of Nature, Freedom and the Vine.
    Nor less that Orpheus of the Mysteries:
    Stars and the Soul and Heaven, and the Seas
    Of tangible streams made light above the dust
    Of this bewildering earth of Flesh and Lust.


II

    First from what Thracian land
    Did your attendants come
    In coon-skin caps and jeans,
    Into this wilderness, spanned
    By mountains, to this home
    Of the Corn-mother, clothed in variable greens
    Of barley, oats and wheat?
    Hither hurried your adventurous feet
    From England, and from the hills
    Above the Rhine, and out of the valleys
    Of the populous plain
    Of Lombardy, around the Seine,
    You came
    Like flame that follows flame!
    From Galway, Lyons, Bergen, Budapest,
    Onward you pressed,
    With hearts that sang, and brave,
    Like wave that runs to wave!
    And from all northlands of new dreams, from ills
    That stir the Spring awakening and the quest.
    Thence were these swarming sallies
    Into New England, and the great Northwest--
    Virginia and Kentucky, Tennessee.
    Thracians you were, attending Dionyse,
    And seeking realms of Nature to be free.
    Ciders from orchards would have ease,
    And wine from vineyards, to be planted,
    Where the roar of mountain torrents haunted
    Heights of the pine and slopes of fragrant grasses
    From plains to granite passes.
    Rocks sealed with frost and ice which prisoned
    The secret wine of Life new sensed and newly visioned
    Flowed when the Spring of a great Age, and its Herakles,
    Fire of the Sun of Liberty, melted the locks
    Of ancient and forbidding rocks
    Binding the torrent: human and divine
    Strength and adventure: Mænads and Thyiades,
    Bacchæ, Bassarides:
    Spirits and evangels of new wine.
    Mad Ones: armed for war.
    And Rushing Ones: defying Strife.
    Inspired Ones: trailing the Star
    Of larger life.


III

          And with this swift descent,
          To this far occident,
    Tracking the gleam, the god, the freer fields;
          Rejoicing, but in rites
          For the Mystery, the delights
    Of living and of thought, which moulds and wields,
    These hunters, fur-capped, like the devotees
    Out of the Thrace of old, worshipping and defending
    The wine-grower, and temple-builder, Dionyse,
    Carved from the fire impregnate Earth the sovereignties
    Of Maryland, New York, and Tennessee’s
    Mountainous realm, to the blending
    Of foothills with the meadows of Illinois.
    And made initiate in great liberties
    The farthest West, until the Orient sea’s
    Soft thunder lustrates California, bending
    Above green water, clothed in purple and gold.
    Carved these with hope their children would uphold,
    And no hand would destroy
    The altars of States heaped full of grapes and grain:
    Births of the Sun and earth, to be adored,
    And gathered in high festival and joy
    From mountain side and plain;
    And drunk from golden kantharoi,
    God entering into man, thereby: restored
    By the blood and flesh of the god, the lord,
    To strength and vision to unveil
    Deep mysteries and raptures, worshippings
    Of nature, love for man, for deities
    Quick intimations, quiverings through the wings
    Of larger life, and sweeter music, cities
    Of higher fellowships and lovelier ways
    Of wisdom, where the phantoms of the Pities,
    And the Hatreds, the Agonies
    Of Melancholy, Madness, Soul’s Disease
    From horrors, and from idiot pieties
    Are softened or dispelled in Freedom’s praise.


IV

    Pentheus in the tree-top spies upon
    The wild white women, the dance, the festival.
    And Judas spies on Jesus
    In the epiphany of Orpheus out of Dionysus.
    But the cup is drunk by the lover, the singer John.
    Who finding the ecstasy of sorrow, and sounding the deeps
    Of love and vision, human and mystical
    In the wine cup, oh, beloved guest,
    Sinks in a moment of ineffable rest,
    And rid of the flesh, half sleeps
    Upon the Master’s breast.
    Judas alert for treasure and for treason
    Dips in the sop his bread--
    Judas the founder of the sect which fouls
    The feast of Life, lizards and owls.
    But where the liknon is borne, the cradle heaped
    With fruits and flowers at the bridal feast,
    O, Dionysiac Christ, you passed the cup;
    And at the supper of parting, O lovely priest,
    At the time of the fan, and the purging of the floor,
    You served the blood of the grape, and you did sup
    With fur-capped fellows, and revealed the lore
    Of remembrance for the mysteries you had spoken
    Over the purple hills, and by the yellow shore
    In wine quaffed and bread broken.


V

    Thin lips where cruel smiles betray
    Envy and frigid spirits, souls of gray
    Who will descend upon you, rend and slay?
    Unknowers of the cycle of Man’s day:
    That nourished flesh grows spirit, and that wine
    Is the oil of the lamp of the soul, and feeds the flame
    That lights the world with Art! Who will waylay
    Your spying and your hatred, limb from limb
    Tear you, or drive you to a death of shame,
    Like Judas self-hung? As if in paradigm,
    Purple but horrible! Cut-throats of the rites
    Of amity and dreams, the blossoming,
    The release from the flesh to soul’s delights,
    Intenser life in soft intoxication--
    And from that life, and rapturous elation
    Who are you who restrain,
    Making a cult of undelivered pain?--
    Through which men love and fashion, sing.
    You false salvationists and street haranguers,
    Self-drunk with soul suppression and perversion,
    Who shout the terror of putrescence, never beauty;
    You with suspicions of the peasant Persian;
    You foul-breathed ranters of Duty
    About these states, you vermin-eaten clangers
    Of hog-ribs, paper tambourines:--
    Degenerate instruments for an imbecile faith,
    And mockeries of bright silver (touched by queens,
    The Muses), and the ebony crotola.
    You scare-crows of the Mænads and the Muses,
    Breastless or babeless women who would vote
    For rulership of other homes, not yours.
    And you who moralize and gloat
    On the refuse of banquets in the sewers.
    You preachers of Denial and of Death,
    And maniacs of repression which refuses
    The cup of life! And in this bacchanalia,
    You followers of Orpheus, as reformer,
    Plain dressed in alpaca and string ties,
    Who bellow forth your prophecies and curses
    Not that man lives, but that man dies.
    You carriers of umbrellas, not the thyrsos,
    Or rifles of the fur-capped pioneers;
    Slick spouters who fill fat penurious purses
    Out of inevitable tears.
    You Judases to Beauty, the sneak, informer,
    Blind that all Canas must precede
    The soul’s Gethsemanes, that there can be
    Save Cana strengthens, no Gethsemane;
    And if no living then no heart to bleed
    Its blood to make us like the god, the Christ.
    No flower of spirit without root and vine,
    Nor loveliness for our sakes sacrificed;
    No beauty without wine--
    You who these mysteries see not, or gainsay
    Who will tear limb from limb of you and slay?


VI

    You who behold no spirit in earth and sun,
    And in their marriage no symbol of increase;
    And you who plan or plot or brood, but run
    About the wine press never, and who shun
    The kinship which makes one of beasts and man,
    Blossoms and vines and trees.
    You who see not the mystery of food,
    The ecstasy of the feast, replenishment
    Of spirit in the wine-cup, and who ban
    In fear or loathing, swooning of the blood;
    You who can take as memory’s sacrament
    The wafer and the thimble of vapid juice,
    And yet deny us, seekers of elation,
    Re-birth through Dionysus, the youthful Christ:
    Living, rejoicing in Life’s thrilling spring,
    Not grieving in its autumn and decline,
    Bridal, not funeral wine
    In the hour of memory and of parting;
    You who forbid our ritual and our use
    Of Nature’s secrets, our illumination,
          Our sleep, our peace,
    Our freedom from the Fears, intoxication
          In which our souls are paradised;
    Our insight, charities, and our release
          From the grave of the day’s flesh, our Orphic lips
    Through which we find creations, sun-lit wings,
    Love, wanderings of the soul, and fellowships--
    You who these wisdoms see not, or gainsay
    Who will tear limb from limb of you, and slay?

    Will the old States never come to us, never again,
          And the sovereignty of men,
    In the mountains of our fathers, along the boundless plain?
    Has the will of the people perished, or passed into the hand
    Of the oafs and boors and lunk-heads of the land,
          And the bigot, Puritan,
    And the martyrs to the martyrdom of Pain,
    Seeking remembrance not for Life, but Death?
    Have we given up the sister realms, the freedom of the States
          Through a tyranny of shame
    In the South land where the black-man wears the gag?
    Shall we bear the blight of cities, charged to electorates
    In the silence of the bearers of the flag?
    Shall the cowardice of sycophants commissioned to obey
          Defeat the trust, but call it still our voice?
    Shall we who give you, as we wish, the choice
          Of freedom to be solemn or rejoice,
    Avenge not your injustice, nor gainsay,
    Nor strew you limb from limb along the way?




COMPARATIVE CRIMINALS


    Marion Strode, my friend, a chanting voice
    For heaven’s kingdom on this earth, a hand
    Ready to open prisons, heal the bruised,
    Bring liberty to men, was wrought to fire
    Over the martyrdom of Ott. He called it
    A martyrdom, and said: “Come go with me
    And comfort Ott in prison.” So he went.

    And on the train I read what Ott had said,
    For which he suffered prison. Jail for words
    Is older than Saint Paul; as old as cities,
    And fear that dreads the change that words may bring.
    I also saw a picture of this Ott:
    Head like a billiard ball, a little cracked,
    Warped egg-like too. A homeless cat made furtive
    By missive cans and frightful hoots. A ragged
    Gabriel shut from heaven’s bliss. A porter
    Of righteousness compelled to open the gate
    Of paradise for Mark Hanna, but himself
    Debarred an entrance. Asking nothing either,
    Yet facing God to sift him, find him pure
    As those who enter.

                        Here’s a man who never
    To eighty years loses from brightening eyes
    Flames from the stake reflected, or the shadows
    Of prison for the sake of conscience. Thinks
    No one who has soft raiment ever reads
    “The Ancient Lowly,” or the “Martyrdom
    Of Labor,” history, science; none are wise
    But radicals.

              And then I read in full
    What Ott had said for which they prisoned him.
    They charged him with obstructing the enlistment.
    But in his speech there isn’t a single word
    Advising a resistance to the draft,
    By just so many words concretely. Quite
    Adroit this speech, quite foxy. Yet it’s true
    If you knew you could get a man to act
    On what was in his mind, long brooded on
    By giving him a shot of alcohol;
    And if you gave it and he did the deed
    You would be an inciter, principal
    And doer of the deed.

                            Now take this speech
    Which glorifies the socialistic cause;
    Lauds divers martyrs tried, already jailed
    For words against the draft; denounces Prussia,
    Oh, yes! but in such words as hit the home
    Of the brave, the free America! Ouch! Quit!
    Says that the master class has always made
    The wars in which the subject class was used,
    Which never had a voice in making war:
    Affirmative universal! What’s the answer?
    He means this war, this holy war, the traitor!
    Denounces capital, exhorts the crowd
    To strive for something better than to be
    Fodder for cannon. What? The prize of death
    In battle called a foddering of the cannon!
    What better thing to strive for? Throw him out!
    The price of coal is due to plutocrats;
    They’re bleeding you, and say it’s for the war.
    They lie! What’s treason? Not disloyal
    To those you work for, but disloyalty
    To truth, your better self.

                            If you believe this
    Would you become a soldier, or say no,
    I will not fight for such a cause or country?...
    I see, said Voltaire, three times one are one.
    A man in heat might flout the trinity;
    But when he studies out some persiflage
    With which to flout it--well--here’s Ott who has
    Contempt aforethought for the war and draft,
    And squirts his venom through closed teeth, the better
    To shoot it further, make it hit.

                                  I said:
    “Your Mr. Ott is guilty of the charge.
    No use to talk of constitutions. No.
    He loves the Lovejoys, Garrisons and Paines,
    The Brunos, martyrs, let him stand his ground.”
    And Marion Strode replied: “Yes, Ott is guilty.
    But did he speak the truth? Yes? Very well.
    It must have been the time and place that made
    The penitentiary for twenty years
    A fitting penalty. But when’s the time
    To talk against war’s horror? When there’s war,
    And words are vivid, or when war is not,
    And talks against it sound like when you say
    ‘Look out for bears’ to children?

                                    “War-lords talk
    In peace and war to be prepared. May I
    Prepare for peace in war time, when my words
    Have demonstrations in the events of war?
    You think not? The majority has spoken!
    Well, has it? Point me out a plebiscite
    That asked for war. But take your point at full
    The majority has spoken: why forbid
    The back-hall, soap-box rostrum; what will come?
    The majority will stick and go ahead;
    Or else the soap box will persuade it back
    And end the war. Is there another term?
    The great majority annoyed, obstructed,
    Delayed, distracted, harried! Well, you know
    The Tories did that to George Washington.
    And Lincoln! Why, the people at the polls
    Returned a critical congress. And if trials
    Strengthen the character of a man, why not
    Obstructions for majorities howling war
    To clarify and strengthen them? God works
    In ways mysterious, but in every way;
    Whatever is is true.

                        “Ott, as I see it,
    Was jailed for twenty years for speaking truth
    At the wrong time and place. A heavy fine
    For wrong a æsthetics, etiquette.

                                  “I go deeper,
    I pass the law that jailed him, all æsthetics,
    All etiquette, all wrong of time and place.
    Let’s enter in a realm of realer things.
    What does Ott stand for in a war or peace?
    Is it not freedom, equal rights, the end
    Of poverty, disease? Has he not held
    The torch of science up, the torch of thought
    Interpreting the greatest minds to win
    Attention to them and adherence to them?
    If he did this, has not his life been given
    To making America a brighter light,
    A sounder realm, her breed a stronger breed?
    If he be not a light himself, but only
    A humble trimmer of the wick, let’s say
    The wick of Socrates, or Franklin, Paine,
    Or Jesus as the prophet in the work
    Of freeing for the truth, then what of that?
    Who gets the judgment in the years to come,
    A parlor lamp of yellow flame, that smells
    Of coal oil, or your Ott?

                          “Let’s take a type:
    He woos the average man, appeals to him;
    The average man whose morals, art and books
    Are just victrola records, microscopic
    Echoes of small realities of the past.
    He sees what he can do with this America
    Of the average man, the common people called.
    He follows them and gives them vapid stuff
    Of morals, laws and politics. His aim?
    Talk which will win the very largest nod
    Of ignorant assent. Result? Why look,
    He is a daily of a million sale,
    He coins the money lecturing, uses too
    His following to keep America
    Upon the level of the common man
    In morals, freedom, thought, virility.
    He scoffs at science and the noodles giggle.
    Music? Why, who’s Beethoven? Let me hear
    ‘Lead Kindly Light.’ The drama? Well, Ben Hur
    Is moral and historical. Sculpture? Look
    At those bronze figures by the mantel clock--
    That’s Faith and Hope. Freedom of speech and press?
    Within the limits of the law! And war?
    I loathe it, I opposed it, but when war
    Is by the law decreed, I enter too
    And howl for what I hissed, for what I called
    An evil and a wrong.

                        “Now hear me out:
    Suppose he could persuade America
    To take his books, and music, sculpture, ethics--
    That is his purpose, to persuade us all
    To take them, as it was the aim of Ott
    To stay enlistment and so stop the war--
    What of our civilization? It would fall.
    If so who should be jailed, this orator
    Or Ott?

              “Now we’ve arrived, can test these souls.
    Ott fights the war and sticks, your orator
    Opposes the war and quotes the Nazarene.
    But does he stick? Why no! The truth remains.
    He changes, lifts his nose for noting when
    The noses of the majority are lifted.
    Our Mr. Ott winters behind the bars.
    Our orator retires to Florida;
    Emerges slick and strong when April comes
    To lecture, get the money.

                              “Now suppose
    Ott by his talk had balked the war, that crime
    Is nothing by the side of the other crime
    Of keeping common followers commoner;
    Corrupting thought. The war is over now.
    With Ott in prison and the orator out.
    Let’s test them on the whole, and wholly freed
    From war tests; Ott’s a trimmer of great wicks;
    Your orator a parlor lamp that smells
    Of coal oil. And the larger truth would open
    The prison doors for Ott, and push the orator
    Behind the doors and lock them.”

                                  Marion Strode
    Went on till we arrived. And there was Ott
    Serene and smiling in his prison clothes.

                                        “We mean
    To get a pardon for you,” Marion Strode
    Spoke out at once, “and give this prison cell
    To a certain orator of the commonplace.”
    Ott laughed and said, “What for? You’d break his puerile
    And shifty heart. This is a place for men
    Who stand their ground. I may not have much brains,
    But what I have I use as Socrates
    Devoted his. I want to share the greatness
    Of the great with what brains I possess. I like
    This cell because it helps me do this.”

                                      Then
    We shook the hand of Ott and turned away!




THE GREAT RACE PASSES


    They were the fair-haired Achæans,
    Who won the Trojan war;
    They were the Vikings who sailed to Iceland
    And America.
    They became the bone of England,
    And the fire of Normandy,
    And the will of Holland and Germany,
    And the builders of America.

    Their blood flowed into the veins of David,
    And the veins of Jesus,
    Homer and Æschylos,
    Dante and Michael Angelo,
    Alexander and Cæsar,
    William of Orange and Washington.
    They sang the songs,
    They won the wars.

    They were chosen for might in battle;
    For blue eyes and white flesh,
    For clean blood, for strength, for class.
    They went to the wars
    And left the little breeds
    To stay with the women,
    Trading and plowing.

    They perished in battle
    All the way along the stretch of centuries,
    And left the little breeds to possess the earth--
    _The Great Race is passing._

    They went forth to free peoples,
    White and black.
    They fought for their own freedom,
    And perished.
    They founded America,
    And perished--
    _The Great Race is passing._

    On State street throngs crowd and push,
    Wriggle and writhe like maggots.
    Their noses are flat,
    Their faces are broad,
    Their heads are like gourds,
    Their eyes are dull,
    Their mouths are open--
    _The Great Race is passing._

    The meek shall inherit the earth:
    Crackers and negroes in the South,
    Methodists and prohibitionists,
    Mongrels and pigmies
    Possess the land.
    A president sits in a wheel chair
    Sick from the fumes of his own idle dreams--
    _The Great Race is passing._




DEMOS THE DESPOT


    Not in the circus before your thumbs inverted,
    Demos, the despot, do we stand;
    But amid the swarming half-born girted,
    And amid the idiot millions who command
    Have we our freedom re-asserted--
    Rule us you cannot, though you rule the land.

    Frederick and Charles and Philip the misbegotten
    Destroyed the body with fagots and with fetters,
    Until the finger magic of movable letters
    Choked them out of a world that they made rotten
    With blood and corpses. But, O Demos, you
    Plague us with dwarfs that trip us, run and hide;
    Foul us with frogs that froth our ancient wine;
    Scourge us with locusts, and with snakes that twine,
    And hiss but do not kill. With lice subdue
    Our patience, and our time divide
    In seeking the favored hour. And then you say:
    Have you not freedom, pray?
    Do you not think and print? You do not bleed
    For freedom’s sake! You do not die at once.
    And if you starve, have you not had your way?
    We let you print, but do we have to read?

    Or suffer what you print to be displayed?
    What you call liberty affronts
    Our white-frog breasts, the laws we made.
    All rightful rights remain.
    Neglect and want shall be your ball and chain
    If you trespass our rules--
    In other times you would be burned or slain!

    Such being the freedom that you grant, O Demos,
    Our olden task is this: we fire the rushes
    Of yesteryear, and beat with sticks of truth
    The little snakes and dwarfs that hide in bushes;
    Drain the dead water, set exhilarant youth
    With ploughs upon the musty marsh to turn
    The scum and green decay, and chase the frogs.

    Then after we cut and drain and burn
    All will be sweet and clean awhile.
    But soon the weeds and crawlers will defile
    Our labor. Then the demagogues
    Will lead the chorus of the frogs:
    This is the land, this is the field
    This is the age of freedom, long revealed.
    This is the age most blest,
    This is the country freest, best,
    This is the country that fulfills
    Ancient hope and prophecy,
    This is the age, this is the land,
    The land, the age, the realm most free....

    Then in that hour we shall be dancing,
    And feasting with new gods upon the hills;
    And graving images of lovelier Beauty;
    And building altars of a purer Duty;
    And singing rituals of a deeper Faith.
    And living life, and facing death
    As fairer gods would have us. And for you
    O frogs, the fated sharers
    Of all we dream and do,
    We the dreamers, the preparers,
    Shall then be gathering strength to burn
    Bushes and plow again
    The frog marsh and the weedy plain!




A REPUBLIC


    Her faith abandoned and her place despised,
    Her mission lost through ridicule, hooted forth
    From the forum she erected, by cat calls,
    And tory sneers and schemes. Her basic law
    Scoffed out of court, amended at the need
    Of stomachology by the judges, or
    A majority of States, as it is said--
    Rather by drunks and grafters, for the time
    The spokesmen of the States, coerced and scared
    By Methodists with a fund to hire spies,
    And unearth women scrapes, or other sins
    With which to say: “Vote dry, or be exposed.”
    A marsh Atlantic drifting, towed at last
    By pirates into harbor, made a pasture
    For alien hatreds, greeds. A shackled press,
    And voices gagged, creative spirits frozen,
    Obtunded by disgust or fear. War only,
    Armies and navies speak the national mind,
    And make it move as a man; for other things
    Resistance, thought divided, ostracism,
    Or jail for their protagonists. At the mast
    The cross above the crossbones, in between
    The starry banner. A people hatched like chickens:
    Of feeble spirit for much intercrossing,
    Without vision and without will, incapable
    Of lusty revolution whatever right
    Is spit upon or taken. A wriggling mass
    Bemused and babbling, trampling private right
    As a tyrant tramples it, calling it law
    Because it speaks the majority of the mob.
    A land that breeds the reformer, the infuriate
    Will in the shallow mind, the plague of frogs
    That hop into our rooms at Pharaoh’s will,
    And soil our banquet dishes, hour of joy.
    A giantess growing huger, duller of mind,
    Her gland pituitary being lost.




THE INN


    Low windows in the room
    That tunnel the darkness with light!
    The tick of a clock in the fog that hovers
    From the cave and slide of the darkness
    Into the tunnels of light.
    A cannon stove, a dog at my feet;
    Cheap magazines on a table,
    Dead flies, an atlas;
    A register for guests,
    And stillness! Not a voice, a step--
    Only the tick of the clock!

    Mists of Fear, Mists of Memory, swirl and writhe,
    Dive, curl and coil
    From the mountain tops.
    A stretch of ochre grass by the river;
    Bent trees imploring the sun;
    And by the inn a road that stretches
    Along the river, full of dead dreams, patience,
    Weariness long endured!

    Second morning of rain.
    Second morning of separation, death in loneliness!
    The wind rushes to the corner of the porch
    And sighs as it hides.
    Second morning that I see
    The walker of the road:
    An opera cloak of blue blows round him,
    Flaps out a lining of red.
    And an Alpine hat comes down to his little ears.
    He is booted, he limps a little.
    But he’s a figure compacted of iron,
    He’s master of the landscape;
    He has cowed it, kicks it about him,
    As if to say: “A village, a road,
    A river, mountains, rain, an inn,
    And a lonely soul in the inn.
    Well, what of it? To-morrow Benares,
    To-morrow Bactria--who knows?”

    And I know as well as I know dead flies,
    And the tick of the clock
    He wants me, passes the inn to draw me.
    Strides to my view, though he never looks in.
    The flap of his cloak is a gesture;
    His eyes fixed straight ahead allure.
    He is passing again, returns and passes.
    I can stand no more!

    I walk from the room, and haste to his side.
    A rusty hand out of the blue of his cloak
    Reaches for mine; silken soft in the palm
    Like an anthropoid’s, but boned
    To the strength of bronze in the fingers.
    Red scar on his cheek--a sabre cut!
    Or was it an aiguille gashed him
    When he fell headlong like a meteor,
    And rolled to a valley, got up, shook out,
    And dusted himself, set forth to travel
    From Ctesiphon to Sarajevo?...

    But now the blue and red,
    The Alpine hat, the little ears,
    Against the ochre of stricken grass
    Are shrunk to the rust of jowl and jaw,
    And the scar, like lips grown to;
    And the smile of Jenghiz Khan....
    His voice is the lowest octave
    Of riotous thought, conscienceless as nature.
    No talk, much thought. The earth’s a treadmill,
    And spheres back of us to toes dug in,
    Until we come to a mountain lake
    Clear and calm as a sky.
    Green shadows rich as moss around the shores;
    Clouds, clear blues at the centre!
    We are bending over, see each other’s faces
    In the water.
    What was it? Red scar on his cheek,
    Or red feather in the Alpine hat?
    I thrill! For I see his eyes at last;
    They are the fires of burning cities,
    Carthage, Athens.
    Quick! And we are lying
    Looking up into the sky.
    When a whiff of rotting men--I turn
    But he stays me with his hand.
    The scent passes--he talks
    To me--the sky!

    “I am a soul fancier and catcher,
    A catcher and cager of birds,
    Whether they be kites, condors, cormorants,
    Crows, cow-birds, vultures,
    Or martins, mocking-birds, or hawks,
    Shrikes, orioles, clarindas, thrushes,
    Songsters, or scavengers, I catch them,
    And in these mountains, call them of memory
    Or bitter reflection,
    I cage them.
    But to be brief: Your bird of prey I catch
    By luring him with carrion;
    And your mocking bird with sounds
    Sweet as his own soul’s echo, as it were
    Unreal made real. But whether bird of prey,
    Or songster, it’s to fool them
    Always, until my hand cups over so--
    Then a cottage, in the mountains of memory!

    “I prize the soul called mocking bird
    Mimetic of all spirits, would be all,
    Self-fooler, and world fooler!
    Coos in scourged kingdoms like the dove,
    Presaging peace;
    Croaks like the eagle where the serfs implore
    Omens and leadership.
    I caught one lately, big as any crow.
    And cooped him--you shall see!
    But first as far as Prague, borne over seas,
    I heard the eagle, yes, was nearly fooled,
    Me, the expert in songsters, souls!
    I looked my soul-bird up and found
    My eagle was a mocking-bird;
    And when he croaked of counsel and debate,
    And breathing bracing air of matching minds,
    He was the mocking bird embowered and hidden
    In scented leaves of dreams,
    And sang what he would be, but could not be!
    A lyrist who sang down seclusion, still
    Could live nowhere but in concealment.
    A seeker of sweet notes from rich thesauri,
    Slaved to the habit of the lexicon.
    I would not catch him yet! Believe me now
    There is that in each soul which builds its cage,
    Achieves its capture, be it thirst or lust,
    A lexicon or rhetoric, singing notes
    Which makes the world say: ‘Hear the eagle cry!’
    The world is fooled, but not the self is fooled;
    It sleeps, submits to singing, but arouses
    When soul is highest charmed with its own song,
    And at the apex of the life, and treats
    The man as mocking bird for what he is!...
    The self as mocking bird betrays and leads,
    Not eagle-wings, but weak wings to the fray,
    And there the realest self is seen at last
    Of self and all. To capture them or slay
    Is where I come and act.

    “Sweet bird of dawning, dreaming of Fourteen,
    Who carried Christ across a stream,
    And gained the magic sack,
    Into the which whatever he wished would come
    When saying Artchila and Murtchila.
    But, he, this Fourteen, bird of dawning, mock-bird
    How could he carry Christ? What magic bag
    Would gather in, to words like ‘counsel,’ ‘process’?
    So charmed with voice of self he flew alone
    To a parley of fowls. And there amid rich crumbs,
    Silk vestured falconers, birds of paradise,
    Mock eagle fails, but true to song
    Utters what self of him destroys him for.
    Then I, to end, come in!

    “Wouldn’t you think he’d know what had been done
    To him, his counsels, processes?
    Voice of the eagle sometimes, but the talons
    And wings, where were they?
    How was he Christopherus, how Fourteen?
    I step in here and send him
    On a great tour of singing, laugh in my sleeve
    To see him start with his empty magic bag--
    Empty? Great wars to come and woes,
    Hatreds and desolations, blight of unfaith,
    And distillate of night-shade: Soul’s despair
    Were in the bag now.
    But I forget--all could not see these in it,
    Though most could see an empty bag. Well, now
    My project was to send him forth to chant
    The rhetoric of a life-time, tent him to
    The repetend and echo, the refrain
    That hides a hollow courage, and a brain
    Tired of its make-believe, and borrowed moods.
    My plan went further: Thus to send him forth,
    And in keen lighting have him see himself
    As some ten thousand saw him; in one moment
    Together by him and them! flash picture
    Photographed on a mountain’s wall,
    And visible for ages! So it was!
    I laughed, but being master I could pity....
    My hand goes over him cup-like now, shuts eyes
    From sight of how he pecked me peevishly,
    Like a stud-sparrow shrilled. Time for the cage
    For our mock-eagle, logolyrist, truly!--
    You shall know them by their words.”

