THE DEATH SONG
“The island of Martinique will not, in all probability, be built up again.”
Hearken, my father the lowering Sky!
Hearken, my brother the heaving Sea!
Who but thy sister calls to thee?
I, the Mountain, make end and die.
Bridled was I and bitted sure?
Bridged with homes and with gardens chained?
God’s tame beast to his uses trained?
Ye to go free, and I endure?
See, my father, I cloud like thee!
See, my brother, like thee I swell!
Ye league with death, but I rule all hell,
And the Lord of heaven shall shrink from me.
Once I groaned, and the scared wind sighed,
Twice I heaved, and the sick earth turned,
Thrice I spat out my blood that burned,
Roaring with torture, aflame with pride.
Down below me they swarmed and stirred,
Ants in an ant-hill, row on row.
“Haste!” I cried to them, “haste and go!”
Have I not warned? but they have not heard.
“Pains of the deep hold me in thrall,
World-old cancers that eat my heart,
Blood o’ the earth—I feel it start—
Gone, get ye gone, or it floods you all!”
Living and breeding, still they smile,
Ants of the ant-hill, pygmy men,
“Pelée stirs? she will rest again;
Live and love me and dance awhile!”
Ha, my heart it is rent in twain!
Up and out in a fiery path
Sweeps a river of molten wrath,
Falls a torrent of scorching rain!
Ho, my brother, you boil and hiss!
Ho, my father, I hide your sun!
Up, at last, little ants, and run!
Shrivel and blanch at Pelée’s kiss!
Hark! did I hear from below my hill
Rise and echo a puny din?
Through my thunder a wailing thin?
When I listened, the ants were still.
One throe more, and the sea is death,
Yet again, and the land is bare:
Brother, your glory is all to share—
I have outmurdered ye, breath for breath!
Lone I must lie in my stately doom,
Stark and still on my island bier:
Ashen silence shall wrap me here—
Pelée the Mountain makes her tomb!