Poems by John Hay Part 2

The clock struck twelve! I raised the jug And took one lovin' pull I was holler clar from skull to boots, It seemed I couldn't git full.

But I was roused by a fiendish laugh That might have raised the dead-- Them ornary sneaks had sot the clock A half an hour ahead!

"All right!" I squawked. "You've got me, Jest order your drinks agin, And we'll paddle up to the Deacon's And scoop the ante in."

But when we got to Kedge's, What a sight was that we saw!

The Deacon and Parson Skeeters In the tail of a game of Draw.

They had shook 'em the heft of the mornin', The Parson's luck was fa'r, And he raked, the minute we got thar, The last of our pool on a pa'r.

So toddle along with your pledge, Squire, I 'low it's all very fine, But ez fur myself, I thank ye, I'll not take any in mine.

Wanderlieder.

Sunrise in the Place de la Concorde

(Paris, _August_, 1865.)

I stand at the break of day In the Champs Elysees.

The tremulous shafts of dawning As they shoot o'er the Tuileries early, Strike Luxor's cold gray spire, And wild in the light of the morning With their marble manes on fire, Ramp the white Horses of Marly.

But the Place of Concord lies Dead hushed 'neath the ashy skies.

And the Cities sit in council With sleep in their wide stone eyes.

I see the mystic plain Where the army of spectres slain In the Emperor's life-long war March on with unsounding tread To trumpets whose voice is dead.

Their spectral chief still leads them,-- The ghostly flash of his sword Like a comet through mist s.h.i.+nes far,-- And the noiseless host is poured, For the gendarme never heeds them, Up the long dim road where thundered The army of Italy onward Through the great pale Arch of the Star!

The spectre army fades Far up the glimmering hill, But, vaguely lingering still, A group of shuddering shades Infects the pallid air, Growing dimmer as day invades The hush of the dusky square.

There is one that seems a King, As if the ghost of a Crown Still shadowed his jail-bleached hair; I can hear the guillotine ring, As its regicide note rang there, When he laid his tired life down And grew brave in his last despair.

And a woman frail and fair Who weeps at leaving a world Of love and revel and sin In the vast Unknown to be hurled; (For life was wicked and sweet With kings at her small white feet!) And one, every inch a Queen, In life and in death a Queen, Whose blood baptized the place, In the days of madness and fear,-- Her shade has never a peer In majesty and grace.

Murdered and murderers swarm; Slayers that slew and were slain, Till the drenched place smoked with the rain That poured in a torrent warm,-- Till red as the Rider's of Edom Were splashed the white garments of Freedom With the wash of the horrible storm!

And Liberty's hands were not clean In the day of her pride unchained, Her royal hands were stained With the life of a King and Queen; And darker than that with the blood Of the nameless brave and good Whose blood in witness clings More d.a.m.ning than Queens' and Kings'.

Has she not paid it dearly?

Chained, watching her chosen nation Grinding late and early In the mills of usurpation?

Have not her holy tears Flowing through shameful years, Washed the stains from her tortured hands?

We thought so when G.o.d's fresh breeze, Blowing over the sleeping lands, In 'Forty-Eight waked the world, And the Burgher-King was hurled From that palace behind the trees.

As Freedom with eyes aglow Smiled glad through her childbirth pain, How was the mother to know That her woe and travail were vain?

A smirking servant smiled When she gave him her child to keep; Did she know he would strangle the child As it lay in his arms asleep?

Liberty's cruellest shame!

She is stunned and speechless yet In her grief and b.l.o.o.d.y sweat Shall we make her trust her blame?

The treasure of 'Forty-Eight A lurking jail-bird stole, She can but watch and wait As the swift sure seasons roll.

And when in G.o.d's good hour Comes the time of the brave and true, Freedom again shall rise With a blaze in her awful eyes That shall wither this robber-power As the sun now dries the dew.

This Place shall roar with the voice Of the glad triumphant people, And the heavens be gay with the chimes Ringing with jubilant noise From every clamorous steeple The coming of better times.

And the dawn of Freedom waking Shall fling its splendors far Like the day which now is breaking On the great pale Arch of the Star, And back o'er the town shall fly, While the joy-bells wild are ringing, To crown the Glory springing From the Column of July!

The Sphinx of the Tuileries

Out of the Latin Quarter I came to the lofty door Where the two marble Sphinxes guard The Pavilion de Flore.

Two c.o.c.kneys stood by the gate, and one Observed, as they turned to go, "No wonder He likes that sort of thing,-- He's a Sphinx himself, you know."

I thought as I walked where the garden glowed In the sunset's level fire, Of the Charlatan whom the Frenchmen loathe And the c.o.c.kneys all admire.

They call him a Sphinx,--it pleases him,-- And if we narrowly read, We will find some truth in the flunkey's praise, The man is a Sphinx indeed.

For the Sphinx with breast of woman And face so debonair Had the sleek false paws of a lion, That could furtively seize and tear.

So far to the shoulders,--but if you took The Beast in reverse you would find The ign.o.ble form of a craven cur Was all that lay behind.

She lived by giving to simple folk A silly riddle to read, And when they failed she drank their blood In cruel and ravenous greed.

But at last came one who knew her word, And she perished in pain and shame,-- This b.a.s.t.a.r.d Sphinx leads the same base life And his end will be the same.

For an Oedipus-People is coming fast With swelled feet limping on, If they shout his true name once aloud His false foul power is gone.

Afraid to fight and afraid to fly, He cowers in an abject s.h.i.+ver; The people will come to their own at last,-- G.o.d is not mocked forever.

The Surrender of Spain

I.

Land of unconquered Pelayo! land of the Cid Campeador!

Sea-girdled mother of men! Spain, name of glory and power; Cradle of world-grasping Emperors, grave of the reckless invader, How art thou fallen, my Spain! how art thou sunk at this hour!

II.

Once thy magnanimous sons trod, victors, the portals of Asia, Once the Pacific waves rushed, joyful thy banners to see; For it was Trajan that carried the battle-flushed eagles to Dacia, Cortes that planted thy flag fast by the uttermost sea.

III.

Has thou forgotten those days illumined with glory and honor, When the far isles of the sea thrilled to the tread of Castile?

When every land under Heaven was flecked by the shade of thy banner,-- When every beam of the sun flashed on thy conquering steel?

IV.

Then through red fields of slaughter, through death and defeat and disaster, Still flared thy banner aloft, tattered, but free from a stain, Now to the upstart Savoyard thou bendest to beg for a master!

How the red flush of her shame mars the proud beauty of Spain!