Duganne's Poetical Works Autograph edition. Seventy-five Copies |
 |
 |
| MDCCCXLVIII.
The Year of the People. |
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
|
|
|
|
 | Duganne's Poetical Works |  |
39
MDCCCXLVIII.
The Year of the People.
40
TO The Heroes of '48 and the Martyrs of '49, THESE LYRICS OF LIBERTY: In Memoriam.
41
INVOCATION.
Men of noble souls, whose vision
Pierceth through the Future's curtain;
Ye who scorn the world's derision—
Ye whose trust hath still been certain:
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course is onward!
Pierceth through the Future's curtain;
Ye who scorn the world's derision—
Ye whose trust hath still been certain:
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course is onward!
Lo! now comes your toil's fruition—
Labors now the pregnant crisis:
Man renews his faith to Isis—
Chronos fills his glorious mission:
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course in onward!
Labors now the pregnant crisis:
Man renews his faith to Isis—
Chronos fills his glorious mission:
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course in onward!
42
In the long-enslavéd nations
Throbs with joy each freeman's bosom;
Ye who waited long with patience,
Now behold your hopes in blossom:
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course is onward!
Throbs with joy each freeman's bosom;
Ye who waited long with patience,
Now behold your hopes in blossom:
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course is onward!
In each old Sclavonic forest—
In each fair Italian valley—
Bide the time when ye may rally,
Ye who long have suffered sorest:
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course is onward!
In each fair Italian valley—
Bide the time when ye may rally,
Ye who long have suffered sorest:
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course is onward!
Polander and iron German—
Serfs of Austria and Hungaria—
Slaves of knout, ukase, or firman—
Trodden Jew, and outcast Pariah—
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course is onward!
Serfs of Austria and Hungaria—
Slaves of knout, ukase, or firman—
Trodden Jew, and outcast Pariah—
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course is onward!
Patriots! scattered o'er creation!
Souls of thought, and hearts of daring!—
Be ye now no more despairing:
Soon shall end your long probation.
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course is onward!
Souls of thought, and hearts of daring!—
Be ye now no more despairing:
Soon shall end your long probation.
Look aloft! your hope is sunward—
Look abroad! your course is onward!
43
I.
THANKSGIVING HYMN FOR 1848.
Thank God, that through the world
The electric thoughts of glorious souls are gleaming!
Thank God, that now, through Christendom unfurled,
The banners of Man's Cause are proudly streaming!
The electric thoughts of glorious souls are gleaming!
Thank God, that now, through Christendom unfurled,
The banners of Man's Cause are proudly streaming!
Thank God, that Earth hath still
Some lofty sons, whose deeds shall gild her story—
With flame from Heaven those noble souls shall fill,
Like old Prometheus, this world with glory.
Some lofty sons, whose deeds shall gild her story—
With flame from Heaven those noble souls shall fill,
Like old Prometheus, this world with glory.
Old Rome hath now, thank God!
The keys that shall unlock her gates of heaven—
And necks shall rise that have to earth been trod,
And chains that yoked the soul shall now be riven!
The keys that shall unlock her gates of heaven—
And necks shall rise that have to earth been trod,
And chains that yoked the soul shall now be riven!
And Man—thank God for that—
O'er all the earth asserts his natal franchise,
And boldly now, at King and Autocrat,
His words of fiery hope the vassal launches!
O'er all the earth asserts his natal franchise,
And boldly now, at King and Autocrat,
His words of fiery hope the vassal launches!
Thank God that Right is Might—
That souls are deathless and that wrong is mortal—
That Darkness is the handmaid of the Light,
And Death is but of Life the clouded portal!
That souls are deathless and that wrong is mortal—
That Darkness is the handmaid of the Light,
And Death is but of Life the clouded portal!
44
II.
THE GIANT.
There was a weary Giant
Stretched by the solemn Rhine!
And his huge limbs, all slack and pliant,
Heavily did recline;
And his hands made no sign:
Though in the air above, with cloudy wing,
Brooded a horrible Thing—
A Vulture, with the face of crownéd King!
Stretched by the solemn Rhine!
And his huge limbs, all slack and pliant,
Heavily did recline;
And his hands made no sign:
Though in the air above, with cloudy wing,
Brooded a horrible Thing—
A Vulture, with the face of crownéd King!
And there were serpents, bred from the miasma
Of that crown'd Vulture's breath,
Gleaming, as on they crept, like strange phantasma:
These wound, in chains beneath,
While, wrapp'd in sleep like death,
The Giant, which was France, nor moved nor stirred,
Till, with a rush unheard,
Swooped down, like Night, the shadowy, unclean bird.
Of that crown'd Vulture's breath,
Gleaming, as on they crept, like strange phantasma:
These wound, in chains beneath,
While, wrapp'd in sleep like death,
The Giant, which was France, nor moved nor stirred,
Till, with a rush unheard,
Swooped down, like Night, the shadowy, unclean bird.
And the bright serpents, round the Giant wreathing,
Wove their encumbering chain;
While the blood-sucking Vulture, softly breathing
Into his heart and brain,
Deadened the sense of pain:
Back and forth glided still those serpent bands,
Like Délilah's soft hands
Binding shorn Samson, at his foes' commands!
Wove their encumbering chain;
While the blood-sucking Vulture, softly breathing
Into his heart and brain,
Deadened the sense of pain:
Back and forth glided still those serpent bands,
Like Délilah's soft hands
Binding shorn Samson, at his foes' commands!
45
But, God in Heaven be praised! the slumbering Giant
Out of his trance awakes!
Flings his broad arms aloft, and shouts defiant;
Like as 't were flax, he breaks
The chain of wreathing snakes;
And, in the exuberance of his strength, tears down
The royal Vulture's crown!
And the crushed serpents vanish at his frown!
Out of his trance awakes!
Flings his broad arms aloft, and shouts defiant;
Like as 't were flax, he breaks
The chain of wreathing snakes;
And, in the exuberance of his strength, tears down
The royal Vulture's crown!
And the crushed serpents vanish at his frown!
III.
REGENERATION.
I heard a Voice of millions singing!
I saw a forest of waving arms,
And a world of flashing eyes!
I heard the sounding psalms
Of freemen—glorious freemen—loudly ringing
To the skies.
I saw a forest of waving arms,
And a world of flashing eyes!
I heard the sounding psalms
Of freemen—glorious freemen—loudly ringing
To the skies.
And I said within my heart, O this is France!
It is France!
From their slavery her millions now advance!
She hath spoken,
And her sceptres now are broken,
And her fetters lie in rust,
And her diadems are trampled in the dust!
Who hath done it?
What hath won it?
What hath won this boon of freedom for our France?
Tell me, citizen and neighbor,
Was it cannon—was it sabre?
Did the guillotine achieve it—or the lance?
It is France!
From their slavery her millions now advance!
She hath spoken,
And her sceptres now are broken,
And her fetters lie in rust,
And her diadems are trampled in the dust!
46
What hath won it?
What hath won this boon of freedom for our France?
Tell me, citizen and neighbor,
Was it cannon—was it sabre?
Did the guillotine achieve it—or the lance?
Not the cannon nor the sabre—
Not the guillotine nor lance:
It was LABOR—glorious LABOR—
That emancipated France!
Not the guillotine nor lance:
It was LABOR—glorious LABOR—
That emancipated France!
Through the pilgrimage of years,
Ever weeping bloody tears—
By their masters' fetters bound,
With their eyes upon the ground;
While their voices dared not utter
What their woful hearts would mutter,—
Thus, in despotism's trance,
Were the Workingmen of France!
Ever weeping bloody tears—
By their masters' fetters bound,
With their eyes upon the ground;
While their voices dared not utter
What their woful hearts would mutter,—
Thus, in despotism's trance,
Were the Workingmen of France!
But those hearts were bended bows,
And their agonizing throes
Were as arrows to be hurl'd among their foes!
And behold!—
Like the Nazarite of old,
In the glory of their liberty the Workingmen arose.
Ye saw when Orleans fell!
When the crown and throne were shivered:
Tell me, neighbors, was it well
That our France was thus delivered?
If ye sanctify the deed,
Give ye then its glorious meed—
And their agonizing throes
Were as arrows to be hurl'd among their foes!
And behold!—
Like the Nazarite of old,
In the glory of their liberty the Workingmen arose.
47
When the crown and throne were shivered:
Tell me, neighbors, was it well
That our France was thus delivered?
If ye sanctify the deed,
Give ye then its glorious meed—
Not to cannon—not to sabre—
Not to guillotine nor lance!
But to LABOR—glorious LABOR—
That emancipated France!
Not to guillotine nor lance!
But to LABOR—glorious LABOR—
That emancipated France!
No Rollin nor Cavaignac—
And no Lamartine we trust—
No Napoleon shall drag us back
To Empire's bloody dust.
Lo! ye traffickers in blood,
And ye worshippers of gold,
We, whose necks ye long have trod—
We—the People—bid ye hold!
For no longer will the Workingmen be sold!
But their rights they will maintain
With the heart and with the brain,
Until Liberty—Equality—Fraternity—they gain:
Crown and chain
Alike are vain—
Power and gold
Shall be controlled,
And no longer shall the Workingmen be sold!
For the iron hath been driven
To the very soul of Man!
Now he rises, and—by Heaven!
Let them stay his course who can.
Lo! his manacles are riven,
And in Freedom's battle van,
With his hand upon his charter,
And his foot upon the sod,
He will stand—or die, a martyr,
For his children and his God!
And no Lamartine we trust—
No Napoleon shall drag us back
To Empire's bloody dust.
Lo! ye traffickers in blood,
And ye worshippers of gold,
We, whose necks ye long have trod—
We—the People—bid ye hold!
For no longer will the Workingmen be sold!
But their rights they will maintain
With the heart and with the brain,
Until Liberty—Equality—Fraternity—they gain:
Crown and chain
Alike are vain—
Power and gold
Shall be controlled,
And no longer shall the Workingmen be sold!
48
To the very soul of Man!
Now he rises, and—by Heaven!
Let them stay his course who can.
Lo! his manacles are riven,
And in Freedom's battle van,
With his hand upon his charter,
And his foot upon the sod,
He will stand—or die, a martyr,
For his children and his God!
IV.
FRANCE TO IRELAND.
Ireland! Ireland! wake—advance!
We are calling you from France:
We are free, O suffering sister!
And we cry aloud to thee,
In the name of God! BE FREE!
Wake! arise!—the bloody chalice
Ye have drained in silent wo,
Once again shall overflow:
Ye shall fill that cup afresh,
With the Eucharist of Freedom,
Holy Freedom's blood and flesh!
We are calling you from France:
We are free, O suffering sister!
And we cry aloud to thee,
In the name of God! BE FREE!
Wake! arise!—the bloody chalice
Ye have drained in silent wo,
Once again shall overflow:
Ye shall fill that cup afresh,
With the Eucharist of Freedom,
Holy Freedom's blood and flesh!
