Poems – Page 22 – Poetry Out Loud

Thus of old the Douglas did:
He left his land as he was bid
With the royal heart of Robert the Bruce
In a golden case with a golden lid,

To carry the same to the Holy Land;
By which we see and understand
That that was the place to carry a heart
At loyalty and love’s command,

And that was the case to carry it in.
The Douglas had not far to win
Before he came to the land of Spain,
Where long a holy war had been

Against the too-victorious Moor;
And there his courage could not endure
Not to strike a blow for God
Before he made his errand sure.

And ever it was intended so,
That a man for God should strike a blow,
No matter the heart he has in charge
For the Holy Land where hearts should go.

But when in battle the foe were met,
The Douglas found him sore beset,
With only strength of the fighting arm
For one more battle passage yet—

And that as vain to save the day
As bring his body safe away—
Only a signal deed to do
And a last sounding word to say.

The heart he wore in a golden chain
He swung and flung forth into the plain,
And followed it crying ‘Heart or death!’
And fighting over it perished fain.

So may another do of right,
Give a heart to the hopeless fight,
The more of right the more he loves;
So may another redouble might

For a few swift gleams of the angry brand,
Scorning greatly not to demand
In equal sacrifice with his
The heart he bore to the Holy Land.

It would be easy to forgive,

If I could but remember;

If I could hear, lost love of mine,

The music of your cruelties,

Shaking to sound the silent skies,

Could voice with them their song divine,

Red with pain’s leaping ember:

It would be easy to forgive,

If I could but remember.

It would be easy to forget,

If I could find lost Sorrow;

If I could kiss her plaintive face,

And break with her her bitter bread,

Could share again her woeful bed,

And know with tears her pale embrace.

Make yesterday, to-morrow:

It would be easy to forget,

If I could find lost Sorrow.

Evening at Occoquan. Rain pelts the workhouse roof.

The prison matrons are sewing together for the Red Cross

The women prisoners are going to bed in two long rows.

Some of the suffrage pickets lie reading in the dim light.

Through the dark, above the rain, rings out a cry.

We listen at the windows. (Oh, those cries from punishment cells!)

A voice calls one of us by name.

“Miss Burns! Miss Burns! Will you see that I have a drink of water?”

Lucy Burns arises; slips on the course blue prison gown.

Over it her swinging hair, red-gold, throws a regal mantle.

She begs the night-watch to give the girl water.

One of the matrons leaves her war-bandages; we see her hasten to the cell.

The light in it goes out.

The voice despairing cries:

 “She has taken away the cup and she will not bring me water.”

Rain pours on the roof. The suffragists lie awake.

The matrons work busily for the Red Cross.

’Tis a time for much rejoicing;
Let each heart be lured away;
Let each tongue, its thanks be voicing
For Emancipation Day.
Day of victory, day of glory,
For thee, many a field was gory!

Many a time in days now ended,
Hath our fathers’ courage failed,
Patiently their tears they blended;
Ne’er they to their, Maker, railed,
Well we know their groans, He numbered,
When dominions fell, asundered.

As of old the Red Sea parted,
And oppressed passed safely through,
Back from the North, the bold South, started,
And a fissure wide she drew;
Drew a cleft of Liberty,
Through it, marched our people free.

And, in memory, ever grateful,
Of the day they reached the shore,
Meet we now, with hearts e’er faithful,
Joyous that the storm is o’er.
Storm of Torture! May grim Past,
Hurl thee down his torrents fast.

Bring your harpers, bring your sages,
Bid each one the story tell;
Waft it on to future ages,
Bid descendants learn it well.
Kept it bright in minds now tender,
Teach the young their thanks to render.

Come with hearts all firm united,
In the union of a race;
With your loyalty well plighted,
Look your brother in the face,
Stand by him, forsake him never,
God is with us now, forever.

^{This was written in the hospital where Mr. Rihani’s sister suffered for more than two years. She was taken sick not long before the day appointed for her wedding.}

“Here she is: O take her not away so soon!
    ⁠Spare her youth—the fatal cup from her withhold!
Let her groan within my arms in life’s forenoon;
    ⁠Let me still my soul within her eyes unfold.”
God of Love! my faith in thee is not yet gray:
    ⁠Grant that she may walk again,
    ⁠Free from suffering and pain—
Give her life to see the altar’s light one day.