    “How’s this so quick, on a peak?”
    I said, for there we were, and the lake lost.
    Below us the plum world, pitted with gums: oceans.
    Streaked with streams: white-wash excrement of sparrows;
    Pine forests: fuzz on the rind; lice green and brown: men.
    I bawl in his ear against the breeze
    Whirl-pooled around us:
    “No Jesus business, no Budda business,
    I wouldn’t give a damn for it all.”
    “You lie,” he said. “You’re like the rest
    Esophagus, coil of guts, a vent.”
    “Man is a spirit.” “Man is a smell.”
    Just then up from the world’s valley a breeze
    Bearing the stench of ten million corpses--
    “Hey! I faint.”
    I back away, bump into a cottage wall, a door
    Which opens--and there
    Is logolyrist caged, in durance,
    Twittering to himself the habitual notes,
    Impotent, damned, alone!

    “Night comes quickly these days,” says the landlady
    Lighting the lamp. I stretch out of sleep
    And pat the head of an honest dog.




MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM MARION REEDY


I

    Son of the freer Republic, child of a day
    More joyous and more vital and more blest
    At the feast of Life; great heart, wise and gay,
    Forgiving and compassionate, though ever stressed
    Between the thorns, seeing afar the flower;
    And living from hour to hour
    In laughter for your wounds, or with a sigh
    For the thickening brambles that around you pressed:--
    April has come to me again and May
    Since that July
    When you sank gladly to a coveted rest,
    Almost with your words to me upon your lips:
    That immortality
    Is not a promise, but a threat; that sleep
    However eternal, or however deep
    No more the worn out heart equips
    For life again; cannot make whole
    A liver and a dreamer, and a soul
    That climbed, as you did, earth’s precipitous steep.


II

    You who had lived with books and walked the city
    Of statesman and of priest,
    Of money changer, theorist,
    And knew the human heart thereby,
    Saw with clairvoyant eye
    Behind my irony and laughter, pity;
    Behind indifference desire;
    At the core of me unquenchable fire,
    Walled with impenetrable ice.
    This I confess:
    I strewed adversities to your love
    With pride, with slow forgiveness
    Of the world’s ways. Yet for the strength thereof,
    Born of that mystic brotherhood, which can rise
    From kindred spirits, none the less
    Was your love mine, even to the end.
    You were my brother, O my friend!


III

    The wages of Wisdom is Death:--
    Shame, Fear, Want, Hate, Lust, Strife and Enmity,
    All these you lived, and living them through
    You survived them, but still knew
    Their quality. At last from them made free
    You stood in blossom, perfecter of bloom
    At the touch of the sickle than ever in all your years.
    Pure flame had conquered the reek and fume
    Of the gross fuel of your nature, feeding
    The light that lighted us, but to consume
    Itself at last. O soul of eyes and ears
    Open and heeding
    Signs of all fair and foul in the land, all climes,
    Riches of dead epochs, ancient times.
    O, human, worldly Augustine, in your tower
    Watching the wavering lines of Want or Power,
    Hailing and warning, Stilites of the rite
    Of Epicurus (that happiness at the last
    Is freedom) viewing the misty age
    Atop a pillar of Zeus, and holding fast,
    Through change and weariness, to work, in spite
    Of clear conviction, nothing can assuage
    The soul’s desire. Though the flesh has food,
    And water, and is satisfied,
    Yet the soul must hunger for hope, for explanation
    Of this insoluble task of life, defied
    By every test of the human soul, still wooed
    By flitting lights of faith and intimation.
    Yet if soul father us could soul not do
    For souls of us what water for our thirst
    Accomplishes? Promethean, this you knew:
    The restless search with which man’s soul is cursed;
    Yet brooding on it, still you dreamed
    Of a city for all nations, consecrate
    To the creative spirit of God in man;
    Guardian angels were to you revealed
    In labor with man’s fate,
    Uplifting the human spirit, like a flame,
    Consoled, redeemed,
    Strengthened and purified and healed,
    To the silent, eternal life from whence it came.


IV

    To this you have gone. I saw your artist hands
    That had so little rest
    Folded in quietness upon your breast.
    Whether the dead find peace, or loose the bands
    Of some intenser rhythm, still with peace
    Your face was sealed, as of a great surcease:
    Like sculpture, tideless streams,
    Or winter woods, or windless skies,
    Or sleep that has no dreams.
    Those spheres of flame, your ever wandering eyes,
    Were turned within to a realm more deep,
    Where death’s great secret seemingly was known
    As some clear, mild Simplicity! Or ’twas sleep
    Of the unborn that stilled them, or the void
    Of the dead seed never sown....
    You were no more to me, whatever death is.
    I stood alone
    Empty of hand, save for the heritage
    Of what you were:
    A voice, a light, a music of deep tone,
    Which life made richer, and the age,
    And something of heaven employed
    To be for us our best interpreter.
    You were our star of empire lighting
    The path of peoples more and more
    To a freer day! O, voice of you which woke
    Rapt listeners over the earth.
    Out of your ashes wings of memory soar
    To carry the message of your life and word.
    Death of your body was the clearer birth
    Of the spirit of you, shining afar
    Upon our day and days to be:
    As evening winds blow coldly, yet make free
    From mist and hovering cloud
    The Western Star!




GOD AND MY COUNTRY


    He had the bluest eyes I ever saw,
    And a smiling face like a bed of yellow daisies,
    And a voice around the house like a pet crow.
    And he went whistling through the yard and rooms,
    His hands grimed up with grease about machines,
    Which he could take apart and put together.
    And he could run a motor boat or a car.
    Or mend a telephone or a dynamo.
    And he knew novels, poetry and science.
    And he could swim, and box and run a race.
    And on a morning I went in his room
    And saw his naked body, saw his shoulders
    As broad as a great wrestler’s, and his arms
    As big as mine. He started to play bear,
    And took me in his arms and hugged me so
    I felt my ribs crack. Then I wondered when
    He had quit wearing stockings and knee breeches,
    And when it was he slipped to seventeen,
    Became a man.

