FATE Ada Negri THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES FATE FATE ADA NEGRI Authorized Translation from the Italian by A. M. VON BLOMBERG BOSTON COPELAND AND DAY 1898 COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY COPELAND AND DAT PQ WJ CONTENTS. ADA NEGRI PAGE XI FATE 1 NAMELESS 2 DISTURB ME NOT 3 THE WAVES FLOW ON 5 THE STREET URCHIN 6 JEALOUS OF THEE 7 A SHORT STORY 9 AUTOPSY 10 SNOW 1 2 MIST 1 3 NIGHT 14 AS LONG AS I LIVE AND BEYOND 15 IN THE BREACH 17 GOOD-MORROW, MISERY 19 THE OLD MAN 21 THE SONG OF THE PICKAXE 23 THE DEFEATED 25 THE HAND IN THE WHEELWORK 28 LOUD GROANS THE MACHINE 29 ONE OF THE PEOPLE 30 FLOWER OF THE PEOPLE 32 THE PAGAN KISS 34 THE ARABIAN HORSE 35 THEE ALONE 36 SINITE PARVULOS 37 NENIA MATERNA 39 IN THE HURRICANE 41 V 762889 LIGHT PAGE 41 TAKE ME AWAY 42 SO I SEE IT ONCE MORE 43 8TRANA 44 WHY 47 CHALLENGE 48 SALVETE 49 HAVE MERCY ! 51 GO 53 NO 54 APRIL SONG 56 THE WORKING MOTHER 56 IT CANNOT BE 59 PHANTOMS 60 NIGHT JOURNEY 6l A SOUL 63 DROUGHT 66 THOU WOULDEST KNOW 67 COME TO THE FIELDS 68 DEEP IN THE DUSKY WOODS JO THE CASCADE 71 MISTICA 72 HAST THOU BEEN WORKING? 72 TO MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF 74 ON HIGH 78 ALONE 80 SPES 82 THE WIDOW 82 THE FADED ROSE 83 VI DEFORMED PAGE 85 VOICE OF THE DARKNESS 86 THE MARK ON THY BROW 88 PROPHECY 90 MAKE ROOM 93 " ' Tis pain tbat teaches thoughts their highest flight." ADA NEGRI 1 9 SHE lives at Motta-Visconti. So much we know because all her poems bear this indi- cation in the left-hand lower corner. But who is Ada Negri ? Why does she write only for the Illustrazione Popolare ? Why does she not step out into plain daylight, and why does no one help her to do so ? At times, when striving passionately to be Loosed from these hateful bonds, I curse and cry ; The vain world laughs, and listens not to me. Why does no one listen to her ? These were the questions asked only a few months ago by the subscribers to the Carrier e delta 1 It is the general custom to introduce lecturers and poets at their first public appearance. To in- troduce Ada Negri, we recur to a most simple means which to us seems also the best, that is, to reproduce the article another distinguished and highly valued authoress dedicated to her in the Corriere della Sera last December, xi Ada Negri Sera and the Illustrazione Popolare / even those who neither understand nor care for poetry felt themselves deeply moved by Ada Negri' s verse. Strange, indeed, that, thus known and admired privately, she should not find a way out of the thickets lining her path, to step forth openly upon the highroad. Still it may have been best for her so : her struggle with obstacles which she did not know as such, her never appeased thirst for glory, surely helped to kindle the flame that now warms all her poetry, giving it the stamp of such true feel- ing, so new and so entirely her own. Her readers, little by little, have come to under- stand that the pain in her verses is real pain, that this young creature must have suffered as much as if she had already lived a long life ; and they will finally come to the conviction that she, conscious as she is of her genius, and made strong by sad experience, might emerge at any moment into the sunshine of that glory she dreams of with such ardour. The "austere figure" that appears at her bedside one night and that calls itself Misfortune says, after having crushed her with the prophecy of what she is destined to suffer : He who creates in suffering's night Alone sees glory's day. 'T is pain that teaches thoughts their highest flight. And she who had repelled her answers : " Stay." xii Misfortune ! how well we feel that it was the Ada Negri companion of Ada Negri' s youth ! maybe that from her childhood she knew the sleepless nights of useless prayer, Full of the morrow's dread, maybe she also knew " those long days without bread" Amid the dark, here in my heart did reign A mad, unbridled craving for the sun. At the age of eighteen she bids her mother farewell, leaving Lodi to take a position as a teacher at Motta-Visconti, a squalid, dismal vil- lage, not reached even yet by the wheels of a tram ; there it lies, as if forgotten, on the ridge above the Ticino where the great woods extend, well known to the huntsmen of Milan ; here it is that Ada Negri goes to listen to the voices of the rising wind, which, Proudly its pinions shaking, twists and turns And rages furiously. Ada Negri, when your verses shall appear col- lected in a volume, much will be said and in- vented concerning your person and your life ! Let me tell first a little of the melancholy truth. This melancholy truth is an honour to you ; and some day you will think of your poverty with tenderness and gratitude, for it is largely to poverty that you owe what you are. xiii Ada Negri Let us then cross the wide, muddy courtyard on which the stables open and where the geese are splashing, to go and knock at your crazy door, climbing the two steep flights of worn brick steps. We come to greet you in your dim room, where the window-panes are not glass but paper, where the box that contains your books and that serves you as a divan is the most elegant piece of furniture. Our hearts contract the first moment, but then they expand, they swell with emotion and admiration. It was in a literary magazine, if I am not mis- taken, that the Working Mother was published, the description of that great mill where, without respite, a poor, weary woman is working, whose careworn brow seems illumined by a noble pride, for she is working for her son who is to study : Her joy, * Her one ambition, her one son, behind Whose brow she has divined The lofty flight of genius. Who has not thought, on reading this passage, that perhaps it should be a daughter ? The poor woman, weary and ill, who has worked all her life, has now taken refuge with her daughter, and awaits, timorous and thought- ful, the bright future when the dark head will be crowned " with gold and laurel wreaths." Is it coming, that great day ? Already letters, magazines, and books arrive from all parts of Italy, xiv and her daughter's name is everywhere ; the Ada Negri streets which she walks ring with it, and she is thrilled with pride and reverence. Yes, your daughter's name is known, but no one knows who she is, and she knows no one, and will, for some time yet, have to go in her wooden shoes to the school where seventy to eighty dirty urchins shout to bid her good-morn- ing and try her patience, reciting the alphabet in unison. Her mother sees her coming home with pale face, burning hands, and flashing eyes, and trem- bles with fear lest she be ill. It is the intense effort of living two lives, of listening to two voices. While she hears those from without, and speaks and answers and with rigid firmness fulfils her duty, a thousand other voices speak within her, a strange music rising from her soul, wishing to break out ; but it must not before the dead of night, when all is silent around her and the duty of the day is done. It is then that a vast radiant horizon opens before her. He who reads her poetry might think that she has seen and known everything ; but she knows only solitude and misfortune, a dark, cold world where the light from without appears dazzling, and the world of the fortunate more sweet and warm than it really is. Ada Negri has read very few modern books, but she knows them all from the various contradictory criticisms of the literary reviews ; and it is strange xv Ada Negri how she seizes the truth out of the good and the bad, said of them. She has never seen a theatre, but is enthusiastic about Duse, and has been pos- sessed lately by such a craving to see and hear her that she can think of nothing else : it is always her papers and periodicals that bring her information, a whole bundle of them, almost all there are in Italy, which she has been receiving every week for the last two years, bearing the Milan post-mark, from an admirer that has never let her know his identity. Ada Negri has never seen the sea, either, nor does she know the mountains, or even the hills and a lake : a few months ago one could say not even a large city, as she did nothing but pass through Milan from Porta Ticinese to Porta Ro- mana to go to Lodi to spend her vacation with her mother. This summer some friends detained her for two days, and it was indeed a new life that opened wide before her eyes in the great populous city, at the season when the races and the exhibitions made it so brilliant. Crowds, bent on pleasure, passed by her with the splendour of luxury, beauty, and elegance. Art, of which she caught a glimpse at Brera, filled her with wonder, moved her deeply, inspired her ; the magic charm of distant lands and nations held her spellbound before those Egyptians and their horses, those brown almees with their painted eyes. Two dream-days : the whole little slender xvi figure vibrated, the big black eyes burned as in a Ada Negri fever ; her friends asked themselves if they had not done wrong in showing her that which she could not enjoy for a longer time. She returned to put on her wooden shoes again ; she returned to teach spelling to her eighty noisy, hard-headed children, but she no longer knew how to be quiet and resigned to her obscure lot. There will be many who, on reading her book, will say that there is in it a note of insistence, too often struck : it is true, she herself feels it and acknowledges it : but it is so, it is her present self; it is the mournful, incessant bell, calling for help ; it is her youth, rebelling against pain, which has been her constant companion ; it is the outcry of genius, struggling not to be buried alive. I am a poet, a poet, and the light of glory smiles not on me. Still, how sad and sweet is her song at times, how her youth, weary of longing for the future, turns to the past, and she becomes a child again and rests beside her mother's knee. Mother, here in the silence near thee kneeling : And she questions : Why should we suffer and yet be forgiving ? And why should love with dazzling magic stream Through our hearts, a winged hymn and living, Then all be shattered even as a dream ? Why should we suffer and yet be forgiving ? xvii Ada Negri The sweet note of Ada Negri's lyric poetry always flows either from memories of her child- hood, rocked by her mother's love, or from ma- ternal love, appearing to her as a far-away Fata Morgana of peace. Desolation, therefore, never possesses Ada Negri long ; she rebounds like a steel spring ; the bitterness of discomfort is silenced in a flash of defiance, in an outburst of daring hope. It seems as if her little figure grew taller, when, defying misery, the " drear, toothless ghost," she exclaims : Mine are youth and life ! Thou shall not see me, no, Not see me fainting in this fatal strife : O'er fallen ruins, over grief and tears, Triumph my twenty years ! And how deeply are we moved when she says, poor creature: Down in the world there, see ! What roses and what sunlight far and nigh ! List to the jubilee, The trills of larks up in the radiant sky: The air with faith and with ideals rings And fluttering of wings. But we are filled with admiration when this cour- ageous girl, proud in her virtue and her genius, adds : For labour's dignity That nobly governs all, I long, and, haughtily dismissing the " black enchantress," says : xviii And I from out thy meshes boldly spring Ada Negri Life's hymn of praise to sing ! If there is any poetry felt by every one, it is that of Ada Negri, so essentially modern and democratic. There is in it that " stormy pres- ent " invoked by Arturo Graf, here truly swelled to a tide, "the immense flood of voices that overwhelm us with wonder and pity, that kindle us with enthusiasm, that fill us with a mortal sadness." SOFIA BISI ALBINI. xix FATE A FIGURE, awful to behold, austere, Stood by my bed last night. The dagger at her side filled me with fear, Her eyes flashed down at me with scornful light. " I am Misfortune. Hear, Thou shrinking child, where'er thou mayest be I '11 never leave thee nay, Through thorns and flowers, to death I'll follow thee, Even in the void beyond near thee to stay." I sobbed : Away, away! " She firmly stayed, and from me would not go. She spoke : " 'Tis thus decreed. Pale flower of the cypress, of the snow, Of crime and of the tomb, poor human weed, Above 't is thus decreed." I rose and cried : " But it is hope I crave," To make my young days bright, In thrills of love exultingly to rave, I want the kiss of genius and of light ! Oh go, oh go away ! " Fate She spoke : "He who creates in suffering's night Alone sees glory's day. 'Tis pain that teaches thoughts their highest flight, For him who bravely fights is victory." I slowly answered : ' Stay ! " NAMELESS I HAVE no name. My home a hovel damp, I grew up from the mire, Wretched and outcast folk my family, And yet within me burns a flame of fire. A praying angel and an evil dwarf Are ever at my side. My thought is galloping o'er hill and plain As did Mazeppa on his deathly ride. A strange enigma I of hate and love, Of strength and gentleness; The black abyss attracts me with its gloom, And I am softened by a child's caress. When, knocking at the door of my low room, Misfortune comes, I laugh. I laugh when I 'm forsaken or assailed, When I am joyless, comfortless, I laugh. But over trembling worn old age, o'er those Nameless That have no bread, I weep. I weep o'er tender children thin and wan, And o'er a thousand