"LIGHT UPON WALDHEIM"
(The figure on the monument over the grave of the Chicago martyrs in Waldheim Cemetery is a warrior woman, dropping with her left hand a crown upon the forehead of a fallen man just past his agony, and with her right drawing a dagger from her bosom.)
Light upon Waldheim! And the earth is gray;
A bitter wind is driving from the north;
The stone is cold, and strange cold whispers say:
"What do ye here with Death? Go forth! Go forth!"
A bitter wind is driving from the north;
The stone is cold, and strange cold whispers say:
"What do ye here with Death? Go forth! Go forth!"
Is this thy word, O Mother, with stern eyes,
Crowning thy dead with stone-caressing touch?
May we not weep o'er him that martyred lies,
Slain in our name, for that he loved us much?
Crowning thy dead with stone-caressing touch?
May we not weep o'er him that martyred lies,
Slain in our name, for that he loved us much?
May we not linger till the day is broad?
Nay, none are stirring in this stinging dawn—
None but poor wretches that make no moan to God:
What use are these, O thou with dagger drawn?
Nay, none are stirring in this stinging dawn—
None but poor wretches that make no moan to God:
What use are these, O thou with dagger drawn?
"Go forth, go forth! Stand not to weep for these,
Till, weakened with your weeping, like the snow
Ye melt, dissolving in a coward peace!"
Light upon Waldheim! Brother, let us go!
Till, weakened with your weeping, like the snow
Ye melt, dissolving in a coward peace!"
Light upon Waldheim! Brother, let us go!
London, October, 1897.
LOVE'S COMPENSATION
I went before God, and he said,
"What fruit of the life I gave?"
"Father," I said, "It is dead,
And nothing grows on the grave."
"What fruit of the life I gave?"
"Father," I said, "It is dead,
And nothing grows on the grave."
Wroth was the Lord and stern:
"Hadst thou not to answer me?
Shall the fruitless root not burn,
And be wasted utterly?"
"Hadst thou not to answer me?
Shall the fruitless root not burn,
And be wasted utterly?"
"Father," I said, "forgive!
For thou knowest what I have done;
That another's life might live
Mine turned to a barren stone."
For thou knowest what I have done;
That another's life might live
Mine turned to a barren stone."
But the Father of Life sent fire
And burned the root in the grave;
And the pain in my heart is dire
For the thing that I could not save.
And burned the root in the grave;
And the pain in my heart is dire
For the thing that I could not save.
For the thing it was laid on me
By the Lord of Life to bring;
Fruit of the ungrown tree
That died for no watering.
By the Lord of Life to bring;
Fruit of the ungrown tree
That died for no watering.
Another has gone to God,
And his fruit has pleased Him well;
For he sitteth high, while I—plod
The dry ways down towards hell.
And his fruit has pleased Him well;
For he sitteth high, while I—plod
The dry ways down towards hell.
Though thou knowest, thou knowest, Lord,
Whose tears made that fruit's root wet;
Yet thou drivest me forth with a sword,
And thy Guards by the Gate are set.
Whose tears made that fruit's root wet;
Yet thou drivest me forth with a sword,
And thy Guards by the Gate are set.
Thou wilt give me up to the fire,
And none shall deliver me;
For I followed my heart's desire,
And I labored not for thee:
And none shall deliver me;
For I followed my heart's desire,
And I labored not for thee:
I labored for him thou hast set
On thy right hand, high and fair;
Thou lovest him, Lord; and yet
'Twas my love won Him there.
On thy right hand, high and fair;
Thou lovest him, Lord; and yet
'Twas my love won Him there.
But this is the thing that hath been,
Hath been since the world began,—
That love against self must sin,
And a woman die for a man.
Hath been since the world began,—
That love against self must sin,
And a woman die for a man.
And this is the thing that shall be,
Shall be till the whole world die,
Kismet:—My doom is on me!
Why murmur since I am I?
Shall be till the whole world die,
Kismet:—My doom is on me!
Why murmur since I am I?
Philadelphia, August, 1898.
THE ROAD BUILDERS
("Who built the beautiful roads?" queried a friend of the present order, as we walked one day along the macadamised driveway of Fairmount Park.)
I saw them toiling in the blistering sun,
Their dull, dark faces leaning toward the stone,
Their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools,
Their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest,
The sweat drops dripping in great painful beads.
I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock,
The helpless hand still clutching at the spade,
The slack mouth full of earth.
Their dull, dark faces leaning toward the stone,
Their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools,
Their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest,
The sweat drops dripping in great painful beads.
I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock,
The helpless hand still clutching at the spade,
The slack mouth full of earth.
And he was dead.
His comrades gently turned his face, until
The fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes,
Wide open, staring at the cruel sky.
The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone;
But it was ended. He was quite, quite dead:
Driven to death beneath the burning sun,
Driven to death upon the road he built.
His comrades gently turned his face, until
The fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes,
Wide open, staring at the cruel sky.
The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone;
But it was ended. He was quite, quite dead:
Driven to death beneath the burning sun,
Driven to death upon the road he built.
He was no "hero," he; a poor, black man,
Taking "the will of God" and asking naught;
Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet
Strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road;
Think that for this, this common thing, The Road,
A human creature died; 'tis a blood gift,
To an o'erreaching world that does not thank.
Ignorant, mean and soulless was he? Well,—
Still human; and you drive upon his corpse.
Taking "the will of God" and asking naught;
Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet
Strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road;
Think that for this, this common thing, The Road,
A human creature died; 'tis a blood gift,
To an o'erreaching world that does not thank.
Ignorant, mean and soulless was he? Well,—
Still human; and you drive upon his corpse.
Philadelphia, July 24, 1900.