Lo! we once were slaves in Gaul—
Slaves and dupes to royal thrall:
Herod-like, the kings of earth
Sought to crush our Freedom's birth—
Sought to slay the soul of Freedom,
Born, like Christ, among the poor!
Ay! they crucified our Freedom—
Thus to make their triumph sure.
But, like Christ from out his tomb—
From a new sepulchral womb,
With a quaking, rending spasm,
Leapt our Freedom from its plasm—
'Neath the blow of rugged LABOR
Leapt, like Pallas, arméd Right!
From the dust, where, long quiescent,
Human hearts lay dead, petrescent,
Rise they now, with fire renascent—
Rise, with Phœnix glories bright!
Each true soul is God's own Æon—
And the world a grand Panthéon,
Where we battle with the Titans,
And o'ercome their giant might;
With the diadem'd marauders,
With the purple-robed defrauders—
With the tyrants who would impiously
Escale the throne of Light!
Men of Ireland! Rise! be free!
Hurl your bosoms like a sea—
Like a tempest-freighted sea—
Over sceptre, crown, and chain;
As your stormy Irish Ocean
Rolls its thunders to the Main.
Ireland! Ireland! wake—arise!
Make a whirlwind of your sighs—
That shall blast your chains to weapons,
In the furnace of your wrath:
Let the blows your tyrants dealt you
Roll an earthquake in their path!
By the blood of Drogheda—
And by Wexford's fatal fray!
By your woes, your shames, your sufferings!
By your thousand patriot offerings!
By the rack, the axe, the scaffold,
Which have oft your freedom baffled!
By the martyrdom of Emmett,
And the glory of Boiroimh!
Rise, and strike the Saxon from you—
Rise! and to your blood be true!
Wake! arise! as France has risen,
From the grave-mould of her prison!
Brand each Irishman with treason
Who shall brook a stranger's thongs:
Raise your emerald banners o'er you!
Let your wild harp crash before you!—
If they DARE deny you Freedom,
Which, of right, to man belongs—
Rise ye, then, and grapple vengeance:
Claim ye RACK-RENT for your wrongs!
Slaves and dupes to royal thrall:
Herod-like, the kings of earth
Sought to crush our Freedom's birth—
49
Born, like Christ, among the poor!
Ay! they crucified our Freedom—
Thus to make their triumph sure.
But, like Christ from out his tomb—
From a new sepulchral womb,
With a quaking, rending spasm,
Leapt our Freedom from its plasm—
'Neath the blow of rugged LABOR
Leapt, like Pallas, arméd Right!
From the dust, where, long quiescent,
Human hearts lay dead, petrescent,
Rise they now, with fire renascent—
Rise, with Phœnix glories bright!
Each true soul is God's own Æon—
And the world a grand Panthéon,
Where we battle with the Titans,
And o'ercome their giant might;
With the diadem'd marauders,
With the purple-robed defrauders—
With the tyrants who would impiously
Escale the throne of Light!
Men of Ireland! Rise! be free!
Hurl your bosoms like a sea—
Like a tempest-freighted sea—
Over sceptre, crown, and chain;
As your stormy Irish Ocean
Rolls its thunders to the Main.
50
Make a whirlwind of your sighs—
That shall blast your chains to weapons,
In the furnace of your wrath:
Let the blows your tyrants dealt you
Roll an earthquake in their path!
By the blood of Drogheda—
And by Wexford's fatal fray!
By your woes, your shames, your sufferings!
By your thousand patriot offerings!
By the rack, the axe, the scaffold,
Which have oft your freedom baffled!
By the martyrdom of Emmett,
And the glory of Boiroimh!
Rise, and strike the Saxon from you—
Rise! and to your blood be true!
Wake! arise! as France has risen,
From the grave-mould of her prison!
Brand each Irishman with treason
Who shall brook a stranger's thongs:
Raise your emerald banners o'er you!
Let your wild harp crash before you!—
If they DARE deny you Freedom,
Which, of right, to man belongs—
Rise ye, then, and grapple vengeance:
Claim ye RACK-RENT for your wrongs!
51
V.
PRAYER OF ERIN.
With spirit burning,
For action yearning,
The noble summons of France we hear!
While woes and curses
Each heart rehearses,
And weeps forever the bloody tear:
Our brave men dying,
Our maidens sighing,
Our orphans crying, great God! to Thee!
While foes insulting,
O'er all exulting,
In shackles bind us who once were free!
For action yearning,
The noble summons of France we hear!
While woes and curses
Each heart rehearses,
And weeps forever the bloody tear:
Our brave men dying,
Our maidens sighing,
Our orphans crying, great God! to Thee!
While foes insulting,
O'er all exulting,
In shackles bind us who once were free!
O Power Supernal
Whose heart eternal
Inclines from heaven when the ravens cry;
Whose arm protects us,
Whose word directs us—
O God of Justice! look from on High!
Behold a Nation
In tribulation:
In supplication we bend the knee—
In the name of Jesus,
O God! release us!
From cruel tyrants, O set us free!
Whose heart eternal
Inclines from heaven when the ravens cry;
Whose arm protects us,
Whose word directs us—
O God of Justice! look from on High!
Behold a Nation
In tribulation:
In supplication we bend the knee—
In the name of Jesus,
O God! release us!
From cruel tyrants, O set us free!
52
O Christian brothers!
If ye have mothers—
If ye have sisters or children dear,
Should Famine blight them,
Should Plague affright them—
Would ye not call on the world to hear?
