 | Songs of Doubt and Dream (Poems) |  |
1
THE BARTHOLDI STATUE.
(Unveiled on Bedloe's Island, October 28th, 1886.)
At last I loom in bronze o'er this wide bay,
And from the electric torch my starward wrist
Hath raised, for centuries I shall brave in calm
The lightning with the lightning. I am bred
Of gods, for all high thoughts of men are gods,
And he, the poet of sculpture, from whose dreams
I rose like Troy from music, well doth know
His genius at my summons burst to power.
For he was earth, I light, he mortal, I
Divinity; and man regenerate,
Shattering old thralls and gyves of shame and sin.
Desired me, and so needed I am come!
Or, truer yet, not verily I, but this
The symbol of my peace and sanctity;
Since what in sooth I am is knit with laws
That whirl far planets round the fires of suns
Whose might ye gaze on but as darkling motes.
Nay, would I tell my lineage, for such task
The orchestral winds were tamer than a reed,
The blare of oceans weaker than a bird.
To learn from what dim ancestries I trace
Were to pierce time through æons back, and pause
Dazed at the lintels of eternity.
And from the electric torch my starward wrist
Hath raised, for centuries I shall brave in calm
The lightning with the lightning. I am bred
Of gods, for all high thoughts of men are gods,
And he, the poet of sculpture, from whose dreams
I rose like Troy from music, well doth know
His genius at my summons burst to power.
For he was earth, I light, he mortal, I
Divinity; and man regenerate,
Shattering old thralls and gyves of shame and sin.
Desired me, and so needed I am come!
Or, truer yet, not verily I, but this
The symbol of my peace and sanctity;
Since what in sooth I am is knit with laws
That whirl far planets round the fires of suns
Whose might ye gaze on but as darkling motes.
2
The orchestral winds were tamer than a reed,
The blare of oceans weaker than a bird.
To learn from what dim ancestries I trace
Were to pierce time through æons back, and pause
Dazed at the lintels of eternity.
Here is my boon, ye people I would test.
Heed that ye use it well; the choice is yours.
Much have ye done, yet much remains to do.
Ye fought with foes o'erseas until ye tore
This coign of continent from tyranny,
Standing thenceforth sublime in solitude
Among all nations. Yet ye have not kept
Promise with your ideal, and threat to lapse
From the white summit of its dignities
More than ye grant this hour. Democracy
Is louder on your lips than in your deeds.
The few grow sleek with gains that make their vaults
Harbors of futile treasure; one throng sweats
For bread to breathe by; one, still vaster, bows
In yokes of toil that drag it nigh the brute.
I speak not now of drones that drowse in sloth
And whose one proper wage is penury.
These are life's coarse guerillas that skulk sly
At the vague outposts of the gathering fray
And deem the rags their vice hath wrapt them in
Will pass for poverty's true uniform.
The rich among you cannot build their walls,
However spired or corniced, friezed or domed,
So dense that to the ears these pomps enclose
A cry of suppliant agony, demand,
Expostulation and untold rebuke
Will float not; cushions have no depth of down
And tapestries no plait of silk or wool
To dull the imperious passion of that cry.
Wan lips of labor freight the air with it
Till the new sunshine of each day has grown
A mockery of its torment, and the gloom
Of each recurrent night similitude
Of its dark sorrow... Whose the fault? Not mine,
For I am Liberty, and I, Liberty,
Am love, not hate—am fellowship, not pride—
Am duty and not indifference—help, not harm.
Heed that ye use it well; the choice is yours.
Much have ye done, yet much remains to do.
Ye fought with foes o'erseas until ye tore
This coign of continent from tyranny,
Standing thenceforth sublime in solitude
Among all nations. Yet ye have not kept
Promise with your ideal, and threat to lapse
From the white summit of its dignities
More than ye grant this hour. Democracy
Is louder on your lips than in your deeds.
The few grow sleek with gains that make their vaults
Harbors of futile treasure; one throng sweats
For bread to breathe by; one, still vaster, bows
In yokes of toil that drag it nigh the brute.
I speak not now of drones that drowse in sloth
And whose one proper wage is penury.
