 | As it Was in The Beginning |  |
CANTO IX.
I
They lay low-bosomed on the bayOf Honolulu; soft the breeze;
The best hearted and most entirely just and generous people I ever lived amongst are, or rather were the Hawaiians, for they are fast passing to the beyond.
Our treatment of this dusky race, is one of the crimes of the past century.
Fair land of flowers, land of flame,
Of sun-born seas, of sea-born clime,
Of clouds low shepherded and tame
As white pet sheep at shearing time,
Of great, white, generous high-born rain,
Of rainbows builded not in vain—
Of rainbows builded for the feet
Of love to pass dry-shod and fleet
From isle to isle, when smell of musk
'Mid twilight is, and one lone star
Sits in the brow of dusk.
Of sun-born seas, of sea-born clime,
Of clouds low shepherded and tame
As white pet sheep at shearing time,
Of great, white, generous high-born rain,
Of rainbows builded not in vain—
Of rainbows builded for the feet
Of love to pass dry-shod and fleet
From isle to isle, when smell of musk
'Mid twilight is, and one lone star
Sits in the brow of dusk.
Oh, dying, sad-voiced, sea-born maid!
And plundered, dying, still sing on.
Thy breast against the thorn is laid—
Sing on, sing on, sweet dying swan.
How pitiful! And so despoiled
By those you fed, for whom you toiled!
Aloha! Hail you, and farewell,
Far echo of some lost sea-shell!
Some song that lost its way at sea,
Some sea-lost notes of nature, lost,
That crying, came to me.
And plundered, dying, still sing on.
Thy breast against the thorn is laid—
Sing on, sing on, sweet dying swan.
How pitiful! And so despoiled
By those you fed, for whom you toiled!
Aloha! Hail you, and farewell,
Far echo of some lost sea-shell!
Some song that lost its way at sea,
Some sea-lost notes of nature, lost,
That crying, came to me.
Dusk maid adieu! One sea-shell less!
Sad sea-shell silenced and forgot.
O Rachel in the wilderness,
Wail on! Your children they are not.
And they who took them, they who laid
Hard hand, shall they not feel afraid?
Shall they who in the name of God
Robbed and enslaved, escape His rod?
Give me some after-world afar
From these hard men, for well I know
Hell must be where they are.
Sad sea-shell silenced and forgot.
O Rachel in the wilderness,
Wail on! Your children they are not.
And they who took them, they who laid
Hard hand, shall they not feel afraid?
Shall they who in the name of God
Robbed and enslaved, escape His rod?
Give me some after-world afar
From these hard men, for well I know
Hell must be where they are.
And soft the dreamful light that lay
On Honolulu's sabbath seas—
The ghost of sunshine gone away,
Red roses on the grave of day.
II
Their dusky boatman set his faceFrom out the argent, opal sea
Tow'rd where his once proud, warlike race
Lay housed in everlasting dust.
He sang low-voiced, sad, silently,
In listless chorus with the tide,
Because his race was not, because
His sun-born race had dared, defied
The highest, holiest of all laws
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Died stricken of dread leprosy
Begot of lust—prone in the dust—
Degenerating love to lust.
III
Sweet sandal-wood burned bow and sternIn colored, shapely crates of clay,
Sweet sandal-wood long laid away,
Long caverned with dead battle kings
Whose dim ghosts rise betimes and burn
The torch, and touch sweet taro strings—
Such giant, stalwart, stately kings!
IV
Sweet sandal-wood, long ages tornFrom high-heaved, cloud-capped lava steep,
Then hidden where dead giants keep
Their sealed Walhalla, waiting morn—
Deep-hidden, till such sweet perfume
Betrayed their long-forgotten tomb.
V
The sea's perfume and incense layAbout, above, lay everywhere;
The sea swung incense up the air—
The censer, Honolulu Bay—
And then the song, the soft, low rune,
So sad, as if dead kings kept tune.
VI
The moon hung twilight from each horn,Soft, silken twilight—soft to touch
As baby lips—and over much
Like to the baby breath of morn.
Huge, five-horned stars swung left and right
O'er argent, opal, amber night.
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VII
What changeful, dreamful, ardent light,When Mauna Loa, far afield,
Uprose and shook his yellow shield
Below the battlements of night;
Below the Southern Cross, o'er seas
That sang deep, silent symphonies!
VIII
Far lava peaks still lit the night,Like holy candles foot and head,
That dimly burned above the dead,
Above the dead and buried Light.
There was such perfume of the sea,
Such Sabbath breath, soft, silently,
As when some burning censer swings,
As when some surpliced choir sings.