O would ye falter
At Freedom's altar,
When axe and halter your eyes might see—
Or cast behind you
The chains that bind you,
And swear, by Heaven—that ye would be free?
If ye have mothers—
If ye have sisters or children dear,
Should Famine blight them,
Should Plague affright them—
Would ye not call on the world to hear?
O would ye falter
At Freedom's altar,
When axe and halter your eyes might see—
Or cast behind you
The chains that bind you,
And swear, by Heaven—that ye would be free?
Ye men of Ireland,
Behold your sireland!
Arise! arise! from your bloody dust:
No longer single,
Let freemen mingle—
Let Green and Orange in union trust!
With hands upraising,
With bosoms blazing,
Jehovah praising for Liberty—
Once more in grandeur,
Through death and danger,
Your glorious Island arise and free!
Behold your sireland!
Arise! arise! from your bloody dust:
No longer single,
Let freemen mingle—
Let Green and Orange in union trust!
With hands upraising,
With bosoms blazing,
Jehovah praising for Liberty—
Once more in grandeur,
Through death and danger,
Your glorious Island arise and free!
53
VI.
FREEDOM BAFFLED.
Worse than vain to pray for freedom,
When to bigots ye would preach;
Worse than vain, with bold exhortings,
Slavish minds ye seek to reach.
Ireland wants nor arms nor armor—
Needs no strength her rights to win;
But her bitterest foes are TRAITORS,
And her slavery is WITHIN!
When to bigots ye would preach;
Worse than vain, with bold exhortings,
Slavish minds ye seek to reach.
Ireland wants nor arms nor armor—
Needs no strength her rights to win;
But her bitterest foes are TRAITORS,
And her slavery is WITHIN!
Would ye rescue hapless Ireland—
Would ye lift her drooping head?
Would ye clothe her naked multitudes,
And give her paupers bread?
O waste not words in sympathy,
Nor shed your useless tears,
But arouse her from her slavishness
Of twice two hundred years.
Would ye lift her drooping head?
Would ye clothe her naked multitudes,
And give her paupers bread?
O waste not words in sympathy,
Nor shed your useless tears,
But arouse her from her slavishness
Of twice two hundred years.
Give her not your pikes and rifles—
They'll be forged to galling bands;
For a coward priesthood rules her,
Curbs her heart, and checks her hands.
Give her not your golden harvests,
Though for bread she shall implore—
If ye do, she'll kneel for ages,
Like a beggar, at your door.
They'll be forged to galling bands;
For a coward priesthood rules her,
Curbs her heart, and checks her hands.
Give her not your golden harvests,
Though for bread she shall implore—
If ye do, she'll kneel for ages,
Like a beggar, at your door.
54
But if ye would rescue Ireland,
Give her spades, and give her plows!
Let the sweat of honest labor
Gild her happy farmers' brows!
Let her patriots drain her marshes—
Let them hurl their iron blows
On the fastnesses of fevers—
Worse than even British foes.
Give her spades, and give her plows!
Let the sweat of honest labor
Gild her happy farmers' brows!
Let her patriots drain her marshes—
Let them hurl their iron blows
On the fastnesses of fevers—
Worse than even British foes.
If ye'd raise in Ireland armies,
Make them warriors of Toil!
Let their weapons strike her meadows.
Let them cleanse her teeming soil.
Give her WORK, ye sympathizers,
And for work bestow REWARD!
Work is better far than charity,
And stronger than the sword!
Make them warriors of Toil!
Let their weapons strike her meadows.
Let them cleanse her teeming soil.
Give her WORK, ye sympathizers,
And for work bestow REWARD!
Work is better far than charity,
And stronger than the sword!
Pauper minds are worse than traitors,
Bigots shrink from Freedom's goal:
Would ye break the body's fetters,
First must ye unlock the soul.
Ireland wants nor arms nor armor,
Lacks no strength her rights to win;
But her bitterest foe is Priestcraft—
Ignorance her deadliest sin.
Bigots shrink from Freedom's goal:
Would ye break the body's fetters,
First must ye unlock the soul.
Ireland wants nor arms nor armor,
Lacks no strength her rights to win;
But her bitterest foe is Priestcraft—
Ignorance her deadliest sin.
55
VII.
STRUGGLE OF THE PEOPLE.
Europe was Bondage! where, in stupor sunken,
Labored sad Israel, by her Pharaohs crushed!
Shackled her limbs, her spirit weak and shrunken,
Dumb was her voice—her harp, despairing, hushed.
Labored sad Israel, by her Pharaohs crushed!
Shackled her limbs, her spirit weak and shrunken,
Dumb was her voice—her harp, despairing, hushed.
Europe was Exodus! From shame emerging,
Lo! how the Slave became at once the Man!
While o'er his tyrants Freedom's ocean, surging
High as man's hopes, in billowy glory ran.
Lo! how the Slave became at once the Man!
While o'er his tyrants Freedom's ocean, surging
High as man's hopes, in billowy glory ran.
Europe is Sinai! and her dread confusions
Are but the workings of the Eternal's might!
Lo! from the Burning Bush of Revolutions
Cometh the Decalogue of Human Right!
Are but the workings of the Eternal's might!
Lo! from the Burning Bush of Revolutions
Cometh the Decalogue of Human Right!
VIII.
AVATAR AND FLIGHT.
Out of deep sleep where visions moved before me,
Rises my 'wildered soul:
Starless and dark the heavens are frowning o'er me;
And underneath me roll
The billows of an Unknown Sea, whose surge
Is as an endless dirge.
