 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
“IN THE CITIES”
I
In the cities no longer the blaring of trumpets that summon to battle,From splendid towers the banners flash not forth in the breeze,
No longer the ringing of war-bells, and the clattering sound of horsemen,
The clangor of sword on shield, nor the cries of the feudal fighters
Hurrying into the streets to strike with bullet and steel;
Clamoring, battering down; assailing high walls and towers;
Rushing maddened, furious, to the killing of fellow-men.
II
Yet still a clangor of bells and a loud, shrill whistling and shouting,405
For now, like winds and thunders, flash by the glittering engines,
And the wagons, with ladders and axes, laden with well-trained men
Eager to quench the flame, to scale the dangerous battlements;
Eager to risk their lives in the hissing blaze and the smoke
That blinds, and that grips the throat like the throttling hand of murder.
III
On come the engines and wagons, and the Chief in his hooting chariot,And a boy, who hears them careering, rushes out to the crossing of ways,
And, swinging his arms and shouting, clears a path for the shrieking engine,
That rushes like winds and thunders down a vale of death and destruction—
And every man, at his post, on the winds of the human tempest,
Mad for the saving of lives of men and of women and children—
To creep to the edge of death, to swing in dizzying chasms,
To save the children of strangers, forgetting their own in their madness;
And then if a comrade fall, how wild each man to the rescue,
Plunging into the pit, poisoned, choked, unconscious;
Revived, they struggle back 'gainst their officers' yelled commandings—
Mad, mad, mad, for the saving of human life.
406
IV
And now, in the days of peace, no squadron charging by,But hark! down the street a sharp reiterant stroke and clamor,
A rhythmic beating of hoofs, a galloping louder, closer,
And again a youth leaps quick to the crossing of crowded ways,
And he swings his arms and shouts, and clears, through the human currents,
A path for the ringing ambulance, hurrying, hurrying, hurrying
To a place where a child has fallen, is wounded nigh unto death,
That the child may be tenderly lifted and skillfully nursed and tended—
Engine and hurrying ambulance screaming, ringing, impatient,
Filling the frightened streets with echoes of old-time wars,
Laden with men of might, skilled and fierce and determined—
Not as of old to maim, to harry and scatter destruction;
Not to take life, but to save it; not to kill, but to rescue the perishing.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |