clouds hang over the furrows now sowing There’s a harvest sun-wreath in the After-sky!
No love is wasted, no heart beats vainly, There’s a vast perfection beyond the grave; Up the bays of heaven the stars shine plainly, The stars lying dim on the brow of the wave. And the lights of our loves, though they flicker and wane, they Shall shine all undimmed in the ether-nave. For the altars of God are lit with souls Fanned to flaming with love where the star-wind rolls.
At the Grave in Waldheim
Quiet they lie in their shrouds of rest, Their lids kissed close ’neath the lips of peace; Over each pulseless and painless breast The hands lie folded and softly pressed, As a dead dove presses a broken nest; Ah, broken hearts were the price of these!
The lips of their anguish are cold and still, For them are the clouds and the gloom all past; No longer the woe of the world can thrill The chords of those tender hearts, or fill The silent dead-house! The “people’s will” Has mapped asunder the strings at last.
“The people’s will!” Ah, in years to come, Dearly ye’ll weep that ye did not save! Do ye not hear now the muffled drum, The tramping feet and the ceaseless hum, Of the million marchers—trembling, dumb, In their tread to a yawning, giant grave?
And yet, ah! yet there’s a rift of white! ’Tis breaking over the martyrs’ shrine! Halt there, ye doomed ones—it scathes the night, As lightning darts from its scabbard bright And sweeps the face of the sky with light! “No more shall be spilled out the blood-red wine!”
These are the words it has written there, Keen as the lance of the northern morn; The sword of Justice gleams in its glare, And the arm of Justice, upraised and bare, Is true to strike, aye, ’tis strong to dare; It will fall where the curse of our land is born.
No more shall the necks of the nations be crushed, No more to dark Tyranny’s throne bend the knee; No more in abjection be ground to the dust! By their widows, their orphans, our dead comrades’ trust, By the brave heart-beats stilled, by the brave voices hushed, We swear that humanity yet shall be free!
The tide is out, the wind blows off the shore; Bare burn the white sands in the scorching sun; The sea complains, but its great voice is low.
Bitter thy woes, O People, And the burden Hardly to be borne! Wearily grows, O People, All the aching Of thy pierced heart, bruised and torn! But yet thy time is not, And low thy moaning. Desert thy sands! Not yet is thy breath hot, Vengefully blowing; It wafts o’er lifted hands.
The tide has turned; the vane veers slowly round; Slow clouds are sweeping o’er the blinding light; White crests curl on the sea—its voice grows deep.
Angry thy heart, O People, And its bleeding Fire-tipped with rising hate! Thy clasped hands part, O People, For thy praying Warmed not the desolate! God did not hear thy moan: Now it is swelling To a great drowning cry; A dark wind-cloud, a groan, Now backward veering From that deaf sky!
The tide flows in, the wind roars from the depths, The whirled-white sand heaps with the foam-white waves; Thundering the sea rolls o’er its shell-crunched wall!
Strong is thy rage, O People, In its fury Hurling thy tyrants down! Thou metest wage, O People. Very swiftly, Now that thy hate is grown: Thy time at last is come; Thou heapest anguish, Where thou thyself wert bare! No longer to thy dumb God clasped and kneeling, Thou answerest thine own prayer.
Ut Sementem Feceris, Ita Metes
(To the Czar, on a woman, a political prisoner, being flogged to death in Siberia.)
How many drops must gather to the skies Before the cloud-burst comes, we may not know; How hot the fires in under hells must glow Ere the volcano’s scalding lavas rise, Can none say; but all wot the hour is sure! Who dreams of vengeance has but to endure! He may not say how many blows must fall, How many lives be broken on the wheel, How many corpses stiffen ’neath the pall, How many martyrs fix the blood-red seal; But certain is the harvest time of Hate! And when weak moans, by an indignant world Re-echoed, to a throne are backward hurled, Who listens, hears the mutterings of Fate!
The Dirge of the Sea
Come! Come! I have waited long! My love is old, My arms are strong; My heart is bold; I would woo thee, now, With the wave-kiss cold On thy pallid brow; Thou art mine, thou art mine! My very own! Thine ears shall hear My eternal moan; Always near Thou’lt feel my lips, And the bathing tear Where my sorrow drips. Thou, my king forever, behold thy throne! Reign in thy majesty, all alone.
None! None wept for thee, Nearing the verge Of eternity! I, thy solemn dirge Will chant for aye Wide as the wave-merge Into sky. I love thee! Thou art my chosen own! Thy heart, like mine, Was cold as stone, Thine eyes could shine Like my blue waves fair; Thy lips, like wine, Curved to kisses rare! Hard as my waves were the eyes that shone, And the wine as deadly! Come, love, alone!
Float! Float, on the swelling wave! Long is the hearse, Wide the grave; Thy pall is a curse From the fading shore A broken verse From a heart wrung sore! “Life’s stream’s wreck-strown!” Ah, like my own! The words are low As a dying groan; The voice thrills so, It might rouse thy breast With pity’s glow, Wert thou like the rest! But thou, my hero, wert never known To feel as a human; thou stoodst, alone.
Down! Down! Behold the wrecks! I strew the deep With these human specks! No faith I keep With their moral trust; See how I heap Their crumbling dust! I sneered