unknown woes I weep. And when the tears, that fill my heart, in strange, In daring song o'erflow, That thrills my breast and quivers on my lips, My soul's whole fervour into it I throw. I care not who may hear. When dastard hate Would strike me or defame, Defying fate, I pass and do not look : The poisonous arrow thus must miss its aim. DISTURB ME NOT WHEN to thy words of love I do not listen And when my eyes shine bright, And when with sudden and unwonted pallor My lips and cheeks grow white, When, lost in thought and of all else forgetful, My dusky head I raise, Disturb me not a world divine lies open Immense before my gaze. I see the sun from out the clouds descending, Nude youth with radiant face, Enfold the maiden earth, adorned with myrtle, In powerful embrace ; 3 Disturb And from the hay, just cut, and from the Me Not cornfields That wave like golden seas, From the oases in the distant desert, From oak and cypress-trees, From the great woods, howling amid the tempest, With wildly passionate cry, At the voluptuous thrill of love, reviving Creation far and nigh, I hear, I hear, as birds spread wide their pinions And rise in straggling flight, Tremendous gusts of wind soar up triumphant With strength and health's delight. All is abloom with radiant hopes and roses, With pure, confiding hearts, Victorious efforts, noble exultations, Daring inventions, arts : No longer blood, no longer blood is flooding The earth in gory run, No longer war, the sorcerer inhuman, Is levelling his gun ; No longer now the cannon madly filleth The air with thunderous roar, And battle-songs amid the raging slaughter Fly back and forth no more ; 4 All men are one : with ecstasy most sacred Disturb Inspired as ne'er before. A sweet and solemn chant of peace is wafted Across from shore to shore. Steam snorts and shrieks, machines are fiercely groaning, Red burns the furnace-glow, Cleaving the fertile glebe, the steady ploughshare Is toiling to and fro. And o'er the earth that, like a lion roaring, With industry doth teem, Proud in the wind her pinions white unfolding, Rules Liberty supreme. THE WAVES FLOW ON BETWEEN the rugged banks with steady force The waves flow weeping on. The leaden sky Is listening. Not a smile there is on high, No breath stirs in the night. Along their course The waves flow weeping on. Upon their breast In sadness grave they carry down the vale The lifeless body of a lovely, pale, Unhappy girl who in their depth sought rest. The waves flow weeping on in this lament The echo rings of a strange mystery, The human cry, the sobs of misery Of a wild desperate love defeated spent. 5 THE STREET URCHIN WHEN in the muddy street, I see him run- ning, His little shoes all worn, His trousers ragged and his jacket torn, His handsome face most mischievous and cunning ; And when I see him 'mid the surging eddy Of carts, he steals or begs, Now deftly throwing stones at poor curs' legs, Bold and corrupt, a youthful thief already ; And when I see him laugh, I can't help thinking : " His mother is all day There in the mill ; in prison his father nay, Poor flower he of thorns ! " My heart is sinking Within me, with anxiety I wonder : " What will become of thee, Without a guide on this tempestuous sea Of life, forlorn and ignorant ? I wonder What thou wilt be and what will be thy station Some twenty years from now ; An honest workman with a sunburnt brow ? A useful member of our struggling nation ? The labourer's honest shirt shalt thou be wearing Or convict's garb ! Or shall I see thee wretched at the hospital, At work, in prison, a vagabond wayfaring ? " 6 And lo ! Across the street I would run over And in supreme distress, Urchin In agony, in pity I would press Him to my heart ; with kisses I would cover His mouth, his forehead ; close beside him kneeling, Would whisper in his ears, Choked by compassion's quickly rising tears, These sacred words, full of a sister's feeling : " I too was born 'mong thorns, the sky above me, My mother too for me Was working hard there in the factory, I know what want and suffering mean I love thee." JEALOUS OF THEE ONE day I saw thee pass. In my disdainful And lonely soul at once I know not why Suspicion thrilled through me : But now I know thee, hate thee, jealous ay ! Jealous I am of thee ! Go, siren, go and triumph. God hath given To thee thy wayward and thy supple grace, A dazzling treasure rare : Fatal as lust, enticing is thy face, White maiden with thy braids of golden hair ! 7 Jealous of Why hast thou come ? When of thy youth's Thee fair blossom, Thy daring fascination I caught sight, From me my hope all fled ; My splendid dream, alas ! lies shattered quite, With broken pinions dead. Ah, if thou didst but know what souls can suffer When they are rent by passion's sharpest thorn, When love is dead and gone, How empty seems the world, when all forlorn The heart is left neglected and alone ! Oh could I but forget the rosy visions Of my infatuate, my passionate dream Of happy youth! The sun Of joy on me never again shall beam. Love life for me are done. Go, siren, go and triumph. Thine the laughter, The false brief feast of sweet voluptuousness ; If my own time is set, And I must be abandoned in distress, The wrath of fate shall overtake thee yet. When lonely 'mid the ruins of thy passion, The wild intoxication which is lost Thou seekest in dismay, When once thou cravest, shivering with frost, The glow of love's past day, Erect and haughty I shall rise before thee, Jealous of A ghost of vengeance dread, wrapt in a shroud, " ee Glad of thy pain, shall dare At thy lost happiness to laugh aloud, White maiden with thy braids of golden hair : Because, proud of thy beauty, thou hast trodden Into the dust my dream of rosy gold With shameless foot. Ah me ! I hate thee, jealous am I, siren bold, Jealous am I of thee ! A SHORT STORY SHE seemed a poet's dream, divinely fair ; White always was her raiment, calm and still As of the Orient sphinx her wondrous face. Full, long, and lustrous flowed her silken hair ; Her short clear laugh seemed like a bird's sweet trill, Majestic, statuelike her languid grace. She loved without return, yet fed the blaze Of passion's fire which her clear brow belied, And of this hidden flame she spoke to none. The unfulfilled desire consumed her days In an October twilight hour she died, As the verbena dies for want of sun. AUTOPSY OH, haggard doctor, who with eyes intent, Shining with fervid zeal, Dost now my naked corpse dissect, torment With thine unflinching steel, Knowest thou who I was ? While searching through My body with thy knife, In this sepulchral chamber listen to The story of my life. Alone upon the streets I lived. I had No parents and no home ; Barefoot, without a name, I, hardly clad, In wind and cold did roam. I knew the sleepless nights of useless prayer, Full of the morrow's dread, I knew the days of secret dire despair, Those long days without bread. I knew all vice, I drained tears' bitter cup, Tasted fear's agony, 'Mong hostile squalid people I grew up In darkest misery ; And in a hospital I lay one day Upon a neat white bed, When, lo ! a black colossal bird of prey Its pinions o'er me spread. 10 And thus I died, like a poor dog astray. Autopsy Dost understand ? Alone, Without a word of hope I passed away Into the dark unknown ! How full and lustrous flows my raven hair, Unfastened from its coil. Without a kiss of love *t will be somewhere Laid in the cold black soil. How white and virginlike, how lithe is this My body, how well made ! It is disgraced now by the lustful kiss Of thy too eager blade. With a sinister smile, untiring, tear My bowels out, and still Gloat over my sold corpse ; go on to bare My bones and veins at will. What does it matter ? Naught but refuse I. Dig deep, seek zealously The awful secret thou of hunger, try To solve its mystery. Wrench out my heart, its organism sound, And try thou to explain The wondrous mystery, sublime, profound, The mystery of pain. ii Autopsy Dost thou not know it ? Thus beneath thy gaze, Naked, I suffer yet, Staring at thee from out my eyes' dull glaze. Thou never shalt forget, Never forget me, for with my last breath, Passion's last effort dread, Deep from my breast a gurgling gasp of death, A malediction fled. SNOW O N fields and streets below In wildly whirling flight Falls noiselessly and light The snow. The white flakes dance their best In heaven's hall on high, Then, tired, down they lie To rest. On roofs and chimneys steep That wrapped in silence stand, On graves and garden-land They sleep. And all is peace profound : Lost in oblivion quite, The world lies still and white, Snowbound. 12 Infinite calm supreme Snow Descends from heaven above, And of a slumbering love I dream. MIST I SUFFER. Far away The mists in dreamy train Rise from the silent plain All gray. The ravens black on high The air with croakings fill, Across the moorland still They fly. The trees their branches bare Towards the clouds that drift Imploringly uplift In prayer. I shiver ! I'm alone ! Weighed down by the gray sky, Floats in the twilight by A moan, Repeating to me : Come And leave this gloomy vale, Unloved one, sad and pale, Oh come ! 