 | Joaquin, et al. |  |
VI.
‘But why the dreary tale prolong,
Since she, its life and light, is gone?
And deem you I confessed me wrong?
That I did bend an oily knee,
O'er all the deep wrongs done to me?
That I, because the prison mould
Was on my brow, and all its chill
Which made my very heart's core cold,
Still quivered in my feeble frame?
Because I burst their earthly hell,
And rose again to life and light,
Did curb my free-born mountain will
And sacrifice my sense of right?
Forget my wrongs? Forget that cell
That rendered me to death and shame?
Did ask them to forgive a youth,
Whose very goddess had been truth,
Until their persecutions came
And set his inmost soul aflame?
Since she, its life and light, is gone?
And deem you I confessed me wrong?
That I did bend an oily knee,
O'er all the deep wrongs done to me?
That I, because the prison mould
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Which made my very heart's core cold,
Still quivered in my feeble frame?
Because I burst their earthly hell,
And rose again to life and light,
Did curb my free-born mountain will
And sacrifice my sense of right?
Forget my wrongs? Forget that cell
That rendered me to death and shame?
Did ask them to forgive a youth,
Whose very goddess had been truth,
Until their persecutions came
And set his inmost soul aflame?
‘No! and had they come to me that day
While I with hands and garments red
Stood by her pleading, gory clay,
The one lone watcher by my dead,
With cross hilt dagger in my hand
Still dripping red from her heart's core
That gushed my reeking garments o'er—
The every black hound of the land,
Who wore a badge or claimed command,
And offered me my life and all
Of titles, gold, or power, or place—
I should have spat them in the face
And spurned them every one.
While I with hands and garments red
Stood by her pleading, gory clay,
The one lone watcher by my dead,
With cross hilt dagger in my hand
Still dripping red from her heart's core
That gushed my reeking garments o'er—
The every black hound of the land,
Who wore a badge or claimed command,
And offered me my life and all
Of titles, gold, or power, or place—
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And spurned them every one.
‘It may be well, wise priest, and good,
In common life, to pardon those
Who have been e'en our deadliest foes,
But there be wrongs that even blood—
Heart's blood cannot efface—
More than death—more than disgrace—
And he who would such things forgive
I deem a cringing, coward slave—
Calling his cowardice—the knave—
Forgiveness and sweet Christian grace.
Poor wretch! too base to live.
In common life, to pardon those
Who have been e'en our deadliest foes,
But there be wrongs that even blood—
Heart's blood cannot efface—
More than death—more than disgrace—
And he who would such things forgive
I deem a cringing, coward slave—
Calling his cowardice—the knave—
Forgiveness and sweet Christian grace.
Poor wretch! too base to live.
‘I laid my dead upon the pile,
And standing 'neath the lisping oak
I watched the columns of dark smoke
Embrace her red lips with a smile
Of frenzied fierceness. Then there came
A gleaming column of red flame
And grew a grander monument
Above her nameless noble mould,
Than ever bronze or marble lent
To king or conqueror of old.
And standing 'neath the lisping oak
I watched the columns of dark smoke
Embrace her red lips with a smile
Of frenzied fierceness. Then there came
A gleaming column of red flame
And grew a grander monument
Above her nameless noble mould,
Than ever bronze or marble lent
To king or conqueror of old.
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‘It seized her in its hot embrace
And leapt as if to reach the stars.
Then looking up I seen a face
So saintly and so sweetly fair—
So pitying and so pure—
I near forgot the prison-bars,
And for one instant—one alone—
I felt I could forgive—endure.
And leapt as if to reach the stars.
Then looking up I seen a face
So saintly and so sweetly fair—
So pitying and so pure—
I near forgot the prison-bars,
And for one instant—one alone—
I felt I could forgive—endure.
‘I laid a circlet of white stone,
And left her ashes resting there;
But when had passed one long decade
I stood beneath that scarred oak's shade
And marked the circle of white stone
With tall wild grasses overgrown,
I did expect, I know not why,
From out her sacred dust, to find
Wild pinks and daisies blooming fair;
And when I did not find them there,
I almost deemed her God unkind—
Less careful of her dust than I.
And left her ashes resting there;
But when had passed one long decade
I stood beneath that scarred oak's shade
And marked the circle of white stone
With tall wild grasses overgrown,
I did expect, I know not why,
From out her sacred dust, to find
Wild pinks and daisies blooming fair;
And when I did not find them there,
I almost deemed her God unkind—
Less careful of her dust than I.
‘And when the red shafts of the sun
Came tipping down to where I stood,
I hailed them with a redder one—
A lifted dagger red with blood.
I vowed to dedicate my breath
To vengeance for disgrace and death.
I would not cease upon the fall
Of him who wrought the burning shame
Of her disgrace or my dark name,
No; they should perish one and all.
What! he the base brute—he alone
For such a life as hers atone?
Had all his kind been heaped in one
And offered me to curse or kill,
I might have said, enough is done,
My hate is sated to the fill.
Came tipping down to where I stood,
I hailed them with a redder one—
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I vowed to dedicate my breath
To vengeance for disgrace and death.
I would not cease upon the fall
Of him who wrought the burning shame
Of her disgrace or my dark name,
No; they should perish one and all.
What! he the base brute—he alone
For such a life as hers atone?
Had all his kind been heaped in one
And offered me to curse or kill,
I might have said, enough is done,
My hate is sated to the fill.
‘I knew their names and faces well—
Their numbers—knew where each did dwell—
They would have filled the vaults of hell—
Did fill them to the last degree—
Do fill them still, if what you tell,
Is truth, of faith of Pharisee.
Their numbers—knew where each did dwell—
They would have filled the vaults of hell—
Did fill them to the last degree—
Do fill them still, if what you tell,
Is truth, of faith of Pharisee.
| Joaquin, et al. | |