I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight
(In Springfield, Illinois)
It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old court-house pacing up and down,
Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.
A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.
He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.
He is among us:--as in times before!
And we who toss and lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pa.s.s the door.
His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep.
The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.
He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain.
He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come;--the shining hope of Europe free: The league of sober folk, the Workers" Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.
It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again?
II. A Curse for Kings
A curse upon each king who leads his state, No matter what his plea, to this foul game, And may it end his wicked dynasty, And may he die in exile and black shame.
If there is vengeance in the Heaven of Heavens, What punishment could Heaven devise for these Who fill the rivers of the world with dead, And turn their murderers loose on all the seas!
Put back the clock of time a thousand years, And make our Europe, once the world"s proud Queen, A shrieking strumpet, furious fratricide, Eater of entrails, wallowing obscene
In pits where millions foam and rave and bark, Mad dogs and idiots, thrice drunk with strife; While Science towers above;--a witch, red-winged: Science we looked to for the light of life.
Curse me the men who make and sell iron ships, Who walk the floor in thought, that they may find Each powder prompt, each steel with fearful edge, Each deadliest device against mankind.
Curse me the sleek lords with their plumes and spurs, May Heaven give their land to peasant spades, Give them the brand of Cain, for their pride"s sake, And felon"s stripes for medals and for braids.
Curse me the fiddling, twiddling diplomats, Haggling here, plotting and hatching there, Who make the kind world but their game of cards, Till millions die at turning of a hair.
What punishment will Heaven devise for these Who win by others" sweat and hardihood, Who make men into stinking vultures" meat, Saying to evil still "Be thou my good"?
Ah, he who starts a million souls toward death Should burn in utmost h.e.l.l a million years!
--Mothers of men go on the destined wrack To give them life, with anguish and with tears:--
Are all those childbed sorrows sneered away?
Yea, fools laugh at the humble christenings, And cradle-joys are mocked of the fat lords: These mothers" sons made dead men for the Kings!
All in the name of this or that grim flag, No angel-flags in all the rag-array-- Banners the demons love, and all h.e.l.l sings And plays wild harps. Those flags march forth to-day!
III. Who Knows?
They say one king is mad. Perhaps. Who knows?
They say one king is doddering and grey.
They say one king is slack and sick of mind, A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play.
Is Europe then to be their sprawling-place?
Their mad-house, till it turns the wide world"s bane?
Their place of maudlin, slavering conference Till every far-off farmstead goes insane?
IV. To Buddha
Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace, Awake and preach, for her far swordsmen rise.
And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend, Or scorn your way, while looking in your eyes?
Good comrade and philosopher and prince, Thoughtful and thoroughbred and strong and kind, Dare they to move against your pride benign, Lord of the Law, high chieftain of the mind?
But what can Europe say, when in your name The throats are cut, the lotus-ponds turn red?
And what can Europe say, when with a laugh Old Asia heaps her hecatombs of dead?
V. The Unpardonable Sin