                    And so the war came on.
    He tried to be a flyer, for he knew
    What engines were and all about machines
    And he knew trigonometry, and chemistry,
    And wireless telegraphy--but his age
    Debarred him from the flyers; so he chafed
    And did not whistle as he used to do,
    But growled a little like a yearling bear.
    And then his face grew bright again: he had gone,
    Enlisted in the army, came to me,
    His face all glowing: “Everything I am
    You taught to me,” he said; “to love the truth,
    To love democracy and America.
    And now we have a war, the very first
    When men could fight to bring democracy.
    Our country turned against the revolution
    In France, which was a democratic cause,
    But now we war to bring democracy
    To peoples everywhere, and I am off.
    God moves among us, and to serve and die
    Are blessings, I am happy, and am off.”

    He terrified me with his shining face,
    His blue eyes, beautiful body, slim and strong.
    St. George was not more beautiful. I was awed,
    And said to him: “You terrify me, boy.
    There are plenty of men to go, await the call;
    Go if they call you, but you have your school,
    And if you go you’ll never go to school
    Again, and that will leave you half prepared
    For life, you’ll feel it all the rest of life.”
    But he stood up so straight and stern and shining
    And said: “I owe this service to you, Dad,
    For what you’ve been and taught me, and I owe it
    To God and to my country.” So it was
    He terrified me, and I said: “My boy,
    I am not wise enough, after all, to say
    What you should do. Perhaps you have a vision--
    You are America come to herself;
    A vision and a mission and a glory
    Perhaps, perhaps. I step aside. Go on!”

    They took him to a camp, and in a week
    I went to see him. He was in a pen
    Like a prize porker, looked a little down.
    He had been shot with vaccines of all sorts.
    He didn’t say much. Two weeks after that
    I saw him and he had a cold he caught
    From doing picket duty in the rain
    And sleeping on a mattress soaked with rain.
    The food was pretty good, not very good.
    He whispered: “All the pin-heads in the world
    Have got the jobs of officers. I’m surprised.
    I know more mathematics than they do,
    And more of everything. I thought an officer
    Was educated. Well, I am surprised.”
    He said the boys were dying right and left
    Because they had no care. And on a day
    When he came home to visit for a while
    He was stricken with the flu. I telephoned
    The officer, who raved and said no trick
    Would go with him. He’d send for him. He did,
    And took him out with a raging temperature,
    And back to camp. He almost died for that.
    And, when he got up, wobbled for some weeks.
    And about the time he stood up fairly strong
    They shipped him off to Europe; and they went
    Yelling like tigers smelling blood, and God
    Seemed farthest from their thoughts.

                                Well, so it went.
    And after while we had the armistice,
    The war was over, but no letter came.
    Where was he? Dead? We couldn’t learn a thing.
    Until at last this boy who went to fight
    For God and for democracy landed up
    In Russia fighting democracy, as America
    Fought France in eighteen hundred--for a letter
    Came to us telling where he was. And there
    He stayed some months and fought for covenants
    Arrived at in the open, independence
    Of little and big peoples, for the sea’s
    Freedom, or democracy, I’m not sure,
    For one of these or all, I am not sure.
    He got through anyway, or they got through
    With him, perhaps, for he came back at last,
    One eye out and one leg gone, and he’d lost
    God, so he said, and didn’t use the word
    Democracy at all, and, as for war,
    He said to me: “What is it? Everything
    Has its own idea, and the idea of war
    Is killing people? That’s our job, that’s war!
    And everybody yells atrocities,
    And everybody does ’em--what the hell
    Do people think war is, a Sunday School?
    I want some money, Dad, for I am broke;
    And I can’t work at much now, and, by God,
    I think I’ll write my story. So they’ll know
    They use you, and they fool you, and you die
    That some one may make money selling stuff,
    Or grab off lands or commerce. Hell’s delight!
    When I was sick in Russia, had delusions,
    I saw a snake so big he wrapped the world
    And swallowed it with everybody in it.
    You see, the snake’s the money-men, big business,
    The schemers, human buzzards, who eat up
    Young fellows and the kids, and lay on fat
    With fresh young blood that wants to shed itself
    For God and truth! I killed a Russian soldier
    And said: ‘You bastard,’ as I stuck him through,
    You hate yourself, so you just kill to glut
    Your hatred of yourself, your cruelty
    Which lusts, as it can masquerade behind
    The mask of duty. Give me a dollar, Dad,
    To get some cigarettes and some shaving blades.”




THE DUNES OF INDIANA


    Under a sky as green as a juniper berry
    The yellow sands of the dunes, in clefts and curves
    Run up and down, until the horizon swerves
    At Michigan City, twenty miles from Gary.

    Scrawls and grotesqueries of giants who laugh
    At the storm’s puffed cheeks, the water’s pilfering hands!
    Like the beat of a heart traced by a cardiograph,
    Their sky-line lifts and lulls,
    With the eternal pulse
    Of air and the sands.

    The dunes are a quilt of yellow, green and gray
    Spread to the Calumet River.
    Peaked by giant children who play
    Circus with feet for poles. Fantastic dunes,
    Protean hills, and migratory tents
    Of invisible gypsies, changing with the moon’s
    Replenished and exhausted valleys of light.
    Forests of pine and oak arise
    On many a height,
    And down the steep descents
    Flourish and vanish from sight,
    Under the restless feet of the wandering hills.
    They trace in sand the changes of the skies
    When the sun of evening smelts
    Great towers of cloud or battlements,
    And levels them, or warps
    Their shapes to broken walls,
    Or twisted scraps,
    Or floors of emerald strewn with lion pelts....
    Here there are water-falls;
    Lakes bright as mercury, and pools
    Green as the mosses, where hepaticas
    And asters scurry before the gesturing wind;
    Cool hollows, scented brakes
    Of bramble, fern and cane;
    Great marshes where the flags leap like green snakes,
    Bordered with garish gules
    Of pye-weed; over whose wastes the crane
    Flaps the slow rhythm of extended wings.
    And on whose reeds the blackbird sings
    A quaver of blue water, March’s fire.

