"O fair, small cloud, unheeding o'er me straying,
Jewell'd with topaz light of fading stars;
Thy downy edges red
As the great eagle of the Dawn sails high
And sets his fire-bright head
And wind-blown pinions towards thy snowy breast;
And thou canst blush while I
Must pierce myself with song and die
On the bald sod behind my prison bars;
Nor feel upon my crest
Thy soft, sunn'd touches delicately playing!
"O fair, small cloud, grown small as lily flow'r!
Even while I smite the bars to see thee fade;
The wind shall bring thee
The strain I sing thee—
I, in wired prison stay'd,
Worse than the breathless primrose glade.
That in my morn,
I shrilly sang to scorn;
I'll burst my heart up to thee in this hour!
"O fair, small cloud, float nearer yet and hear me!
A prison'd lark once lov'd a snowy cloud,
Nor did the Day
With sapphire lips, and kiss
Of summery bliss,
Draw all her soul away;
Vainly the fervent East
Deck'd her with roses for their bridal feast;
She would not rest
In his red arms, but slipp'd adown the air
And wan and fair,
Her light foot touch'd a purple mountain crest,
And touching, turn'd
Into swift rain, that like to jewels burn'd;
In the great, wondering azure of the sky;
And while a rainbow spread
Its mighty arms above, she, singing, fled
To the lone-feather'd slave,
In his sad weird grave,
Whose heart upon his silver song had sped
To her in days of old,
In dawns of gold,
And murmuring to him, said:
"O love, I come! O love, I come to cheer thee—
Love, to be near thee!""
WAR.
Shake, shake the earth with giant tread,
Thou red-maned Titian bold;
For every step a man lies dead,
A cottage hearth is cold.
Take up the babes with mailed hands,
Transfix them with thy spears,
Spare not the chaste young virgin-bands,
Tho' blood may be their tears.
Beat down the corn, tear up the vine,
The waters turn to blood;
And if the wretch for bread doth whine,
Give him his kin for food.
Aye, strew the dead to saddle girth,
They make so rich a mould,
Thoul't thus enrich the wasted earth—
They'll turn to yellow gold.
On with thy thunders, shot and shell,
Send screaming, featly hurl'd;
Science has made them in her cell,
To civilize the world.
Not, not alone where Christian men
Pant in the well-arm'd strife;
But seek the jungle-throttled glen—
The savage has a life.
He has a soul—so priests will say—
Go! save it with thy sword;
Thro' his rank forests force thy way,
Thy war cry, "For the Lord!"
Rip up his mines, and from his strands
Wash out the gold with blood—
Religion raises blessing hands,
"War's evil worketh good!"
When striding o'er the conquer'd land,
Silence thy rolling drum,
And led by white-robed choiring bands
With loud "Te Deum" come.
Seek the grim chancel, on its wall
Thy blood-stiff banner hang;
They lie who say thy blood is gall.
Thy tooth the serpent's fang.
See! the white Christ is lifted high,
Thy conqu'ring sword to bless;
Smiles the pure monarch of the sky—
Thy king can do no less.
Drink deep with him the festal wine,
Drink with him drop for drop;
If, like the sun, his throne doth shine,
Thou art that throne's prop.