 | Last poems including Afterglow and Beyond the sunset |  |
96
THE DEATH-SONG OF THE HEMLOCK
Ye say I am old—I am old; and ye threaten to hew me down,
Lest the roof of your puny dwelling should be crushed by my heavy crown;
Ye measure my spreading branches, ye mock me with idle fears!—
Ye pygmies that creep at my foot-stool, what know ye of age, or years?
Lest the roof of your puny dwelling should be crushed by my heavy crown;
Ye measure my spreading branches, ye mock me with idle fears!—
Ye pygmies that creep at my foot-stool, what know ye of age, or years?
I reckon ye all as shadows! Ye are but as clouds that pass
Over the face of the mountains and over the meadow-grass;
Your generations are phantoms; like wraiths they come and go,
Leaving no trace behind them in the paths they used to know!
Over the face of the mountains and over the meadow-grass;
Your generations are phantoms; like wraiths they come and go,
Leaving no trace behind them in the paths they used to know!
97
But I!—For six hundred rolling years I have stood like a watch-tower, I!
I have counted the slow procession of centuries circling by!
I have looked at the sun unblenching; I have numbered the midnight stars;
Nor quailed when the fiery serpent leaped from its cloudy bars!
I have counted the slow procession of centuries circling by!
I have looked at the sun unblenching; I have numbered the midnight stars;
Nor quailed when the fiery serpent leaped from its cloudy bars!
Or ever ye were a nation, or your commonwealth was born,
I stood on this breezy hilltop, fronting the hills of morn,
In the strength of my prime uplifting my head above meaner things,
Till only the strong winds reached it, or the wild birds' sweeping wings!
I stood on this breezy hilltop, fronting the hills of morn,
In the strength of my prime uplifting my head above meaner things,
Till only the strong winds reached it, or the wild birds' sweeping wings!
It was mine to know when the white man ventured the unknown seas,
And silence fled before him, and the forest mysteries;
I saw his towers and steeples that pierced the unfathomed sky,
And his domes that darkened the heavens—but above them all soared I!
And silence fled before him, and the forest mysteries;
98
And his domes that darkened the heavens—but above them all soared I!
He builded his towns and cities, and his mansions fine and fair,
And slowly his fertile meadows grew wide in the tranquil air;
He stretched his iron pathways from the mountains to the sea—
But little cared I for his handiwork! 'Twas the one great God made me!
And slowly his fertile meadows grew wide in the tranquil air;
He stretched his iron pathways from the mountains to the sea—
But little cared I for his handiwork! 'Twas the one great God made me!
The Earth and the Sun and the mighty Winds, and the great God over all,
These bade me stand like a sentinel on the hilltop grand and tall.
Know ye that a hundred years ago men called me old and worn?
Yet here I tower above their graves, and laugh them all to scorn!
These bade me stand like a sentinel on the hilltop grand and tall.
Know ye that a hundred years ago men called me old and worn?
Yet here I tower above their graves, and laugh them all to scorn!
99
For what are threescore years and ten, ye creatures of a day?
Ye are to me like the flying motes that in the sunshine play!
Shall I tremble because ye threaten and whisper that I am old?
I will die of my own free, lordly will, ere the year has shed its gold!
Ye are to me like the flying motes that in the sunshine play!
Shall I tremble because ye threaten and whisper that I am old?
I will die of my own free, lordly will, ere the year has shed its gold!
But till then, as I stood or ever the land of your love was born,
I will stand erect on my hilltop, fronting the hills of morn,
In the pride of mine age uplifting my head above meaner things,
Till only the strong winds reach it, or the wild birds' sweeping wings!
I will stand erect on my hilltop, fronting the hills of morn,
In the pride of mine age uplifting my head above meaner things,
Till only the strong winds reach it, or the wild birds' sweeping wings!
| Last poems including Afterglow and Beyond the sunset | |