Lo! in my dreams I saw the Arisen Man—
The unbound Prometheus, grand with conquered pain,
Trampling his shattered chain!
Then, with a mighty joy that overran
The utterance of my heart, I clasp'd my lyre,
And sang aloud with prophet-ire,
Sang with exuberant voice—
“O Earth! rejoice! rejoice!”
Rises my 'wildered soul:
Starless and dark the heavens are frowning o'er me;
And underneath me roll
The billows of an Unknown Sea, whose surge
Is as an endless dirge.
Lo! in my dreams I saw the Arisen Man—
The unbound Prometheus, grand with conquered pain,
56
Then, with a mighty joy that overran
The utterance of my heart, I clasp'd my lyre,
And sang aloud with prophet-ire,
Sang with exuberant voice—
“O Earth! rejoice! rejoice!”
I saw young Freedom born—a Saviour-child—
And sages came from far,
Led by the radiant star
That o'er his manger gloriously smiled;
And I stood with shepherds who watched by night,
Till mine eyes were bathed with a wondrous light,
Till I heard the song of an angel throng,
With manifold love and with peace o'erfraught,
Swaying my listening thought.
And sages came from far,
Led by the radiant star
That o'er his manger gloriously smiled;
And I stood with shepherds who watched by night,
Till mine eyes were bathed with a wondrous light,
Till I heard the song of an angel throng,
With manifold love and with peace o'erfraught,
Swaying my listening thought.
But Herod the murderer heard—
Herod the Tyrant of Nations:
There swept by his palace a mystical word,
And the heart of the people with wonderment stirred,
In the dust of its desolations.
A star in the midnight sky—
A gleam of the Orient morn:
Behold! that word swept flashing by—
The Name of the Child new-born!
Over the broad world flashing high—
The Name of the Child new-born!
The Sword, O nations of the earth! ye saw
Your trembling tyrants draw.
The Hand, O nations! ye beheld, that slew
The Innocent and True!
But Freedom LIVES!
The Almighty hath the Child outled—
Egypt her shelter gives!
With strength and wisdom shall his youth be fed,
Till in man's stature, 'mid his fellow-men,
Freedom—the Saviour!—shall return again!
Herod the Tyrant of Nations:
There swept by his palace a mystical word,
And the heart of the people with wonderment stirred,
In the dust of its desolations.
A star in the midnight sky—
A gleam of the Orient morn:
Behold! that word swept flashing by—
The Name of the Child new-born!
Over the broad world flashing high—
The Name of the Child new-born!
57
Your trembling tyrants draw.
The Hand, O nations! ye beheld, that slew
The Innocent and True!
But Freedom LIVES!
The Almighty hath the Child outled—
Egypt her shelter gives!
With strength and wisdom shall his youth be fed,
Till in man's stature, 'mid his fellow-men,
Freedom—the Saviour!—shall return again!
The Lord God mightily reigneth—
And in the breath of his nostrils thrones dissolve,
Like glittering vapor, and no trace remaineth!
Light out of darkness shall His word evolve—
Order from chaos—and from the womb of might
The Eternal Soul of Right!
And in the breath of his nostrils thrones dissolve,
Like glittering vapor, and no trace remaineth!
Light out of darkness shall His word evolve—
Order from chaos—and from the womb of might
The Eternal Soul of Right!
IX.
HUNGARY.
Behold! when first before my vision whirled
The exulting pageantry of nations freed:
When, from their crumbling thrones in terror hurled,
Monarchs, with white lips, read the People's creed;
While rose that People, in their blood and sweat,
Moved by the might of Freedom's new revealing;
And thou, Kossuth, amid thy people set—
High on Hungaria's glorious Gilboa kneeling—
Lifted thine arms in agony to heaven;
Then—by the breath of Hope within me, driven—
Behold! I named thee Moses of the World!
The exulting pageantry of nations freed:
When, from their crumbling thrones in terror hurled,
Monarchs, with white lips, read the People's creed;
While rose that People, in their blood and sweat,
Moved by the might of Freedom's new revealing;
And thou, Kossuth, amid thy people set—
High on Hungaria's glorious Gilboa kneeling—
58
Then—by the breath of Hope within me, driven—
Behold! I named thee Moses of the World!
What, though ALONE
Thou battledst for the common Rights of Man!
What, though no kindred hand upheld thine own—
No nation followed in Hungaria's track,
When for the world her genius led the van:
Though slavish Gaul held back—
Though Albion faltered, and tho' (shame of shames!)
Columbia tamely looked upon her fate—
Yet, by the memory of our fathers' names,
Kossuth!—despair not yet!
Thou battledst for the common Rights of Man!
What, though no kindred hand upheld thine own—
No nation followed in Hungaria's track,
When for the world her genius led the van:
Though slavish Gaul held back—
Though Albion faltered, and tho' (shame of shames!)
Columbia tamely looked upon her fate—
Yet, by the memory of our fathers' names,
Kossuth!—despair not yet!
By German Steuben and De Kalb! despair not!
By Erin's slain Montgomery! despair not!
By Poland's child, Pulaski! still despair not!—
By Lafayette! by Washington!—despair not!
By Erin's slain Montgomery! despair not!
By Poland's child, Pulaski! still despair not!—
By Lafayette! by Washington!—despair not!
Kossuth! behold!—
Thy People journey through the desert still—
Even through the desert Zin:
While round them press the Spoilers as of old,—
But by our Lord Jehovah's power and will
The Promised Land they yet shall enter in.
And though, like Moses, thou mayst bless thine eyes
With but a glimpse of freedom's heritage
Still shall the Nations rise—
The enfranchised Nations of a future age—
And bless their Moses who on Gilboa's height
Prayed to the Lord through Freedom's darkest night!
Thy People journey through the desert still—
Even through the desert Zin:
While round them press the Spoilers as of old,—
But by our Lord Jehovah's power and will
The Promised Land they yet shall enter in.
And though, like Moses, thou mayst bless thine eyes
With but a glimpse of freedom's heritage
59
The enfranchised Nations of a future age—
And bless their Moses who on Gilboa's height
Prayed to the Lord through Freedom's darkest night!
X.
ROME.
O Rome! I sing to thee!
I cry aloud to thee! BE FREE! BE FREE!
Behold! my heart rose up
Like a rous'd ocean when upon mine ear
Broke thy high summoning trumpet, loud and clear,
Calling dead Freedom from her shameful bier!—
O Rome! the deadly cup
Of all thy woes, which tyrants filled for thee,
And Holy Fathers bless'd in Papal Palace—
Calling the death-bowl Heaven's anointed chalice:
This cup thou didst dash boldly from thy lips—
Dash'd it to earth!—Thus may God crush the malice
Which would with shameful lies thy valiant deed eclipse!
I cry aloud to thee! BE FREE! BE FREE!
Behold! my heart rose up
Like a rous'd ocean when upon mine ear
Broke thy high summoning trumpet, loud and clear,
Calling dead Freedom from her shameful bier!—
O Rome! the deadly cup
Of all thy woes, which tyrants filled for thee,
And Holy Fathers bless'd in Papal Palace—
Calling the death-bowl Heaven's anointed chalice:
This cup thou didst dash boldly from thy lips—
Dash'd it to earth!—Thus may God crush the malice
Which would with shameful lies thy valiant deed eclipse!
Rome the Republic! From thy Seven Hills
Flash'd the red beacon-fires of Liberty.
Lo! how the blaze, wide-spreading, flaming, fills
The o'er-arching Past with glory! Thou wert free!
Rome of Rienzi! Rome of Decius! ROME!
The name—the Name of Rome—shall hallow thee
As Freedom's Home!
O, my heart never could believe that men
Born in the Coliseum's shadow—nursed
Amid the tombs of earth's tremendous giants—
Could even sleep so long! Thank God! again
Ye awoke, and stood erect, and burst
Your shackles, and hurled back, in proud defiance,
The gauntlet of your faith at slavery's brow!
It were a lifetime worth to be a Roman NOW!
Flash'd the red beacon-fires of Liberty.
Lo! how the blaze, wide-spreading, flaming, fills
The o'er-arching Past with glory! Thou wert free!
Rome of Rienzi! Rome of Decius! ROME!
The name—the Name of Rome—shall hallow thee
As Freedom's Home!
60
Born in the Coliseum's shadow—nursed
Amid the tombs of earth's tremendous giants—
Could even sleep so long! Thank God! again
Ye awoke, and stood erect, and burst
Your shackles, and hurled back, in proud defiance,
The gauntlet of your faith at slavery's brow!
It were a lifetime worth to be a Roman NOW!
Fear ye yon crown'd Usurper, who hath flung
The cap of Liberty from Gallia's brow,
And the fool's bells around her temples hung?
What though your walls beneath his cannon bow,
And his armed robbers march your shrines among,—
Rome is still FREE! Her buried soul revives!
Her children, that were dead, have now up-sprung,
And Freedom's EUCHARIST gives them countless lives.
The cap of Liberty from Gallia's brow,
And the fool's bells around her temples hung?
What though your walls beneath his cannon bow,
And his armed robbers march your shrines among,—
Rome is still FREE! Her buried soul revives!
Her children, that were dead, have now up-sprung,
And Freedom's EUCHARIST gives them countless lives.
Poor Imbecile of France! Lo! he would guide
The Phœbus-chariot of a nation's will,
And rein the steeds of Freedom! In his pride
He would o'erleap his nature, and deride
The elements that raised him, and that still
Are surging round him in an angry tide!
He cresting them, as floats some glittering toy
Upon the bosom of an ocean wide!
Laugh, O my soul! This proud, assumptious boy
Would with our goddess Freedom dalliance hold,
Tempting her love with his betraying gold!
Laugh, O my soul! laugh loud in new-born joy—
“The gods first madden whom they would destroy!”
The Phœbus-chariot of a nation's will,
And rein the steeds of Freedom! In his pride
He would o'erleap his nature, and deride
The elements that raised him, and that still
Are surging round him in an angry tide!
He cresting them, as floats some glittering toy
Upon the bosom of an ocean wide!
Laugh, O my soul! This proud, assumptious boy
61
Tempting her love with his betraying gold!
Laugh, O my soul! laugh loud in new-born joy—
“The gods first madden whom they would destroy!”
I sang in joy when France,
With the brown hand of Labor, cast her chains
And sceptres in the path of barricades:
I sang as I beheld her sons advance,
Grasping their unstained blades,
That bore the lightning of their hearts and brains!—
I sang aloud the anthem of the free,
And on my bending knee
Prayed for the glorious cause of Liberty!
With the brown hand of Labor, cast her chains
And sceptres in the path of barricades:
I sang as I beheld her sons advance,
Grasping their unstained blades,
That bore the lightning of their hearts and brains!—
I sang aloud the anthem of the free,
And on my bending knee
Prayed for the glorious cause of Liberty!
But France hath stooped to shame,
Selling her birthright for a tyrant's name,
And Rome must now do battle for the world—
Rome, the great Heart of Nations, by whose throes
The tide of Freedom's life-blood must be hurled
Through Europe's arteried corpse, until it glows
With life to feel and to avenge its woes!
Selling her birthright for a tyrant's name,
And Rome must now do battle for the world—
Rome, the great Heart of Nations, by whose throes
The tide of Freedom's life-blood must be hurled
Through Europe's arteried corpse, until it glows
With life to feel and to avenge its woes!
Once, with the wondering patriots of all earth—
Hailing your Freedom's birth—
Ye bless'd the Pope of Rome!
Ye bless'd him, that, with vision free and earnest,
He had looked forward to the coming light;
Ye hailed him as the holiest and sternest
Of all man's champions battling for the Right—
Battling against old Europe's kingly might.
Hailing your Freedom's birth—
Ye bless'd the Pope of Rome!
Ye bless'd him, that, with vision free and earnest,
He had looked forward to the coming light;
62
Of all man's champions battling for the Right—
Battling against old Europe's kingly might.
But soon ye tore from off his brow its screening,
And saw the monarch in your worship'd Pope!
His human words ye found with royal meaning—
Truth to the ear but falsehood to the hope!
Then, with the strength that had been crush'd so long,
Ye rose and smote your wrong!
And saw the monarch in your worship'd Pope!
His human words ye found with royal meaning—
Truth to the ear but falsehood to the hope!
Then, with the strength that had been crush'd so long,
Ye rose and smote your wrong!
Men of old Rome! still be your souls undaunted!
Still to the world fling out your proud example!
Lo! the eternal seed which ye have planted,
Banyan-like shall arise, and top the skies,
And in its awful pride, shall arch with branches wide,
The desert earth—that kings now madly trample.
Still to the world fling out your proud example!
Lo! the eternal seed which ye have planted,
Banyan-like shall arise, and top the skies,
And in its awful pride, shall arch with branches wide,
The desert earth—that kings now madly trample.
XI.
THE TRANCE.
I sleep on the bosom of Night,
But mantle my couch with her stars!
For, blazing in red, like a flame overhead,
Still swingeth the wild planet Mars!
I hear an awakening sound,
That sweeps through the vasty profound;
I see a dread Angel—a glorious Angel—
With beauty enrobed and with righteousness crowned!
A Voice through Creation is hurled;
The breath of Elohim is rocking the world!
And the spirit of God o'er the face of the waters
Is brooding in wonderful glory—
In dark and mysterious glory!
Arise ye, my sons! O awake ye, my daughters!
Behold!—on the wings of the morning behold!—
How the Angel of Prophecy flieth from Heaven,
With power from Elohim, the Mighty One, given,
The Future of Earth to unfold!
But mantle my couch with her stars!
For, blazing in red, like a flame overhead,
Still swingeth the wild planet Mars!
I hear an awakening sound,
That sweeps through the vasty profound;
I see a dread Angel—a glorious Angel—
With beauty enrobed and with righteousness crowned!
63
The breath of Elohim is rocking the world!
And the spirit of God o'er the face of the waters
Is brooding in wonderful glory—
In dark and mysterious glory!
Arise ye, my sons! O awake ye, my daughters!
Behold!—on the wings of the morning behold!—
How the Angel of Prophecy flieth from Heaven,
With power from Elohim, the Mighty One, given,
The Future of Earth to unfold!
There are curses and sore tribulations,
That crouch in the lap of the Past:
There is blood-guiltiness on the skirts of the nations;
And shadows from heaven are cast—
Yea, shadows unearthly and vast,—
Brooding over mankind,
Who are blind—who are blind—
Who have plucked out the eyes of their mind!
That crouch in the lap of the Past:
There is blood-guiltiness on the skirts of the nations;
And shadows from heaven are cast—
Yea, shadows unearthly and vast,—
Brooding over mankind,
Who are blind—who are blind—
Who have plucked out the eyes of their mind!
It comes—oh! it comes!—I hear it again!
I hear it afar:
That murderous tread o'er the living and dead—
The march of old merciless war!
It comes—oh! it comes—
The whirlwind of men!—
The Princes and Leaders,
With banners and trumpets and drums.
They tower like old Lebanon's cedars,
But bow to the breath of the storm—
Yea, bend to the hurricane's breath!
They rush to the Valley of Death!
Yet they swarm!
Like black battle-vultures they swarm and they cluster—
In countless and terrible muster,
In crimson and murderous lustre.
They come—oh! they come!
And my spirit is dumb—
The armies of men! they are swarming again:
They are swarming once more,
On sea and on shore—
The food and the fuel of horrible war!
I hear it afar:
That murderous tread o'er the living and dead—
The march of old merciless war!
It comes—oh! it comes—
The whirlwind of men!—
The Princes and Leaders,
With banners and trumpets and drums.
They tower like old Lebanon's cedars,
64
Yea, bend to the hurricane's breath!
They rush to the Valley of Death!
Yet they swarm!
Like black battle-vultures they swarm and they cluster—
In countless and terrible muster,
In crimson and murderous lustre.
They come—oh! they come!
And my spirit is dumb—
The armies of men! they are swarming again:
They are swarming once more,
On sea and on shore—
The food and the fuel of horrible war!
From Muscovy—Mother of Slaves!—
To their graves:
To their graves on the banks of the Rhine,—
The serfs of the Autocrat pour;
And their blood shall new-nurture the vine!