    Between the feet of the dunes and the trampling troops
    Of waves along the shore the sand is pounded
    Into a broad mosaic firm and smooth,
    Whereon are strewn old reels, between the groups
    Of blackened hut and booth.
    Boats lie here where they grounded,
    Like skeletons in the desert ribbed and black,
    Scaled with the water’s scurf.

    The shore is the moat between the ruined rampart
    Of the dunes, whose shifting is stayed
    By splotches of thickets, trees and turf,
    And the invading surf.
    Here phantom mists descend, and the wrack
    Of autumn clouds fade into the air when storms
    Harry the water, and the sand is flayed
    By the whip of the wind.
    There is forever here the futile fashioning
    Of hills, and their leveling;
    The growth of forests and their burial;
    Pools filled and rivers changed or dried
    Between the spoiling winds, and the mystical
    Hands of the tide!

    Branches as gnarled as an ancient olive tree
    Stream cherry blossoms like blown snow
    Toward the blue of the lake, a hundred feet below.
    They have been sand, now being blossoms drift
    With the winds whose spirit cannot be
    Quieted or given shrift.
    By night they howl or whine
    As if they asked for words, or a sign
    To tell of the sand and seeds and spores
    Which build and root, bear blossoms, seed,
    And change the uplands and the shores;
    Destroy, make over, mend
    Without use, without end
    In an endless cycle of sand and seed,
    Of wind and the washing of waves;
    They would tell why forests grow and find their graves;
    And hills glide to their sepulchres,
    Even as cities sink and pass away:
    Old Memphis, or old Bactria....




NATURE


    Seas, mountains, rivers, hills, forests and plains,
    Our earth that floats in heaven’s translucent sphere,
    And keeps us fosterlings, though man attains--
    As a spider winds the nerve white gossamer
    From its own being, and unwinding sails
    The heights--the secrets of the stars, the sheer
    Chasms of space, and tears the vaporous veils
    From Force and Distance. Nature! At the last
    Our breast of consolation! Man exhales
    Thereon the spirit which was an him cast
    From that same breast at birth. But what you are
    Remains, or on the mind of man is glassed
    As you, remaining; while the farthest star,
    The changing moon, the lessening sun, the sands
    Of buried cities toll our calendar
    Of dying days. Waters by star light, lands
    That slip or climb; leaves, blossoms, fruits contain
    The flesh of wonder perished, and the hands
    That sought with zeal or laughter, but in pain
    To know you and themselves. Still nourishing,
    Destroying, but unriddled, you remain!

    Immeasurable Arc! To which our brief existence
    Is a point, if relative, not understood.
    With you endowed with motion and persistence,
    Contained within you, is life evil, good?
    Is life not of you? Is there aught without
    By which to judge this restless brotherhood
    Of will and water, and to quiet doubt
    That life is good? And may the scheme deny
    Itself when it is all, and rules throughout,
    Knows no defeat, except as forces vie
    Within it, striving? But, O Nature, you
    Mother of suns and systems, what can lie
    As God beyond you, making you untrue
    To larger truth or being? You are all!
    And man who moves within you may imbrue
    His hands in war, or famine on him fall
    Out of your eyeless genius, yet what wrong
    Is wrought to your creating, magical
    Renewal, scheme? What arbiter more strong
    Than you are judges discord for the strife
    That stirs upon our earth, wherever throng
    Thoughts, forces, fires. What is evil? Life!
    Even as life is struggle, whether it smite,
    Or lift, as waves to waves in will are rife
    With enmity. Whatever is, is right.
    Like insects on a drift weed water tossed
    The sea of nature moves in man’s despite,
    While generations flourish and are lost.

    Ether of the ethereal energy
    Which whirls the atoms: Will in man. And soul
    Which is to light as light to flame: the free
    Soaring of man’s thought. This is the dole
    And tragedy of man: He has outgrown
    His kinship with the beasts that kept him whole,
    Through thought, which is not instinct, but would own
    The unerring realm of instinct. Like a sun
    He flares his thought in storms of fire, has flown
    His symmetry and sphere, has wandered, won
    No orbit for the beast’s, which he has marred,
    Departed from; must finish what’s begun,
    Until he be in spirit moved and starred,
    Instinct regained to thought, his sun created
    As far as flames have leaped; or leave the scarred
    Black cavities of his hopes to beings fated
    To grow therefrom to what he failed to reach.
    Something within him drew the gods, and mated
    His spirit to celestial powers. The breach
    Between him and the beast is fixed. He sinks
    In tangled madness, anger, railing speech,
    Below the ape, or else he rises, links
    His being to a life to which he climbs,
    A realm of thought harmonious, while he thinks.
    This is the tragedy of man, and Time’s
    Colossal task laid on him: Roll he must
    The stone up to the peak against the slimes,
    And fasten it, or let it make him dust,
    Escaped his hand and crushing, still confess
    That you, O Mighty Mother, still are just
    Who fling him down to failure, nothingness.
    This is the tragedy of man: to learn
    Your secret wishes, having learned to press
    The heights of life, or ignorant still to burn
    With questioning; and on this stage of earth
    Live as they lived of old in a return,
    Endless of useless labor, madder mirth.

    Labor or Mirth! No matter--but to man,
    And for an hour! And after that the sleep.
    Waking or sleeping man fulfills the plan
    Of you, O Mother. Other thought may creep
    On man’s defeated spirit, make him say
    That you should weep, O Mother, if he weep.
    But we are but ephemera in a play
    Of tangled sun light, and the universe
    Of ages counts the minutes of our day,
    And makes them of the ages. And the curse
    That man deems his is not upon the far
    And infinite existence. It could nurse
    No evil in great spaces, sun and star
    As great as man’s to man, and not lie down
    To death as man does. Hence if you unbar
    To us, O Nature, nothing better, crown
    Our hour with folly still, you give us rest
    Among the mountains, meadows, and unclown
    Our idiot brows, and on your infinite breast
    Rock us eternally under the infinite sky.


                    THE END








End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The open sea, by Edgar Lee Masters

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