 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
240
REMEMBERED WRONGS.
Why, what know ye of hearts that mirror Heaven?
Outcast adorers of the dæmon's will!
Have ye not long, hyæna harpies! striven
To awe me from the path I follow still?
Your sacrifice is sacrilege—your oaths
The gamester's oracles; and shall I fear
The hideous-bodied Sin my spirit loathes,
Or gore my heart and lend a suppliant's ear
To treason's counsel shared among the crowd
Of villain-workers who beset my way?
No! better fester in oblivion's shroud,
And shrink, like lazars, from the sun away!
I deem not ill the toil and sorrow past,
For I have found, earth fiends! my strength at last.
Outcast adorers of the dæmon's will!
Have ye not long, hyæna harpies! striven
To awe me from the path I follow still?
Your sacrifice is sacrilege—your oaths
The gamester's oracles; and shall I fear
The hideous-bodied Sin my spirit loathes,
Or gore my heart and lend a suppliant's ear
To treason's counsel shared among the crowd
Of villain-workers who beset my way?
No! better fester in oblivion's shroud,
And shrink, like lazars, from the sun away!
I deem not ill the toil and sorrow past,
For I have found, earth fiends! my strength at last.
And ye shall feel and fear it who have dared
To leprosy my name with your foul breath;
For not in vain have I my bosom bared,
Passed fiery ordeals and confronted death.
Worms of the dust! in amber ye may live,
Who are not worthy of a just man's scorn,
And I will e'en put off my power and give
Your characters unto the light of morn;
For have not altered eyes been on me cast,
And tales of hell against me buffetted?
And friends familiar unsaluting passed
With conscious spirit and averted head?
And shall I bear the scorn of apes, and not,
While in me dwells the power, espouse my just
Well-tested cause?—Ye shall not be forgot,
Artificers of lies! be this your trust.
Well have I read the ritual of your creed,
And if I brand the iron on the brow
With a soft maiden hand—why, let me bleed,
The martyred victim ye would have me now!
To leprosy my name with your foul breath;
For not in vain have I my bosom bared,
Passed fiery ordeals and confronted death.
Worms of the dust! in amber ye may live,
Who are not worthy of a just man's scorn,
And I will e'en put off my power and give
Your characters unto the light of morn;
For have not altered eyes been on me cast,
And tales of hell against me buffetted?
And friends familiar unsaluting passed
With conscious spirit and averted head?
And shall I bear the scorn of apes, and not,
While in me dwells the power, espouse my just
Well-tested cause?—Ye shall not be forgot,
Artificers of lies! be this your trust.
Well have I read the ritual of your creed,
And if I brand the iron on the brow
With a soft maiden hand—why, let me bleed,
The martyred victim ye would have me now!
241
Meantime, be this the poet's palinode
To all who trampled on his heart in youth,
Barred his lone path, denied his head abode,
Wrung his wrought spirit and blasphemed his truth!
To each and all, who, envy's vassals dared
To mock, howl, yell their lies through woe's midnight,
And 'mong their horde the pangs of suffering shared,
Be this the orison of my wrested Right.
To all who trampled on his heart in youth,
Barred his lone path, denied his head abode,
Wrung his wrought spirit and blasphemed his truth!
To each and all, who, envy's vassals dared
To mock, howl, yell their lies through woe's midnight,
And 'mong their horde the pangs of suffering shared,
Be this the orison of my wrested Right.
Be thou forever what thou art,
A breathing tomb, a human hell,
A Moloch mind, a dæmon heart,
A thing 't would blast my soul to tell!
Be thou the loathed, the abhorred of Time,
Till age, all hoar with guilt and woe,
Shall quail, cower, drivel—steeped in crime—
In its dark home of hate below!
Be round thee ever shapes of sin,
The images of thine own thought,
Luring thee on at last to win
The myriad woes, thy wiles have wrought!
Scorn, curse, defy, denounce, despair—
Spread miseries round thee, and implore
The fiend-gods of earth, ocean, air,
To aid thee!—thou couldst do no more.
But I have stood beside my hearth,
And heard the torrent rage along,
With nought to cheer me on the earth,
But household love and midnight song.
I shrunk not when the arrows fell—
Fled not the plague thy fangs hissed out,—
But roamed at eve through copse and dell,
And dimm'd no hope of heaven with doubt.
Thy wrath is spent—thy vengeance hurled—
The woe was mine—the power is now,
And thou shalt cower before the world,
A felon with a branded brow.
O, could I speak the withering spell,
That blights the brain, and sears the heart,
Thou tomb of hate, thou human hell,
My spell should doom thee—what thou art!
A breathing tomb, a human hell,
A Moloch mind, a dæmon heart,
A thing 't would blast my soul to tell!
Be thou the loathed, the abhorred of Time,
Till age, all hoar with guilt and woe,
Shall quail, cower, drivel—steeped in crime—
In its dark home of hate below!
Be round thee ever shapes of sin,
The images of thine own thought,
Luring thee on at last to win
The myriad woes, thy wiles have wrought!
Scorn, curse, defy, denounce, despair—
Spread miseries round thee, and implore
The fiend-gods of earth, ocean, air,
To aid thee!—thou couldst do no more.
But I have stood beside my hearth,
And heard the torrent rage along,
With nought to cheer me on the earth,
But household love and midnight song.
I shrunk not when the arrows fell—
Fled not the plague thy fangs hissed out,—
But roamed at eve through copse and dell,
And dimm'd no hope of heaven with doubt.
Thy wrath is spent—thy vengeance hurled—
The woe was mine—the power is now,
And thou shalt cower before the world,
A felon with a branded brow.
O, could I speak the withering spell,
That blights the brain, and sears the heart,
Thou tomb of hate, thou human hell,
My spell should doom thee—what thou art!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |