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Benjamin F. Taylor
As if they tolled for perished clocks the time that might have been !
The thunder of the fiery surf roared human accents dumb; The trumpet's clangor died away a wild bee's drowsy hum, And breakers heat the empty world that rumbled like a drum.
O cities of the Silent Land! O Graceland and Rosehill! No tombs without their tenantry? The pale host sleeping still?
Your marble thresholds dawning red with holocaustal glare, As if the Waking Angel's foot were set upon the stair! But ah, the human multitudes that marched before the flame- As 'mid the Red Sea's wavy walls the ancient people came!
Behind, the rattling chariots! the Pharaoh of Fire!
The rallying volley of the whips, the jarring of the tire!- Looked round, and saw the homeless world as dismal as a pyre- Looked up, and saw God's blessed Blue a firmament so dire!
W The Polish Boy.
HENCE come those shrieks so wild and shrill That cut like blades of steel, the air, Causing the creeping blood to chill With the sharp cadence of despair?
Again they come, as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe.
Whence came they? from yon temple where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.
The dim funeral tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by.
What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with Death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress ?
No thrilling fingers seek its clasp !
It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there.
With pallid lip and stony brow She murmurs forth her anguish now, But hark, the tramp of heavy feet Is heard along the bloody street; Nearer and nearer yet they come, With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep; The gate is burst; a ruffian band Rush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane The startled boy for exile's chain.
The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child; Then with pale cheek and flashing eye Shouted with fearful energy, "Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead; Nor touch the living boy-I stand Between him and your lawless band.
Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 'twill save my child!" "Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side, And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door. "One moment!" shrieked the mother, "one!
Will land or gold redeem my son ?