Chapter XXIII

I stand at dusk upon a cliff, ’gainst which mid rumble of rain
And smoke is dashed in roaring spray the water’s vast hurricane.
Just as a bird that seeks in vain for rest the isle’s seclusion,
My gaze dips gloomily in mists, of clouds and waves confusion
Which dark extends ahead into unbounded space and which teems
Belike a witches’ caldron with waterspouts and seething streams.

As here I stand and backward gaze, in slav’ry groans the land there;
I gaze ahead, there the threatening elements mad strife prepare.
A tempest wild draws nigh; e’en now blows the wind my locks about,
While the voices of the storm my chain’s eternal clash o’ershout.
But I those fettered hands forth to the coming deluge extend,
And my cheeks, like maids on kisses bent, to the lashing winds I lend:
Welcome, storm. Your ghastly sight but promises redemption only,
And in your rumble and roar, ’tis freedom’s song saluting me.

And now suddenly a sparkling mist begins to fill my eyes;
I feel how my throbbing temples burn with sudden fire; how rise
From my bosom to my trembling lips fantastic murmurings,
And how my soul soars to future realms on thought’s prophetic wings.
There’s a twinkling, glimmering, dawn, beyond that mass of clouds and
spray,
Just as if through them were breaking forth the heavy birth of day.
The angry sea clothes itself in a ruddy, weirdly beauteous glow,
As if in the broad water’s stead blood and only blood did flow.
The lengthy crests of monstrous waves, rain dashed into spray anew,
Raging waterspouts and bursting clouds,--all are a bloody hue;
And crash and din deafen the ear, as when in the battle’s fray
Clash countless spears and lances of raving armies without array.
But anon the drumming of the storm grows still, the seething ceases,
The sun’s golden shield, peeping from the rosy vapors, increases.
Victorious day rends the clouds and mists in flowing tatters,
Just as in flying fringe are torn the battle-worn banners.
The scattered hosts of darkness flee; silent grows the stormy scene;
Blue is the sky, blue is the sea, gold the atmosphere between.

But what do I behold? A new strand there. The sun’s smiling form
Of coming years illumines another world reborn from the storm.
And yon palm’s gorgeous growth of green, glistening with fruit of
gold,
Surveys its pleasing charms in the deep blue water’s peaceful fold.
The country round with ’bundance beams--blossom, grain and grape of
vine;
And there in gratitude urgent work and merry song combine.
All hands are free from fetters, pleasant is the laborer’s brow,
Nowhere custodian with whip, nor sleek the slaveholder now;
Nowhere glistens the savage soldier’s lance and spear, nor appear
The white folds of the Brahman’s robe hypocritically near;
Nowhere is writ in colors diverse the mark of caste,
’Tis the happy native land of brothers equal and free at last.

Peacefully in those throngs are mingled diverse speech and color,
The beggar does not wind in rags, nor wastes his wealth the idler;
Gone are the wretched huts, tidy homes though plain are everywhere;
And where a stately palace proudly towers to the skies, not there
Is a haughty egoist’s abode, opens wide its gates to all;
The people’s parliament deliberates free their rise and fall;
From there the glow of knowledge spreads about a benevolent light,
Ennobling the human feelings, there in art soul finds delight.--
The clash of chains has wakened me, the beautiful dream is effaced,
So sadly interchanged, by the present shame and woe replaced.--

But no! ’Twas not a mere illusion of my o’er-yearning dream.
I know that the morning star of those better days will yet gleam;
That the greater part of that vision’s splendor will be fulfilled,
Though from my aged neck to shake the yoke, I shall not be willed.
My silvery gray head will bow unto the dust of a slave;
Slaves too will cast the handful of earth to my fetters in my grave.
But, you, O younger comrades, ere your course shall know time no more,
You shall ascend with happy tread upon freedom’s sunny shore.
Then may the rude fist with whip around about in darkness reign.
But let each cherish faithfully for the future that blessed refrain;
Let all minds be united by the bond of our great endeavor,
And till time bids thee to action, gather your forces together;
All peoples free shall fraternize, the bonds of slaves will fall,
And our flag too, O brothers, will wave in the clear heights o’er all.

ONE MELODY

PETR BEZRUČ

Bad verse at times I write, I know,
I’m read but little luckily,
Into a dying flame I blow,
Though laughs at me nobility.

At times a silent song I sing.
If bad the note, forgive me, pray,
A miner black to work I cling
From Saturday to Saturday.

In stormy times, when roaring sounds
The jam of thought and fantasy,
In dismal monotone abounds
For me the selfsame melody.

On my people’s nape’s one dragon ill,
One fist about their throat is twirled;
And from my verses one dactyl,
One sorrow stares into the world.

SILESIAN FORESTS

Thou art as I, Silesian Forests!
Sorrow clings to thy trunks and crests;
You look depressed and you look severe,
Just as my thoughts and my songs appear.
Spine falls from thee in the night and the mist,
Tears of a race in subjection list.

Fallen art thou by the ax at Vienna’s wish,
Slowly you perish, peacefully you perish,
Silently perish, thou pine forest sea,
Endless, Silesian sorrows are ye.

A RED BLOSSOM

In a dark window, in a gray flower-pot,
Frowned a rough and thorny cactus.
Once on a morning
Red was the chalice that burst from the stalk,
Red was the blossom.
Came to us once a poet whose view differed,
Who adored fragrant and gorgeous roses.
In sounding distichs
Praised the rose and proudly censured
That ruddy blossom.
There are rough souls that have trod life’s path alone,
Thorns and prickles enveloped them entire.
What did their hearts hold?
Bloomed they but once and bloomed they at night, look!
Red was the blossom.

YOU AND I

Out of my way now:
Black are my hands and damp is my clothing.
Only a miner am I, to-day noble thou;
Thou’rt from a palace, a hut is my dwelling.
Frigid’s the cap I wear, with a visor on,
Orphans’ lamenting prayers do not follow me;
Eaten up fields for them have hares of thine.
Heartless and soulless thou’rt, lightning smite thee!
I am from Bezkyd, thralldom and sorrow’s son.
I slave in foundery, I slave in thy mine,
Gall seethes in my veins, but still I slave,
I catch thy logs on the foaming river’s wave.
Black am I, poor am I, sweat pours from my brow,
Children in Bezkyd weep not on my account now.
Widows oppressed I not, nor did I seize their share,
And so a beggar am I, a noble thou to-day.
Did you arrive in the mountains? Then take care.
Frigid’s my cap. Get thee out of my way.

70,000

There’re seventy thousand of us
Before Těšín, before Těšín.
A hundred thousand Germanized,
A hundred thousand Polanized,
A holy peace rests in my heart.
When we remain but seventy,
Of thousands only seventy,
May we live?

They’re digging seventy thousand
Graves for us all before Těšín.
At times some one sobs to the space
Above. His plea remains unfilled:
A foreign god laughs in his face.
And bluntly we gaze in a flock
How they place our heads upon the block,
As ox at slaughter of an ox.

And marquis Gero is so rich:
Give casks to us for seventy,
Give casks for thousands seventy.
A half of us will Germanize,
A half of us will Polanize,
A hundred lips will peal for thee:
Hail, marquis Gero, hail to thee!
But first before we perish thus,
May ruddy wine intoxicate us,
Bond-woman, daughter, man and son,
Before Těšín, before Těšín.

ON GOLGOTHA

J. S. MACHAR

It was the third hour when the cross was raised
Betwixt the crosses.
Red from exertion
The soldiers sat upon the much trampled
And bloody ground. They parted His raiment.
And for the coat which was without seam they
Cast lots.
And many of the multitude
Passed gazing up at Him and wagged their heads
And said, Ah, come down from the cross! For Thou
Didst style Thyself king! Thou, that wouldst destroy
The temple and then build it in three days
Well, save Thyself!
Stood by also chief priests
And scribes with long and flowing beards, and said
Amongst themselves: True, true, He saved others;
Let Him then save Himself now.--There also
Were many women looking on afar,
Who ministered to Him in Galilee,
Salome, Mary, and Magdalene, and who
Came up with Him unto Jerusalem.

Crucified, naked, shorn, He was numbered
With transgressors. And crusted blood clung to
His scourged body, while ruddy streams oozed from
His hands and feet and dripped upon the ground.
His dying eyes gazed out into distance,
Across the white city, hills and woodlands,
And ridges of the peaceful peaks in whose
Lap lie the blue waters of Galilee.

He bowed His head.

A winged rustling reached
His ear. ’Twas not the Father’s angel with
Refreshment’s chalice for a weary soul--
An unclean spirit with its batlike wings
Outstretched upon the air flew unto Him.
He had to suffer Satan to sit on
His cross, lean toward His head. For faint within
Him was His spirit and weak to resist.

And Satan then said: Woeful Sufferer,
Upon Thy cross of wood we meet again!
To-day the last time. ’Tis settled to-day.
The battle has been fought.

Rememberest Thou
Three years hence, when I carried Thee yon in
The wilderness upon a high mountain
And shewed Thee mighty kingdoms, promised Thee
All of the glory of this world, shouldst Thou
Fall down and worship me? Thou didst refuse.
Thou wouldst proclaim the coming kingdom of
Heaven to the weak, wretched. Thou wouldst bestow
Imperishable gifts upon clean hearts.
Thou wouldst show humble souls the way into
Thy Father’s glory and erase the curse
Of Adam from each generation’s brow!

Thou didst go to Thy death quiet, resigned,
Just as the lamb that openest not its mouth.
Thou pourest out Thy blood even like the dew
To moisten Thy young and early sprouting seed.

Jesus of Nazareth, behold the throngs
That surge continually about Thy cross!
Not long ago, when Thou didst enter in
The city in triumph, they strewed palms ’neath
Thy colt, cried praises unto Thee, and then
Proclaimed Thee David’s son. For they thought ’mongst
Themselves the kingdom of God was at hand,
The cherished time of milk and honey was
Now come. And then Thou didst refuse again.
The disappointed throngs next in anger
Cried, “Crucify Him!” into Pilate’s ears.
And now they come and wag their heads and say:
Here the king of the Jews is crucified.
Let Him save Himself. He would be the Son
Of God. But God seems to forsake Him now.

And God forsook.

Behold that heaven where Thou
Didst deem He reigns in all of His glory!
Cloudless, serene, it smiles quietly on
With its insensible blue smile. As ’twas
Before, so ’twill be after Thee. So too
The fowls flying the air and every beast
Inhabiting the earth has lived and lives
According to one law, that is my law.
The strong forever shall absorb the weak.
’Tis so with man. And this whole wide, wide world
Is my kingdom. Because I am the Life.
I rule. I sit enthroned in hearts, in souls.
No one shall ever banish me, nor Thou,
Nor Thy Father. Thy kingdom of God is
A dream. That dream I leave to man for e’er!

Behold, how calmly Rome’s centurion
Speaks with the scribe in white beneath Thy cross!
’Twill ever be thus. They are now heirs of
Thy words, Thy dreams. One shall change his idols,
The other his Jehovah for Thy name,
And on the world shall live as I ordain.

Why didst Thou not then take all those kingdoms
And this world’s glory from my gen’rous hand?
Thy youthful life would not have thus been spent
In shameful torture. Happily couldst Thou
Have lived and brought millions Thy happiness.
But what bring’st Thou? Death and discord Thou spreadst.
Thou fallest first. And for Thy name, Thy dreams,
Hundreds upon hundreds shall spill their blood
On crosses and arenas and scaffolds.
And when ’twill seem Thy dream has been fulfilled,
Then in Thy name, and only in Thy name,
The carnage shall go on. So far as eye
Can see, there rows of flaming pyres extend
Where sacrifices are burned in Thy name;
And in Thy name numberless wars shall rage,
And in Thy name cities and towns shall burn,
And in Thy name countries shall be laid waste,
And in Thy name curses shall be uttered,
And in Thy name there shall be slavery
Of body and of spirit.

For behold
The centurion and the scribe! The one
Shall murder in Thy name, the other bless
Him in Thy name. Wretched millions shall pay
For Thy dream with their most precious estate,
Their lives.

And o’er the blood that is thus spilled
Thy dream of God’s eternal kingdom and
Heaven’s glory shall rise up like a phantom
That shall reward the dead. A lure to them
In life thruout and on till ends the world!
Why then didst Thou not take all those kingdoms
And glory of this world? For life is mine.
I am the life, the lord of all below.
And forever I sit in hearts, in souls!...

And then forthwith Satan arose and spread
His great, dark, batlike wings, that extended
With swiftness of the wind in distance vast
And ghastly great. O’er Golgotha entire,
O’er city and valley and o’er the hills,
O’er regions round about, o’er distant peaks,
O’er waters blue of lakes of Galilee,
O’er realms beyond afar and seas remote,
There was projected then a dark, black veil.

And there was darkness over all the land,
Which trembled then.

And in the end Jesus
About Him gazed and with a loud voice cried:
Elói, Elói, lama Sabachtani,
And yielded up the ghost....

A FANTASTIC BALLAD

Its first night now away from wealth’s gleam,
The graceful form of that proud belle,
Cold, ’neath its flowery mound, in deep dream,
Within its casket there did dwell.

And weird the moon from heights above viewed
The night, by breath of fragrant bowers
Made tremulous; the light, livid-hued,
Slept soft on grave and cross and flowers.

When suddenly upon that mound--lo!
The buds upon each twig and shoot
Began to burst, and each flower tapped slow
Upon the casket with its root.

“Admit me now to that fair cheek,” spake
The rose, “to drink a bit of blood,
My bud begins to ope; for its sake
I seek to have her color’s flood.”

The violet whisp’rs low in the gloom:
“My root shall pierce her eyes of blue,
There shall the hue be drawn for their bloom,
Since bursts my throng of buds now too!”

“And I,” the tender lily speaks, “want
My flowers that precious gloss to own
That ’dorns her breast of snow. Pray, recant,
O Casket! Hear the plaint I moan!”

“The lips purple!” the peony cries;
The rosemary, “The hair’s sweet scent.”
“O casket, grant our prayers. Sudden rise
Our throngs of flowers in bloom. Relent!

“To let this belle thus fade in her tomb,
In blinding night--a sin at best.
We’ll lift her to the sun, and she’ll loom
Aloft upon each gayest crest!”

And with a sinister chuckle, slow
The hemlock rose--before all hid:
“I seek the heart. Didst ye forget? Ho!
The poison for my flowers I bid.”

A SONNET OF THE PAST

You sigh as backward gazest thou:
Ah, after all times then were best.
But, my dear friend, be not depressed,
You said it then as say you now.

And in that “then” not otherwise,
You longed for only what was past.
Thus further back you will surmise,
Till reach you swaddling clothes at last.

And in those clothes perhaps you’d prate,
Couldst thou but speak or meditate,
Oh, but times then were better still.

’Tis fate’s old witticism ill.
So, it may be a better fate
When hearts will cease to meditate.

A SONNET OF LIFE

How strange and feverish the haste appears,
With which our modern living flies.
Gaze back adown the row of bygone years
And you begin to feel a longing rise.

As if you rode a train that could not stop
Or knew not whither it was rushing thee.
As regions pass thee by, perchance you’d stop,
But then a stop impossible would be.

A few friends now ride in the car with you,
A few fleet girlish glances you behold,
They leave as others then in turn will do.

At length thou’rt weary,--all a sameness takes,
You feel the heart is quickly growing old
And fills with longing when remembrance wakes.

TO MY MOTHER

My mother, aft long rows of years I plant
To-day a sonnet ’neath thy name of gold.
Only a sonnet where hymn I should chant,
But verses, where should sacred prayers be told.

Ah, one must tread adown the path of woe
And bury much in many storm accursed,
Curse all that once he would have fondled so,
Despair, and oftentimes in weeping burst.

Then ridicule he must cynically
That frivolous, yet frightful song of life,
To accent the word “mother” properly.

And loathsome must that song to him remain,
To say he hears forever in the strife
That “mother” sound as a sacred refrain.

THE SPIRAL

OR

ON THE DECLINE OF A CENTURY

_A spiral is a regular endless curve beginning at the center and running in diverging rings continually in a circle so that the distance of a point on any one revolution from the second is as great as the second from the third and so on.--A Definition of a Spiral._

It was ages ago.
’Twas the moment perhaps
That Darwin describes:
White was the beast
That suddenly raised
Her head on high,
Stood firm upon
Her hind feet
Gazed up above
To the shining ball
In its vault of blue,
Gazed all around
On luxuriant earth,
On the fruits thereof
And all its creatures.
A mighty feeling
Of dominion and strength
Stirred her to the depths.
And from her breast
First welled the joyous,
Broad, powerful,
Victorious: I,
Which seemed to her
The final center
Of things all around.--
And from the white beast
At that time arose man.

And life began.

The embittered power
Of afflictions and pains
(Which unbeknown
Each “I” enclosed
As a soul within)
Drove them on and on.
Life fled before it
As flees the hare
From the light weasel
Which sits at its throat.
From a small point
Life flew in a curve
Of broad expanse.
The curve unwinds,
Unwinds and unwinds
In a whirling spiral
Along which man rushes,
Impelled by pain
And strengthened by hope
Of peace and brighter aims.
And the spiral spreads
Through space without bounds,
Without depth and height,
Without breadth and length,
On into the unknown.

The embittered power
Of afflictions and pains
Impels it onward.
It crumbled souls,
Created gods,
Crushed masses,
Established kings,
Impressed the steel
Into the hands of man
Which he in turn
Plunged into himself;
Led spirits into
Sciences’ labyrinth
And to streams of art,
But nowhere to fortune.

Mankind rushes along
The whirling spiral
Through space without bounds,
Without depth and height,
Without breadth and length,
On into the unknown.

Counseling gods,
That gave not fortune,
Overturned thrones,
That gave not fortune,
Blood that was shed
And brought not fortune,
Sciences and arts
Where man found not fortune,
All lies casts aside
Along life’s frightful way.

A monster huge
Of bluish color,
And called the past,
Creeps aft mankind,
Devours it all
With mighty jaws,
And, insatiable,
Grows day by day.

Mankind rushes on
And ever onward.
And again new gods,
And new kings,
And new battles,
And new arts,
And new sciences,--
And again all lies
Behind him far
In the spiral’s path
As the monster’s prey.

And the spiral spreads and spreads
Through endless space.
And wretched mankind
Thus chases fortune.
Joyful cries at times
Sound from a hundred throats.
And strained nerves
Tremble with bliss.
Wretched mankind!
Some sort of phantom,
Fata morgana,
Glittered somewhere for thee
In the boundless desert!

Wretched mankind!
The following hour
Again art thou further on,
Ahasuerus of thy fable,
In thy flight!
And the deceitful phantom
Will find itself in the jaws
Of the bluish past,
As all things else!

And the spiral spreads and spreads.
The nineteenth circle,
Which we call enlightened,
Runs into the twentieth.
’Tis an age of steam,
Chemistry and physics,
And a god grown old,
And several kings,
And rows of fine battles,
And full of knowledge,
And nerves unstrung,
And of vain hopes,
And full of misfortune
As all the rest.

The embittered power
Of afflictions and pains
Drives us from it
Onward and onward
Along the whirling spiral.

That bluish past
With gigantic jaws,
With a great belly,
Follows in our footsteps.
It will at least find
A profitable spoil.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is
entered into the public domain.