IX
He scarce had lived the whole long year,But now yon mitred tongues of flame
That tipt the star-lit lava peak
Brought back such fervor to his cheek
He could but answer to his name.
He could but heed, he could but hear
That call across the lap of night
From tripple mitred tongues of Light,
That soulful, silent, perfumed night.
He said—and yet he said no word:
No word he said, yet all she heard,
So close their souls lay, white, so white,
That holy Honolulu night.
X
“Lies yonder Nemo's Mount, my sweet,The Promised Land beyond, beyond
The grave of rest, the broken bond,
Where manly force must loose control,
Must press the grapes and fill the bowl,
Go 'round and 'round, rest, rise up, eat,
Tread grapes then wash the wearied feet?
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XI
“I know I have enough of bliss,I know full well I should not dare
To ask a deeper joy than this,
This scene, your presence, this soft air,
This incense, this deep sense of rest
Where long-sought, sweet Arcadia lies,
Against these gates of Paradise.
XII
“And yet, my own, I dare ask more.Lone Adam had all Paradise
And yet how poor he was, how poor,
With all things his beneath the skies!
Aye, sweet it were to roam or rest,
To ever rest or ever roam
As you might reck or reckon best;
But, Sweet, there comes a sense of home,
Of hearthstone, happy babes at play
And you and I—not far away.
XIII
“Nay, do not turn aside your face—‘Be fruitful ye and multiply’
Meant all; it meant the human race,
And he or she shall surely die
Despised and rot to nothingness
Who does not love the little dress,
The heaven in the mother's eyes,
His holy, secret, sweet surprise
The time she tells how truly blest,
With face laid blushing to his breast.
XIV
“How flower-like the little frock—The daffodil forerunning spring—
The doll-like shoes, socks, everything,
And each a secret, secret stored:
And yet each day the little hoard,
As careful merchants note their stock,
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As only angel mothers share.
XV
“At last to hear her rock and rock—Behold her bowed Madonna face!
She lifts her baby from its place,
Pulls down the crumpled, dampened frock,
And never Cleopatra guessed
The queenliness, the joy, the pride
She knows with baby to her breast
And his chub fists churned either side!
The bravest breast faith ever bared
For brother, country, creed or friend,
However high the aim or end,
Was that brave breast a baby shared
With kicking, fat legs half unfrocked,
The while sweet mother rocked and rocked.”
XVI
As when first blossoms ken first bees,As when the squirrel hoists high sail
And leaps his world of maple trees
And quirks his saucy, tossy tail;
As when Vermont's tall sugar trees
First feel sweet sap then don their leaves
In haste—a million Mother Eves;
As when strange winds stir sleeping ships
Long ice-bound fast in Arctic seas;
So she, the strong, full woman now,
Felt new life thrilling breast and brow
And tingled to her finger tips.
Her limbs reached out, outstretched her head
As if to say—she nothing said.
But something of the tender light
That lit her girl face that first night,
The time she pulling poppies sat
The sod and saw the golden sheep
Safe housed within the hollowed deep
Was hers; and how she blushed thereat!
Yet blushing so, still, silent, sat.
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XVII
He paused; the low, soft monotoneOf song, the half-dipt, heedless oar
Kept chorus, and, then as before,
For now he knew him not alone:
“God's pity for the breasts that bear
A little babe then banish it
To stranger hands, to alien care,
To live or die as chance sees fit.
Poor, helpless hands, reached anywhere,
As God gave them to reach and reach,
With only helplessness in each!
Poor little hands, pushed here, pushed there
And all night long for mother's breast.
Poor restless hands that will not rest
And gather strength to reach out strong
To mother in the rosy morn!
Nay, nay, they gather scorn for scorn
And hate for hate the lorn night long—
Poor dying babe! to reach about
In blackness, as a thing cast out!
XVIII
“God's pity for the thing of lustThat bears a frail babe to be thrust
Forth from her arms to alien thrall,
As shutting out the light of day,
As shutting off God's very breath!
But thrice God's pity, let us pray,
For her who bears no babe at all,
But gaily leads up Fashion's Hall
And grinning leads the dance of death.
That sexless, steel-braced breast of bone
Is like to some assassin cell,
A whited sepulcher of stone,
A graveyard at the gates of hell,
A mart where motherhood is sold,
A house of murders manifold!
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XIX
“Of all cursed things, thrice doubly cursed,I count this painted thing the worst:
This barren, blighted, cursed fig tree,
This shameless, jeweled thing of shame
Who barters life for noisy name,
This unclean thing so more than she
Who trails the street in misery!
XX
“And who the best, who best of allThe famed four hundred, great or small—
Four hundred, thousand, million, aye,
Of all this broad, brave earth today?
Why, such grand Gracchi Mother, she
Who knew not gem nor jewelry
Yet ranged her jewels at her side
With all a Roman Mother's pride,
And reckoned hers the richest home
On all the seven hills of Rome.
XXI
“I know the world is good, my love,But weak, as man grown weak of mind,
And he who wishes well his kind
Will show respect unto its will,
And walk somewhat its way, will find
Some common ground, nor walk above,
Nor strangely turn and strangely talk,
But speak somewhat as others speak.
Man is not wicked, man is weak,
Is but as some poor tottling child
That cries out if not well beguiled—
Starts terrified at honest talk
And falls, ere yet it knows to walk.
XXII
“He who would save the world must standHard by the world with steel mailed hand
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The world needs truth, tall truth and grand,
And keen sword-cuts that thrust to kill.
The man who climbed the windy hill
To talk is talking, climbing still,
And would not help or hurt a fly.
The stoutest swimmer and most wise
Swims somewhat with the sweeping stream,
Yet leads, leads unseen as a dream.
The weak fool turns his back and flies,
The strong fool breasts the flood and dies.
XXIII
“I know you scorn the narrow deedsOf men who make their god of creeds—
Yond men as narrow as the miles
That bank their rare acacia isles;
But come, my Lone Star, come with me
To yon far church, high-built and fair,
For God is there, as everywhere,
Or Arctic snow or Argent sea;
And if these learned men may not know,
For all their books and boast and show,
That here, right here, the womb of night
Gave us God's first-born, holy Light,
Why, pity, nor yet blame them quite:
Because they know not, cannot read,
Save as commanded by some creed.
XXIV
“What eons they may have to waitWithin their wall, without the gate,
Nor once dare lift their eyes to look
Beyond their blinding creed and book
We know not, but we surely know
Yon lava-lifted, star-tipt height
Is bannered still by that first Light.
We know this phosphorescent glow
At every dip of dripping oar
Is but lost bits of Light below
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Where moves God's spirit as of yore.
Aye, here, right here, from out the night,
God spake and sad: ‘Let there be light.’
XXV
“And dare ask doubting, creed-made menWhy we so surely know and how?
Why, here ‘the waters,’ now as then
Why here ‘the waters,’ then as now?
We know because we read, yet read
So little that we much may heed.
We read: ‘God's spirit moved upon
The waters’ ere that burst of dawn.
What waters? Why, ‘The Waters,’ these,
These soundless, silent, sun-down seas.
XXVI
“The morning of the world was here,'Twas here ‘He made dry land appear,’
Here ‘Darkness lay upon the deep.’
What deep? This deep, the deepest deep
That ever rolled beneath the sun
When night and day they were as one
And dreamless day lay fast asleep
Rocked in this cradle of the deep.
XXVII
“Hear me! How happy, long I laidMy body, soul, at your brave feet!
How long, how happy, Sweet, my Sweet,
Close at your side by death's cold door,
Or here where tropic passions pour:
And have you ever been betrayed?
What hand, what finger have I laid
Against your garment's hem? What word,
What sign have you yet seen or heard
That said you should not still remain
My Shrine, my Saint without a stain?
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XXVIII
“Hear me! How pitiful the pleaOf men who plead for temperance,
Of men who know not one first sense
Of self-control, yet, fire-shod,
Storm forth and rage intemperately
At sins that are but as a breath,
Compared with their low lives of death!
XXIX
“And oh, for prophet's tongue or penTo scourge, not only, and accuse
The childless mother, but such men
As know their wives but to abuse!
Give me the brave, child-loving Jew,
The full-sexed Jew of either sex,
Who loves, brings forth and nothing recks
Of care or cost, as Christians do—
Dulled souls who will not hear or see
How Christ once raised His lowly head
And, as rebuking, gently said,
The while he took them tenderly,
‘Let little children come to me.’
XXX
“Go forth among this homeless race,This landless race that knows no place
Or name or nation quite its own,
And see their happy babes at play,
Palace or Ghetto, rich or poor
As thick as birds about your door
At morn some sunny Vermont May
Then think of Christ and these alone.
Yet we deride, we jeer, we gibe
To see their plenteous babes; we say
‘Behold the Jew and all his tribe!’
Yet Solomon upon his throne
Was not more kingly crowned than they,
More surely born to lord, to lead,
To sow the land with Abram's seed;
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And welcomed as the welcome morn.
XXXI
“Hear me this prophecy and heed;Except we cleanse us kirk or creed,
Except we wash us word and deed
The Jew shall rule us, reign the Jew.
And just because the Jew is true,
Is true to nature, true to truth;
Is clean, is chaste, as trustful Ruth
Who bore us David, Solomon—
The Babe, that far, first Christmas dawn.
XXXII
“You shrink, are angered at my speech?So be it then; there lies the beach,
And up the beach the ways divide.
I would not leave the truth untold
To win the whole world to my side:
And yet, to win you for my bride
Would count down blood, as counting gold.
High yonder lifts the clear church light
For seamen, souls sea-tossed at night.
XXXIII
“I see the spiked Agave's plume,The pepsin lane, acacia's blown
Far up beyond tall cocoa trees
That gird the pretty, peaceful town.
That lane leads up, the church looks down—
There lie the ways, now which of these?
Bear with me, I must dare be true.
The nation, aye, the Christian race,
Here fronts its Sibyl, face to face,
And I must say, say now to you,
Whate'er the cost, of fortune, fame,
The Christian is a thing of shame—
Must say because I know it true,
The better Christian is the Jew.
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XXXIV
“Behold the pale, wan, piteous wifeOf him who pleads his perfect life!
Her step is slow, she waits for death;
How thin is she, how full is he!
Hear her wan baby's hollow cry!
He scarce can cry above his breath.
Poor babe! begotten but to die,
Or, harder fate, live feebly on,
The shame of mother, curse of state—
Half witted, worthless, jest of fate.
XXXV
“Behold, God's image, fashioned tallAs heaven stooping down to crawl
Upon his belly as a snake,
Ere yet his sense is well awake,
Ere yet is force has come, ere yet
The child-wife knows but to regret.
And lo! the greatest is the least;
For man lies lower than the beast.
XXXVI
“Such pity that pure love should lieProne, strangled in its bed of shame
And no man dare to publish why!
Such pity, that in slain Love's name
The weak bring forth the weaker, bring
The leper, idiot, anything
That lawless passion can beget!
Sweet pity, pity for them all—
The child that cries, child-wife that dies
Ere yet the soul has waked to see
The weaklings that may linger, yet
A feeble day to feebly fall—
As food for sword or cannon ball,
For prison wall or charity
Or fruit of gruesome gallows tree!
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XXXVII
“But pity most poor man, blind manWhose passions stoop him to a span.
Why, man, each well-born man, was born
To dwell in everlasting morn,
To top the mountain as a tower
A thousand years of pride and power,
To face the four winds with the face
Of youth until full length he lies—
Still God-like even as he dies.
XXXVIII
“Could I but teach lorn man to live,Could I but teach blind man to see,
But teach lost man to truly love,
And wisely, he would turn to me
And give great thanks, and ever give
Glad heed, as to some soft-voiced dove
That speaks as prophet from above.
XXXIX
“The burning cities of the plain,The high-built harlot, Babylon,
The bannered mur'ls of Rome undone,
That rose again and fell again
To ashes and to heaps of dust,
All died because man lived in vain;
Because man sold his soul to lust,
Because man could not, would not love,
Live, stand erect and look above.
XL
“And count what crimes have come of it!I say all sins, or said or writ,
Lie gathered here in this dark pit
Of man's unbridled, mad desire,
Where her frail form is ruthless thrown,
As on some sacrificial stone,
And burned as in a living fire
To leave but ashes, rue and ire.
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XLI
“Aye, even crimes as yet unnamedAre born of man's unbridled lust.
The wildest beast man ever tamed,
Or ever yet has learned to know,
The vilest beast would know disgust
Could it but know how low, how low
God's image sinks in muck and slime,
In crimes so deeper than all crime,
In slime that hath not yet a name,
And yet man knows no whit of shame!
XLII
“Poor, weak, mad man, so halt, so blind!Poor, weak, mad man that must carouse
And prostitute what he should house
And husband for his coming kind!
Behold the dumb beasts at glad morn,
Clean beasts that hold them well in hand!
How nobler thus to lord the land,
How nobler thus to love your race,
To house its health and strength and grace,
Than rob the races yet unborn
And build new Babylons to scorn!
XLIII
“I say that each man has a right,The right the beast has to be born
Full-flowered, beauteous, free and fair
As wide-winged bird that rides the air;
Not as a babe that cries all night,
Cries, cries in darkness for such light
As man should give it at its birth.
I say the poor babe has a right,
The right, at least, of a wild beast—
Aye, red babe, black babe, west or east,
To rise at birth and lord the earth,
Strong-limbed, long-limbed and fair and free
As supple beast or tossing tree.
| As it Was in The Beginning | |