 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
63
ELEGIAC.—IT IS THE CAUSE.
It is the Cause—it is the Cause ennobles
Each mortal pang and bleeding sacrifice;
And when our sky is full of fiery troubles,
Then Freedom has its penalty—and price!
Each mortal pang and bleeding sacrifice;
And when our sky is full of fiery troubles,
Then Freedom has its penalty—and price!
The lusts that subjugate a pampered people,
And blind them to the Destinies that wait,
Need fiery bolts to shatter the high steeple,
And startle men to consciousness of Fate!
And blind them to the Destinies that wait,
Need fiery bolts to shatter the high steeple,
And startle men to consciousness of Fate!
We dance—we sing—unheeding of the hour,
And where it hurries us: and mock the skies,
That fail, in timely shows of wrath and power,
To warn the vain, in season, to be wise!
And where it hurries us: and mock the skies,
That fail, in timely shows of wrath and power,
To warn the vain, in season, to be wise!
That ready argument, in fields of barter,
That prompts, in base Expediency, to find
Escape from peril, needs some noble martyr,
To bare his breast, and perish for his kind!
That prompts, in base Expediency, to find
Escape from peril, needs some noble martyr,
To bare his breast, and perish for his kind!
What less shall rouse us from this sad condition
Of drowse and dream and dance, our fears that hush:
Teaching that safety lies in base submission,
And he, the Foe, WILL spare, when he MAY crush?
Of drowse and dream and dance, our fears that hush:
Teaching that safety lies in base submission,
And he, the Foe, WILL spare, when he MAY crush?
Oh! we are ready for the scourge and halter,
Unless, dear God! with startled souls, we swear,
By this young victim, bleeding at the altar,
To buckle armor on, and seize the spear!
Unless, dear God! with startled souls, we swear,
By this young victim, bleeding at the altar,
To buckle armor on, and seize the spear!
64
And shall we question of the danger brewing,
Each barrier trampled down, or torn away?
Doubt of the doom, with still the foe pursuing,
With scorn and hate and venom, day by day?
Each barrier trampled down, or torn away?
Doubt of the doom, with still the foe pursuing,
With scorn and hate and venom, day by day?
When his wild Priesthood, Moloch in profession,
The weapon consecrates, and bids him smite:
Cries “Deus Vult!”—and goads each hungry passion,
Till Lust persuades itself that Crime is Right?
The weapon consecrates, and bids him smite:
Cries “Deus Vult!”—and goads each hungry passion,
Till Lust persuades itself that Crime is Right?
Oh! we had sires, that long ago had taken
The bow and spear, and, hurrying to the breach,
The fiery bolt had sped, the falchion shaken,
And taught the foe the lesson he would teach!
The bow and spear, and, hurrying to the breach,
The fiery bolt had sped, the falchion shaken,
And taught the foe the lesson he would teach!
Alas! we have forsworn each great example:
We crouch in cold stagnation: mouse for spoils
And fancy life, itself, a boon most ample,
Consumed in petty strifes and slavish toils!
We crouch in cold stagnation: mouse for spoils
And fancy life, itself, a boon most ample,
Consumed in petty strifes and slavish toils!
And we have weapons only for a brother—
A syren song beguiles us from the foe;
Our hate for HIM, we sing to sleep, or smother,
But strike down those who strike for US the blow!
A syren song beguiles us from the foe;
Our hate for HIM, we sing to sleep, or smother,
But strike down those who strike for US the blow!
O noble youth! O friend of gentlest 'havior!—
So young, so generous—it had been our pride,
If, as thy people's champion—ay, their savior!—
First in the glorious struggle, thou hadst died!
So young, so generous—it had been our pride,
If, as thy people's champion—ay, their savior!—
First in the glorious struggle, thou hadst died!
But thus!—and yet, thou shalt not vainly perish!
Thy blood shall wash anew each ancient shrine;
Our drooping tree of Freedom feed and cherish!—
Yet would it had been any blood but thine!
Thy blood shall wash anew each ancient shrine;
Our drooping tree of Freedom feed and cherish!—
Yet would it had been any blood but thine!
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |