English

Where did you get this money and estate?
'Twas by your labor honestly acquired,
Or left you when your relatives expired,
Else it is robber's booty, miser's bait.
That which you give the beggar at your gate
Is noble if your arms to get it tired;
If 'twas a legacy, 'tis nobly squired,
If 'twas a theft—good sir, your pride abate!

I once beheld a wolf that from his feast
Unto a starving cur the bones released
When he himself was gorged and sated through;
So thou, rich glutton, drop the leavings there,

Let others seek the lying aids of art,
And bribe the passions to betray the heart;
Truth, sacred Truth, and Faith unskill'd to feign,
Fill my fond breast, and prompt my artless strain.

Say, did thy lover, in some happier hour,
Each ardent thought, in wild profusion pour?
With eager fondness on thy beauty gaze,
And talk with all the ecstasy of praise?
The heart sincere its pleasing tumult prov'd;
All, all declar'd that Theodosius lov'd.

Let raptur'd Fancy on that moment dwell,
When thy dear vows in trembling accents fell,

A trumpet rang;—the turban'd line
Clash'd up their spears, the headsman's sign.
Then, like the iron in the forge,
Blazed thy dark visage, C ZERNI G EORGE !
He knew that trumpet's Turkish wail,
His guide through many a forest vale,
When, scattering like the hunted deer,
The Moslem felt his early spear;
He heard it when the Servian targe
Broke down the Delhi's desperate charge,
And o'er the flight his scimitar
Was like the flashing of a star:
That day, his courser to the knee
Was bathed in blood, and Servia free!

'Twas noon! a blood-red banner play'd
Above thy rampart porte, Belgrade;
From time to time the gong's deep swell
Rose thundering from the citadel;
And soon the trampling charger's din
Told of some mustering pomp within.
But all without was still and drear,
The long streets wore the hue of fear,
All desert, but where some quick eye
Peer'd from the curtain'd gallery.
Or crouching slow from roof to roof,
The Servian glanced, then shrank aloof,
Eager, yet dreading to look on
The business to be that day done.

An old lane, an old gate, an old house by a tree;
A wild wood, a wild brook—they will not let me be:
In boyhood I knew them, and still they call to me.

Down deep in my heart's core I hear them and my eyes
Through tear-mists behold them beneath the oldtime skies
'Mid bee-boom and rose-bloom and orchard-lands arise.

I hear them; and heartsick with longing is my soul,
To walk there, to dream there, beneath the sky's blue bowl;
Around me, within me, the weary world made whole.

To talk with the wild brook of all the long ago;

When all were dreaming
But Pastheen Power,
A light came streaming
Beneath her bower:
A heavy foot
At her door delayed,
A heavy hand
On the latch was laid.

“Now who dare venture,
At this dark hour,
Unbid to enter
My maiden bower?”
“Dear Pastheen, open
The door to me,
And your true lover
You'll surely see.”

“My own true lover,
So tall and brave,
Lives exiled over
The angry wave.”
“Your true love's body
Lies on the bier,
His faithful spirit

Inscribe in austere characters this screed.
‘As in a golden urn here lies the dust
Of a poor boy whose dreams were so august
He might have changed the earth’ … all you, take heed!
You fond and foolish traffickers in greed
And spend not rashly what you hold in trust.
For you are unwise stewards and unjust,
That bartering childhood achieve wealth indeed.
In this bright coin shining like the sun
His passion glows and his brief visions burn.
But what the great deeds are he might have done
Are secrets that we shall not ever learn.

What dreams burn here, never to be revealed?
What visions of what archangelic things!
As many lives in this rich gold lie sealed
As in great tombs lie buried ancient kings.
Pick! Pick! Last night I heard the solemn spade
With clocklike sound and unremitting toil
Dig its slow sense of time into the soil.
The box was lowered. The pious parson prayed.
Blow, Gabriel, on thy trumpet! With that sound
Sing up men's bodies to a glorious morn.
Men's souls sleep here. Where is that godlike horn
Shall call them up out of this glittering ground?

How strange it is that these bright coins should be
Stamped with the Bird of Freedom! They should bear
Dark fierce inscriptions—outcries of despair;
But not the Bird of holiest Liberty.
Upon these national emblems let us see
Some solemn accusation that shall declare,
‘Ye serve the rich, the poor ye do not spare,
The Unpaid Toiler has not been set free.’
Carve on these coins the truth. So let us save
A conscience whited by too many lies.
Upon these discs of gold let us engrave
Men's dark biographies … make other dies …

There was a man that lived before the Flood—
He said, ‘Am I my brother's keeper?’ Then
He fled from out God's presence and from men
And the deep earth cried with his brother's blood.
Take heed of him, ye that have bought and sold
And deal in living flesh—lest not in vain
A bitter cry calls down the curse of Cain.
Take heed of him, ye tillers in bright gold.
I say that from these coins go up such cries
Their protestations shall assail the skies.
Where will you hide, you fugitives from God?
… You that are flushed with guilt