13 NIGHT ON the fantastic garden Whence balms of roses rise The night's caressing shadow In silence lies. And yet a thought, a heart-beat Is throbbing as it were Aud trembling like a shudder Within the air. Hark ! does the dusky darkness With faintly halting breath Tell to the withered thistles A tale of death ? Maybe for gentle showers Of shining dewdrops fall Into the half-closed petals From heaven's hall. Yea, over silent suffering Of now and long ago, And over untold anguish And untold woe, And over love- spells broken, O'er bygone joys and fears The mournful night is weeping Her tender tears. 14 AS LONG AS I LIVE AND BEYOND SHE said to me : " Thou never laughest, nay, Thy biting verse with malediction rings. Thou knowest not the lay Where joy plays in the sun, where zephyr's breath Music of kisses brings. Thou knowest not that Phoebian song of yore That like an antique goddess, naked, fair, Her mantle drops to soar, Scattering acanthus and wistaria sweet, Into the balmy air." " Where wert thou born ? " again she spoke to me ; " Whence, singer of misfortune, dost thou come ? What evil fay on thee, When in thy cradle, wrought her spell ? " And I: " A lowly hut my home. I grew up from the mire. From far and near Throughout the fervent hymns forever sent From the whole earth, I hear, Ringing e'en through the triumph of the sun, An echo of lament. There falls upon my heart a crimson rain Of crying blood, dripping from riddled chests, The blood of those brave slain Who gave their lives when shaken liberty A bulwark asked of breasts. 15 As Long And from the dens where live in squalor dread, as I Live Huddled together, the tumultuous crowd and .... Beyond Who on the scanty bread That labour yields impatient fling themselves, Clamouring with greed aloud; And from the din of sultry factories where Monsters of steel, huge engines snort all day, And where the pungent air Poisons the blood of the pale weaver-girls And makes them waste away ; From the miasmal rice-plantations there, From barren fields where weary peasants plod, From walled-in houses, where So many inert creatures prostrate lives Spend in the name of God, There comes to me of weeping manifold The stifled sound that will not cease to stun My heart with woe untold, A bat that flits about me in the dark, A cloud that hides the sun ! And joy and beauty flee away from me, Light, scarce awakened by the morning, wanes, Love's daring dreams all flee, The blissful ecstasy of kisses sweet And naught but pain remains ! 16 But it is pain that never will incline As Long Its head, but, rising, points to God on high "and** That power, that strength divine, Beyond That kept Prometheus chained upon his rock And would not let him die. And o'er the pallid listening crowd intent My tragic song soareth in broken flight As a great eagle, spent, Wounded to death, descendeth on the ice Of yonder glacier's height." IN THE BREACH TRAGIC, severe, in serried ranks they pass, Bareheaded, silently. And from the coffin with sad dignity Float down the folds of the black pall. Alas ! A gloomy pain is set on every brow, They solemnly go by. In vain smiles over them the cloudless sky ; Their tears roll down, they do not heed them His mutilated body lies inside Those boards, disfigured, marred. From the high roof he fell and struck the hard Stone flagging in the street below, and died. 2 17 In the Strong, handsome as a Titan, e'er he fell, Breach And fyj o f hope and life, He had been working there. His stricken wife Is wrung with grief, no human speech can tell. To realms of sleep's forgetfulness, alas ! They carry him and sigh. Beneath the finger stern of God on high Tragic, severe, in serried ranks they pass And think. Oh fate ! Like him they also might, Perhaps soon, have to go. A workman is a soldier ; well they know, Their breasts are heaving, and their cheeks grow white. Herculean and courageous they to-day Have for their dreams an aim : A family, a hut, some darling name, Who knows ? they too at work to-morrow may Fall from a roof, be crushed beneath a beam, Meet death in other guise. None listens to the cry of him who dies, None understands the sacrifice supreme, Ever the living take the vacant place : New hope from mourning grows : A never-ending army onward goes, O'er the defeated on at heedless pace. 18 As children, gayly clamouring, upon In the The silent graves will