Classic Poem

When the migratory swallow wings her way toward southern skies,
When the bullet, with a whistle, from the hunter's rifle flies,
Should my curious spirit ask them, where's the goal to which ye hie?
Well, I ween, they both could render speedily their glad reply.

Men! who fill with dark suspicion hearts God made for love and light,
Load with chains a guiltless people, turn the face of day to night!
If to you the self-same question I should put with prying mind,
Such a clear and ringing answer think you I should this time find?

Were you not so grave and decent, I should dream you shunned the light,
Stealthy schemes of lust to practise, in your self-created night,
Or that, through the dark, for plunder you would creep, like thief or cat!
But you are by far too holy, — honorable men for that!

Were you not so wise and cunning, ye for fools methinks, might pass,
Who, when men would touch them, tremble, deeming all their limbs are glass,
Drivellers, who would banish spring-time from the land, so great their dread
Lest some stray and straggling blossom in its fall should strike them dead!

Were you not so rich and mighty, velvet-clad and star-bedight,
I must surely deem you beggars, terrified by noon-day light,
Lest, through badly botched-up tatters, men their nakedness should spy,
Or, upon their backs, the brand-mark of a pillory meet the eye!

Say, now, what shall all this come to? What the goal to which ye go?
Can ye give account and answer? — Oh, by heaven, no, oh no!
Yet I can, I'll answer for you — Will the future's form unroll
As ye'll shape it, if, in mercy, no good Gods your schemes control?

— We have long been dead and buried in our sound and coffined sleep,
While, above our deep-sunk tomb-stones, new-born generations creep,
Open-eared for grave imposters — dread of daylight in their looks —
For the burdens of their masters each one's back, convenient, crooks.

To be made a holy sprinkler, has their prince's sceptre come,
And his purple has been blackened to a monkish pallium.
Censers are the only relics of the old, forgotten days,
Which, with dull, asthmatic pleasure, still their servile cloud-wreaths raise.

Clubs exist no more — save only cudgels in the catch-poll's hand;
And the Press is known no longer — save the press upon the land;
Geese have now good times, for feathers no one now their bodies touses,
None, in these days, thinks of writing save the clerks in custom-houses.

Shuddering lecturers in pulpits tell, as they the map unroll,
How there range two frightful islands somewhere near the Northern Pole;
Full of cannibals the one is, blood of ravens in their veins,
And the other men inhabit, who have thoughts within their brains!

Here and there a lamp still glimmers of the evil, by gone time,
Through the night, with fitful booming, bells are hoarsely heard to chime;
Lark and eagle, Freedom's scutcheon, long have gone from gate and tower,
Owl and bat, instead, triumphant, glare and gloat this dismal hour.

Hark! what means this festal ringing? " We entomb our greatest man!"
Name to me your hero's prowess! " Read it on his tomb you can;"
" Sorrow, world, for him who lies here! traveller, read with many a tear,
Even Envy boasts, there's no one in stupidity his peer!"

Through the streets the drum is sounding; now an edict comes to light!
" Lanterns are henceforth forbidden; naught's allowed but utter night!
So decrees his gracious Highness, well convinced his royal mind
That his people even in darkness to their mouths the way can find."

Everlasting night has broken in upon the wretched land,
Everlasting darkness settles like a pall on every hand.
Moon and stars are quenched; the only constellation now in sight
Is the fitting constellation of the Crab, in lurid light.

At the Church of St. Ligouri, stretched upon the bench in bliss,
Cries a holy man, complacent: " What a heavenly day is this!" —
But we, cursed dead, our coffins shouldering, each with shroud in hand,
Start to find a better resting far beyond our Fatherland!