From Danube's red shore—
From Dneiper and Don—
Shall gather the barbaric hordes;
The Tartar and Hun,
Whose laws are their swords;
From desert and border
Each thirsty marauder
Shall haste to the land of the vine,
To mingle his blood with its wine!
From Britain—from Britain—
The flame shall arise
To the pitiless skies!
'Tis written—'tis written—
'Tis plain to mine eyes.
And her merchants, afar off, lamenting and yearning,
Shall witness the smoke of her burning!
To their graves:
To their graves on the banks of the Rhine,—
The serfs of the Autocrat pour;
And their blood shall new-nurture the vine!
From Danube's red shore—
From Dneiper and Don—
Shall gather the barbaric hordes;
The Tartar and Hun,
Whose laws are their swords;
From desert and border
Each thirsty marauder
Shall haste to the land of the vine,
To mingle his blood with its wine!
65
The flame shall arise
To the pitiless skies!
'Tis written—'tis written—
'Tis plain to mine eyes.
And her merchants, afar off, lamenting and yearning,
Shall witness the smoke of her burning!
Even so!
She must taste of the wo:
In hut and in palace, she'll drink of the chalice,
And pour out her heart in libation—
To wash out her mighty transgression.
For, lo!
The blood of the innocent cries—
The blood of the martyrs whom Britain hath slain,
Shall fall on her forehead in terrible rain!
She must taste of the wo:
In hut and in palace, she'll drink of the chalice,
And pour out her heart in libation—
To wash out her mighty transgression.
For, lo!
The blood of the innocent cries—
The blood of the martyrs whom Britain hath slain,
Shall fall on her forehead in terrible rain!
And Gaul shall be drunken with blood,
Drunk with the blood of the North:
Drunk with the blood of the Islands and Main—
Drunk with the suicide flood,
That once and again
From her own cloven heart shall gush forth;
Ere the riddle of Samson lies open to earth—
And, from Royal Brutes slaughtered, the Hive shall have birth.
It rolls—oh! it rolls—
The voice of the thunder that striketh men's souls:
It bends—it descends—
The bolt that old earth from her centre up-rends—
'Tis the battle's wild roar—'tis the bolt of red war—
The sea it upheaveth—it rocketh the shore;
It shaketh the zones!—And monarchs and thrones
Shall wrestle with Freedom—but conquer no more!
Drunk with the blood of the North:
Drunk with the blood of the Islands and Main—
Drunk with the suicide flood,
That once and again
From her own cloven heart shall gush forth;
Ere the riddle of Samson lies open to earth—
And, from Royal Brutes slaughtered, the Hive shall have birth.
66
The voice of the thunder that striketh men's souls:
It bends—it descends—
The bolt that old earth from her centre up-rends—
'Tis the battle's wild roar—'tis the bolt of red war—
The sea it upheaveth—it rocketh the shore;
It shaketh the zones!—And monarchs and thrones
Shall wrestle with Freedom—but conquer no more!
XII.
UNCONQUERED.
I am near to you, ye suffering men,
Wherever on earth ye dwell:
My heart's best tongue is mine iron pen—
Mine iron thoughts to tell!
O would to God that the living fire
Which glows within that heart,
Might reach ye, through my flashing lyre,
And all its flame impart!
Wherever on earth ye dwell:
My heart's best tongue is mine iron pen—
Mine iron thoughts to tell!
O would to God that the living fire
Which glows within that heart,
Might reach ye, through my flashing lyre,
And all its flame impart!
Jehovah spake, in the olden time,
Through Israel's glorious seers,
Till the haughty spirit of royal crime
Was bent with craven fears:
And Jehovah speaketh, in this our day,
Wherever, on land or sea;
A brave, true heart shall sing or pray,
That its brethren may be free!
Through Israel's glorious seers,
Till the haughty spirit of royal crime
Was bent with craven fears:
And Jehovah speaketh, in this our day,
Wherever, on land or sea;
A brave, true heart shall sing or pray,
That its brethren may be free!
67
I tell you, brothers of every clime!
Ye children of every soil!
That the Saviors of Freedom, throughout all time,
Have sprung from the ranks of toil!
I charge ye all, who suffer and wait,
Who live by sweat of brow,
That ye keep good watch at your city's gate—
For the Master cometh now!
Ye children of every soil!
That the Saviors of Freedom, throughout all time,
Have sprung from the ranks of toil!
I charge ye all, who suffer and wait,
Who live by sweat of brow,
That ye keep good watch at your city's gate—
For the Master cometh now!
Ay, NOW,—when the foot of royal might
Is trampling the olden world—
When the radiant banners of human right
In darkness have been furled—
Ay, NOW,—when kings in their festal hall
Deride the human soul,
Ye shall mark a HAND, as it scores the wall
With Freedom's judgment-scroll
Is trampling the olden world—
When the radiant banners of human right
In darkness have been furled—
Ay, NOW,—when kings in their festal hall
Deride the human soul,
Ye shall mark a HAND, as it scores the wall
With Freedom's judgment-scroll
There is never a Night for the People's cause
That is not yet thick with stars,
And Freedom's sleep is but breathing-pause
For strength to burst her bars!
For the Day alone hath come the Ill—
For the Day it hath sufficed:
And the gloom that closed o'er Calvary's hill,
Shall break—with the Risen Christ!
That is not yet thick with stars,
And Freedom's sleep is but breathing-pause
For strength to burst her bars!
For the Day alone hath come the Ill—
For the Day it hath sufficed:
And the gloom that closed o'er Calvary's hill,
Shall break—with the Risen Christ!
| Duganne's Poetical Works | |