These are life's coarse guerillas that skulk sly
3
And deem the rags their vice hath wrapt them in
Will pass for poverty's true uniform.
The rich among you cannot build their walls,
However spired or corniced, friezed or domed,
So dense that to the ears these pomps enclose
A cry of suppliant agony, demand,
Expostulation and untold rebuke
Will float not; cushions have no depth of down
And tapestries no plait of silk or wool
To dull the imperious passion of that cry.
Wan lips of labor freight the air with it
Till the new sunshine of each day has grown
A mockery of its torment, and the gloom
Of each recurrent night similitude
Of its dark sorrow... Whose the fault? Not mine,
For I am Liberty, and I, Liberty,
Am love, not hate—am fellowship, not pride—
Am duty and not indifference—help, not harm.
Look to it, O people, then, that this the flower
Of all republics bloom republican.
Let him that paves with bribes his path toward rule
Reach the shut doors of senates on maimed feet,
Burnt from the plowshares he himself hath lit.
Ordain that he who sells his vote for hire
Buys with such bargain crime's unflinching fee—
The chill strait cell, with loaf and jug to drown
Conscience in ghastly banquet. Crowd your schools
With learning and sweet discipline of chiefs
Versed in all wise experience, till their lore
Make Athens of your slums, and parents loth
To let their children drink at such pure streams,
Common as they are pure, be scathed with scorn.
Abase the vaunts of caste; your earls and dukes
Can win their earldoms and their dukedoms best
By that sole patent of nobility
A blameless manhood may confer on them,
Not by the coronets and strawberry-leaves
Dead kings have flung their bastards. Hold your arts
In reverence, and revering shield their rights,
Till he who tells with chisel, brush or plume
Your annals, may not starve at such high task;
For poet, novelist, painter, sculptor, stands
Each as a firm caryatid that shall grace
The pediment of your unborn renown!
Of all republics bloom republican.
Let him that paves with bribes his path toward rule
Reach the shut doors of senates on maimed feet,
Burnt from the plowshares he himself hath lit.
4
Buys with such bargain crime's unflinching fee—
The chill strait cell, with loaf and jug to drown
Conscience in ghastly banquet. Crowd your schools
With learning and sweet discipline of chiefs
Versed in all wise experience, till their lore
Make Athens of your slums, and parents loth
To let their children drink at such pure streams,
Common as they are pure, be scathed with scorn.
Abase the vaunts of caste; your earls and dukes
Can win their earldoms and their dukedoms best
By that sole patent of nobility
A blameless manhood may confer on them,
Not by the coronets and strawberry-leaves
Dead kings have flung their bastards. Hold your arts
In reverence, and revering shield their rights,
Till he who tells with chisel, brush or plume
Your annals, may not starve at such high task;
For poet, novelist, painter, sculptor, stands
Each as a firm caryatid that shall grace
The pediment of your unborn renown!
Last, look to it, ye that this mine image here
Should spur to chaste achievement, soilless end,
Look to it, I charge ye, lest corrosions dire,
And stealthy as they are dire, creep not to gnaw
With ruin's loitering fang your civic strength.
Recall, ye wrested from a thousand kings
Your commonweal, and with dry dust of thrones
Have blent the wash of sundering seas to make
Fit mortar for the granite of its towers.
Let them stay firm, ivied with histories
Of a most glorious past, that still shall keep
One deathless present. Honor knows not time,
Being immortal, and man's love for man,
If once proved perfect in this faultful world,
Hath nor to-morrow nor to-day, but dwells
In zones of fame no dials calendar!
Should spur to chaste achievement, soilless end,
Look to it, I charge ye, lest corrosions dire,
5
With ruin's loitering fang your civic strength.
Recall, ye wrested from a thousand kings
Your commonweal, and with dry dust of thrones
Have blent the wash of sundering seas to make
Fit mortar for the granite of its towers.
Let them stay firm, ivied with histories
Of a most glorious past, that still shall keep
One deathless present. Honor knows not time,
Being immortal, and man's love for man,
If once proved perfect in this faultful world,
Hath nor to-morrow nor to-day, but dwells
In zones of fame no dials calendar!
| Songs of Doubt and Dream (Poems) | |