 | Songs of A Worker |  |
49
A FALLEN HERO.
They found him dead upon the battle-field.
One said, ‘A hard man, and with scarce a heart;
There lay his strength, a man who could not yield.
For, after all, too many, playing a part
Of judge or warrior in the world, strong-armed,
Or with the mental sinews stoutly set
To the far-reaching thought, have faltered, charmed
To softness and half purpose when they met
The sweet appeal of individual lives,
Or vanquished by the look of wounded foes.
This man was iron. Who has striven strives
Where the cause leads him; where that is, who knows?
Content with partial good the cooler crowd,
Using its heroes, steps aside, well served,
Waits for another; and the applause, so loud,
So general once, grows fainter—more reserved
Around his steps who, holding first the flag
In a well-honoured fight, is left to wage
The war alone, above him a red rag
With now his name upon it. So, 'twas a rage
Urged this man on; good, evil, grew but in dreams,
The changeless opposites; and to comrades, shamed
Or timely fallen away, the man now seems
Well-nigh the contrary of the thing he named.’
One said, ‘A hard man, and with scarce a heart;
There lay his strength, a man who could not yield.
For, after all, too many, playing a part
Of judge or warrior in the world, strong-armed,
Or with the mental sinews stoutly set
To the far-reaching thought, have faltered, charmed
To softness and half purpose when they met
The sweet appeal of individual lives,
Or vanquished by the look of wounded foes.
This man was iron. Who has striven strives
Where the cause leads him; where that is, who knows?
50
Using its heroes, steps aside, well served,
Waits for another; and the applause, so loud,
So general once, grows fainter—more reserved
Around his steps who, holding first the flag
In a well-honoured fight, is left to wage
The war alone, above him a red rag
With now his name upon it. So, 'twas a rage
Urged this man on; good, evil, grew but in dreams,
The changeless opposites; and to comrades, shamed
Or timely fallen away, the man now seems
Well-nigh the contrary of the thing he named.’
Another said, ‘Ay, seems to such as these
Who fought for half the goal—the goal was good,
Immense, remote, a blessing that may ease
The world some ages hence; half-way was food,
Content, a crumb for lesser lives to gain:
He gained and spurned it to them. For the rest,
The future man may count his death not vain,
Finding him in Time's strata, as with crest
Frenzied and straining jaws and limbs, some old
Imbedded dragon lies defiant still
In an unfinished fight. If such pass cold
Mid the dwarfed folk whose generations fill
Their striding steps, their soul is all the sun
Gilding the dawn and lengthening out the span
Of yet unrisen days, when men may run
To greater heights and distances of man.’
Who fought for half the goal—the goal was good,
Immense, remote, a blessing that may ease
The world some ages hence; half-way was food,
Content, a crumb for lesser lives to gain:
He gained and spurned it to them. For the rest,
51
Finding him in Time's strata, as with crest
Frenzied and straining jaws and limbs, some old
Imbedded dragon lies defiant still
In an unfinished fight. If such pass cold
Mid the dwarfed folk whose generations fill
Their striding steps, their soul is all the sun
Gilding the dawn and lengthening out the span
Of yet unrisen days, when men may run
To greater heights and distances of man.’
A third said, ‘Yet to fall, as this one hath,
Not with the earlier laurel newly earned,
Nor having cleared the later doubtful path,
But with a red sword firmly clutched and turned
Against the heart of his time, is no fair fate.
He who now drives a hundred men to death
Is bound to show the thousand saved; else hate
And scorn will quickly blow him such a breath
No flowers will grow about his memory,
No goodly praise sit well upon his name.
The men, who for his shadow could not see
The peaceful sun of half their days, cry shame
Against him; lives he stinted of their love,
Denying his own, lopping the tender boughs
And leaflets that the trunk might rise above
Its fellows, spoil the glory on his brows,
Accuse him just as surely with their tears
And ruin as with words that seemed too weak.
Not with the earlier laurel newly earned,
Nor having cleared the later doubtful path,
But with a red sword firmly clutched and turned
Against the heart of his time, is no fair fate.
He who now drives a hundred men to death
Is bound to show the thousand saved; else hate
And scorn will quickly blow him such a breath
No flowers will grow about his memory,
52
The men, who for his shadow could not see
The peaceful sun of half their days, cry shame
Against him; lives he stinted of their love,
Denying his own, lopping the tender boughs
And leaflets that the trunk might rise above
Its fellows, spoil the glory on his brows,
Accuse him just as surely with their tears
And ruin as with words that seemed too weak.
‘Better, perhaps, out of the hopes and fears
That round the generation's life, to speak
And win assent of every lesser man,
Or, fighting, only wrest from that dark foe,
The Future, jealous holding all she can
For hers unborn, some moderate trophy, no
Abiding portion; dazzled, men will praise,
While that great gift the dream-led seeker strives
To gain and give them, scarcely they may raise
Their hearts to the great love of all their lives.’
That round the generation's life, to speak
And win assent of every lesser man,
Or, fighting, only wrest from that dark foe,
The Future, jealous holding all she can
For hers unborn, some moderate trophy, no
Abiding portion; dazzled, men will praise,
While that great gift the dream-led seeker strives
To gain and give them, scarcely they may raise
Their hearts to the great love of all their lives.’
53
So spake they round one fallen in a fight,
Whence most had turned away, deeming the good
A doubtful one, the further path too rife
With thrusts across the common ground, where stood
Friend and foe mingled. Half praise, almost blame
One and another uttered, as they gazed
Down at the dead set face, and named the name
That once upon their foremost banner blazed,
But late flashed fitfully on distant quest
Strained past endurance. Bitterness still wrought
Somewhat within their hearts, or memory prest
Maybe upon them with some late look fraught
With passing scorn, and these—the feet that rushed
Onward, too reckless of weak lives that hide
Along the wayside of the world—had crushed.
Whence most had turned away, deeming the good
A doubtful one, the further path too rife
With thrusts across the common ground, where stood
Friend and foe mingled. Half praise, almost blame
One and another uttered, as they gazed
Down at the dead set face, and named the name
That once upon their foremost banner blazed,
But late flashed fitfully on distant quest
Strained past endurance. Bitterness still wrought
Somewhat within their hearts, or memory prest
Maybe upon them with some late look fraught
With passing scorn, and these—the feet that rushed
Onward, too reckless of weak lives that hide
Along the wayside of the world—had crushed.
But lo! a woman wrung her hands and cried,
‘Ah, my beloved! ah, the good, the true!’
And clasped him lying on the ground, and kept
Her arms about him there. She only knew
The passion of the man, and when he wept.
‘Ah, my beloved! ah, the good, the true!’
And clasped him lying on the ground, and kept
Her arms about him there. She only knew
The passion of the man, and when he wept.
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