 | Joaquin, et al. |  |
IX.
‘Have I not wrought while others slept?
Have I not jeers and insults bore
From cold, coarse men who felt no more,
Than street dogs prowling at your heels?
While others joyed, have I not wept?
And felt all that a convict feels
Who tugs eternal at his chain
And peers into elysian fields?
O! the dull, dead, endless pain!
Deep in the dust have I not laid
A thin white face all stained in tears,
And in the ashes bowed and prayed
In sackcloth; lo! for years and years?
It was too much. Across my brow
Grew lines, as furrowed by a plow.
I fancied I could see a trace
Of prison mould upon my face,
And thought the grief-worn facial scars
Resembled my cold prison bars.
I thought each low uncertain word
A taunt at me spoke loud and plain—
I fancied each new voice I heard
Recalled me to my cell again.
At night I started from my sleep,
From sounds as of a sullen chain,
And felt the prison coldness creep
Like icicles through every vein.
Have I not jeers and insults bore
From cold, coarse men who felt no more,
Than street dogs prowling at your heels?
While others joyed, have I not wept?
And felt all that a convict feels
115
And peers into elysian fields?
O! the dull, dead, endless pain!
Deep in the dust have I not laid
A thin white face all stained in tears,
And in the ashes bowed and prayed
In sackcloth; lo! for years and years?
It was too much. Across my brow
Grew lines, as furrowed by a plow.
I fancied I could see a trace
Of prison mould upon my face,
And thought the grief-worn facial scars
Resembled my cold prison bars.
I thought each low uncertain word
A taunt at me spoke loud and plain—
I fancied each new voice I heard
Recalled me to my cell again.
At night I started from my sleep,
From sounds as of a sullen chain,
And felt the prison coldness creep
Like icicles through every vein.
‘Some things must pass on unexplained—
The lead lie grinding in the core—
The iron rusting in the soul—
Corroding—eating—evermore,
And you must bear and yet be still—
Though it be eating in to kill—
Like old Prometheus chained.
The lead lie grinding in the core—
The iron rusting in the soul—
Corroding—eating—evermore,
116
Though it be eating in to kill—
Like old Prometheus chained.
‘At last, when I had borne for years
Ten thousand more than here is told,
One day a dog with flippant jeers
Asked me, what of the prison mould,
And half the town did cheer him on.
They cheered—they thought him grand and brave,
They shouted me a coward knave.
It was too much—with one fierce thrust
I stretched him dying in the dust,
And drove the taunting crowd before
Like chaff along a threshing-floor.
Ten thousand more than here is told,
One day a dog with flippant jeers
Asked me, what of the prison mould,
And half the town did cheer him on.
They cheered—they thought him grand and brave,
They shouted me a coward knave.
It was too much—with one fierce thrust
I stretched him dying in the dust,
And drove the taunting crowd before
Like chaff along a threshing-floor.
‘With one stroke I had cut the cord
That bound me to that place abhorred,
And nought was left me but to fly.
Where orange-blossoms never die—
Where red fruits ripen all the year,
Beneath a sweet and balmy sky.
Far from my language or my land—
Reproach or love—or shame or fear—
I swiftly fled—I wandered here—
Yes, here—and this red, bony hand
That holds this glass of ruddy cheer—’
‘'Tis he,’ cried the tawny advocate,
His red eye snapping with hope and hate—
In a voice as shrill as a cock, and as loud—
‘'Tis the renegade of the cold McCloud,
Seize him—O haste you—hold him fast—
Vengeance is sweet—it is mine at last.’
That bound me to that place abhorred,
And nought was left me but to fly.
Where orange-blossoms never die—
Where red fruits ripen all the year,
Beneath a sweet and balmy sky.
Far from my language or my land—
Reproach or love—or shame or fear—
I swiftly fled—I wandered here—
Yes, here—and this red, bony hand
117
‘'Tis he,’ cried the tawny advocate,
His red eye snapping with hope and hate—
In a voice as shrill as a cock, and as loud—
‘'Tis the renegade of the cold McCloud,
Seize him—O haste you—hold him fast—
Vengeance is sweet—it is mine at last.’
Slowly the alcalde rose and spoke,
As the advocate quailed 'neath his glare,
‘Hand me—touch me—he who dare—’
And his heavy glass on the board of oak
He smote with such an almighty stroke,
It ground to dust in his bony hand,
And heavy bottles did clink and tip
As if an earthquake was in the land.
He towered up, and in his ire
Seemed taller than a church's spire.
He gazed a moment, and then, the while
An icy cold and defiant smile
Did curve his thin and his livid lip,
He turned on his heel—he strode through the hall,
Grand as a god—so grandly tall,
He passed him out through the yielding door
Into the night, and he passed alone,
And never was seen or heard of more.
As the advocate quailed 'neath his glare,
‘Hand me—touch me—he who dare—’
And his heavy glass on the board of oak
He smote with such an almighty stroke,
It ground to dust in his bony hand,
And heavy bottles did clink and tip
As if an earthquake was in the land.
He towered up, and in his ire
Seemed taller than a church's spire.
He gazed a moment, and then, the while
An icy cold and defiant smile
Did curve his thin and his livid lip,
He turned on his heel—he strode through the hall,
Grand as a god—so grandly tall,
He passed him out through the yielding door
Into the night, and he passed alone,
And never was seen or heard of more.
| Joaquin, et al. | |