Songs of Labor and Other Poems Part 3

The Beggar Family

Within the court, before the judge, There stand six wretched creatures, They're lame and weary, one and all, With pinched and pallid features.

The father is a broken man, The mother weak and ailing, The little children, skin and bone, With fear and hunger wailing.

Their sins are very great, and call Aloud for retribution, For their's (maybe you guess!) the crime Of hopeless dest.i.tution.

They look upon the judge's face, They know what judges ponder, They know the punishment that waits On those that beg and wander.

For months from justice they have fled Along the streets and highways, From farm to farm, from town to town, Along the lanes and byways.

They've slept full oftentimes in jail, They're known in many places; Yet still they live, for all the woe That's stamped upon their faces.

The woman's chill with fear. The man Implores the judge: "Oh tell us, What will you? With our children small Relentlessly expel us?

Oh let us be! We'll sleep at night In corners dark; the city Has room for all! And some kind soul Will give a crust in pity.

"For wife and children I will toil: It cannot be much longer (For G.o.d almighty is and good!) Ere I for work am stronger.

Oh let us here with men remain, Nor drive us any further!

Oh why our curses will you have, And not our blessings rather!"

And now the sick man quails before The judge's piercing glances: "No, only two of you shall go This time and take your chances.

Your wife and you! The children four You'll leave, my man, behind you, For them, within the Orphan's Home, Free places I will find you."

The father's dumb--the mother shrieks: "My babes and me you'd sever?

If G.o.d there be, such cruel act Shall find forgiveness never!

But first, oh judge, must you condemn To death their wretched mother-- I cannot leave my children dear With you or any other!

"I bore and nursed them, struggling still To shelter and to s.h.i.+eld them, Oh judge, I'll beg from door to door, My very life-blood yield them!

I know you do not mean it, judge, With us poor folk you're jesting.

Give back my babes, and further yet We'll wander unprotesting."

The judge, alas! has turned away, The paper dread unrolled, And useless all the mother's grief, The wild and uncontrolled.

More cruel can a sentence be Than that which now is given?

Oh cursed the system 'neath whose sway The human heart is riven!

A Millionaire

No, not from tuning-forks of gold Take I my key for singing; From Upper Seats no order bold Can set my music ringing; But groans the slave through sense of wrong, And naught my voice can smother; As flame leaps up, so leaps my song For my oppressed brother.

And thus the end comes swift and sure...

Thus life itself must leave me; For what can these my brothers poor In compensation give me, Save tears for ev'ry tear and sigh?-- (For they are rich in anguish).

A millionaire of tears am I, And mid my millions languish.

September Melodies

I

The summer is over!

'Tis windy and chilly.

The flowers are dead in the dale.

All beauty has faded, The rose and the lily In death-sleep lie withered and pale.

Now hurries the stormwind A mournful procession Of leaves and dead flowers along, Now murmurs the forest Its dying confession, And hushed is the holiest song.

Their "prayers of departure"

The wild birds are singing, They fly to the wide stormy main.

Oh tell me, ye loved ones, Whereto are ye winging?

Oh answer: when come ye again?

Oh hark to the wailing For joys that have vanished!

The answer is heavy with pain: Alas! We know only That hence we are banished-- But G.o.d knows of coming again!

II

The Tkiyes*-man has blown his horn, And swift the days' declining; The leaves drop off, in fields forlorn Are tender gra.s.ses pining.

The earth will soon be cold and bare, Her robe of glory falling; Already to the mourner's prayer The last wild bird is calling.

He sings so sweetly and so sad A song of friends who parted, That even if it find you glad, It leaves you broken hearted.

The copses shudder in the breeze, Some dream-known terror fearing.

Awake! O great and little trees!

The Judgment-day is nearing!

O men! O trees in copses cold!

Beware the rising weather!

Or late or soon, both young and old Shall strew the ground together....

[*Tkiye: first blast of the Ram's horn.]

Depression

All the striving, all the failing, To the silent Nothing sailing.

Swiftly, swiftly pa.s.sing by!

For the land of shadows leaving, Where a wistful hand is weaving Thy still woof, Eternity!