In the night, before the day that never came,
⁠    On the way with poppies and gardenias strewn,
With her music and her torch’s holy flame,
    ⁠She was struck and never since saw sun or moon.
God of Light! refuse her not another ray:
⁠    Her bridal garment joins with me
⁠    In beseeching, begging thee—
Give her life to see the altar’s light one day.

III

All the sorrow earth contains I can support,
⁠    All the agony and pain I can endure;
Years of misery will seem surprising short,
    ⁠If to me thou leav’st her, though without a cure.
All my dreams before thy throne, O God, I slay;
    ⁠These my offerings let be,
    ⁠These my sacrifice to thee—
Give her life to see the altar’s light one day.

“Hurry here! O get the doctors—call the nurse—
    ⁠Call the priest—be quick—some more digitaline—
He is here, alas! before you all—a hearse.”
    ⁠Death has passed us by; take up the violin!
To Thy heart my music fain would find its way;
⁠    Every sound Thy grace would earn;
    ⁠Let it not as sad return—
Give her life to see the altar’s light one day.

Every wound and every sigh and groan and tear,
    ⁠Every drop of Saada’s melting flesh and hope
Now ascend, wrapt in this music, pale and blear—
⁠    Around Thy throne, in gyves of pain, they blindly grope.
What remains, what’s gone of her before Thee lay:
    ⁠Faith and Doubt are at Thy door—
    ⁠Mother, brother, pray, implore—
Give her life to see the altar’s light one day.

^{translated from the Spanish by Agnes Blake Poor}

In thee, the spirit of thy native soil
Draws breath and stirs with potent fruitful life.
Thou, from the field of elemental strife,
Seizest the guerdon of thy noble toil.

Franklin before, along the slender coil
Called down the fiery sparks in heaven rife.
Traced the quick ray, like sharp dividing knife;
And to the earth brought down the lightning’s spoil.

And thou, the living glory of thy race,
Preservest for all time the spoken word;
Defying ignorance’s numbing trace;
Despising falsehood’s deadly withering breath.
The immortal tree of life thy hand conferred,
Even on the edge of the abyss of death.

I know not why, but it is true—it may,
In some way, be because he was a child
Of the fierce sun where I first wept and smiled—
I love the dark-browed Poe. His feverish day
Was spent in dreams inspired, that him beguiled,
When not along his path shone forth one ray
Of light, of hope, to guide him on the way,
That to earth’s cares he might be reconciled.
Not one of all Columbia’s tuneful choir
Has pitched his notes to such a matchless key
As Poe—the wizard of the Orphic lyre!
Not one has dreamed, has sung, such songs as he,
Who, like an echo came, an echo went,
Singing, back to his mother element.

(November, 1861.)

In time and measure perfect moves

  All Art whose aim is sure;

 Evolving rhyme and stars divine

  Have rules, and they endure.

Nor less the Fleet that warred for Right,

  And, warring so, prevailed,

 In geometric beauty curved,

  And in an orbit sailed.

The rebel at Port Royal felt

  The Unity overawe,

 And rued the spell. A type was here,

  And victory of Law.

Whether awake or sleeping,
I cannot rest for long:
By my casement comes creeping
A distant song.

A song like the chiming of silver
Bells which the breezes play,
Seeming to float for ever
Towards an unseen day:

A song that is weary with sorrow,
Yet knows not any defeat:
Through the past, through to-day, through to-morrow,
It echoes on life’s long street.

Could I but make words of its power,
Bring it from the future here,
Men’s souls would be waking, that hour,
To the victory against fear.

But the vague sweet stanza befools me
With its calm joy, time after time,
And no failure here ever schools me
To cease from an idle rhyme.

That music afar, unspoken,
’Tis I have done it wrong:
I caught, and I have broken,
A distant song.

^{To Principal Booker T. Washington of Tuskegee Industrial School}

To you who now so nobly do
A noble deed;
Who now instill the virtues true
To virtuous need;
Whose mission is so truly good—
So full of kindly brotherhood—
Who live the life you surely should—
A trusty lead;

Who early saw that skillful head
And skillful hands
Should, surely, be in union wed
‘Gainst life’s quicksands—
For people whose unhappy state
Was, surely, in the hands of fate,
Would make a combination great
As iron hands.

Long may your daring presence live
And works instill,
Long may your kingly reasons give
A forceful will.
Long may your glowing, useful days
Shine forth their bright illuming rays,
And to gloomy lives always
A happy thrill.