play, Breach Unmindful eager masses march away, On o'er the fallen victims ever on. GOOD-MORROW, MISERY To SOFIA Bisr ALBINI WHO knocks ? Who is out there ? Good-morrow, Misery, advance, come in. Thou art cold as death, come in, my dwelling share. Secure, defiant, I await thee, thin, Drear, toothless ghost, thou dost not frighten me, Behold ! I laugh at thee. Does that suffice thee ? Pray, Come in, accursed spectre, come and rest, Take all my hope away, Wrench it with thy sharp nails from out my breast And with thy gloomy pinions overspread My dying mother's bed. Thy wrath is kindled ? Oh, What matters it ? For mine are youth and life ! Thou shalt not see me, no ! Not see me fainting in this fatal strife. O'er fallen ruins, over grief and tears Triumph my twenty years. 19 Good- Thou canst not evermore ^ rest fr m mv ^ eart ^ at glowing force divine, Upward I ever soar, Thou canst not stop that buoyant flight of mine. Thy sting is impotent. Grim goddess, nay, I follow my own way. Down in the world there, see ! What roses and what sunlight far and nigh, List to the jubilee, The trills of larks up in the radiant sky : The air with faith and with ideals rings And fluttering of wings ! Megeara wan and old, Hiding thyself in a sinister shroud, Within my veins, behold, There floweth blood that glows with ardour proud, Anxiety, tears, anger, I defy And ever onward fly. For labour's dignity That nobly governs all, I long ; my heart Craves dreams and harmony, It craves the everlasting youth of art, The laughing azure deep, the balm of flowers, Stars, kisses, blissful hours. Thou passest on, O black Enchantress, as a shadow o'er the light, Resplendent hope comes back, 20 All, all revives, the violets smile bright : Good- And I from out thy meshes boldly spring Life's hymn of praise to sing ! THE OLD MAN IN CHURCH THOU art alone here. Pray, O pale old man. What sad thought guided thee ? What made thee turn this way ? The God, who sent thee joy and sorrow, here Within the dark church speaks to thee maybe, That mighty Lord that filleth thee with fear ? There pass before thy mind The memories of years that long have fled Forever, and behind Thee lies of thy past life the Calvary ; The life of serf, of beggar, thou hast led, So full of darkness, suffering, misery. Here in the silence pray. All unawares with passing years depart The hopes of youth's brief day; Its wishes, its illusions, all grow dim, Yet once there rang within thy trusting heart A first love's glorious all-inspiring hymn. The Old Yea, for that enemy dread, That cruel fete that bent beneath its yoke Thy proud, thy lofty head, For thy sad youth, marred by contempt and strife, Nay, for the very rags of thy poor cloak, She loved thee, and she followed thee through life. Fair-haired and slender she ; Shining from out her eyes' sweet dignity, Her pure soul you could see. She shared with thee the burden of distress, She shared the world's disdainful charity, And poverty's disgrace and loneliness. And then she went to sleep, Thy tender kiss closing her lovely eyes. Ah, tell me, to what deep Abyss did she retreat, or far above Did she conceal herself in the blue skies, That gold-haired fay, thy faithful gipsy love ? Thou art alone here. Pray, Old tottering man. What sad thought guided thee ? What made thee turn this way ? That mighty Lord that guards thee all the while Here in the dark church speaks to thee maybe, Who in misfortune yet gave thee her smile. 22 All fades, the tempest wanes, The Old The evening of thy life draws near its verge, Naught here to thee remains. O'er thee, a serf, a beggar, harsh and rough Has been of adverse fate the cruel scourge But thou hast been beloved ! That is enough. THE SONG QF THE PICKAXE A RUSTIC sword that cleaves the soil am I, I am force, and yet I grope In ignorance ; I thrill with hunger' s cry ; I am misery and hope. I know the red-hot scourge of noontide's glow, The thunder's deafening crash, The hurricane's tremendous clouds I know From which the lightnings flash. I know the fertile odours sweet that May In wild triumphant mirth, With royal flowers, insects and kisses gay Calls forth from out the earth. Ever more sharp, more smooth and bright I grow With every hour of toil, As, constant, strong, submissive, on I go Cleaving the hardened soil. 23 The Song Into the lonely farmhouse gray and old, Pichaxe In d[n & huts and low ' Where through the broken casement bitter cold The winds of winter blow, Where idleness, by smouldering brand that sighs, Squats mute ; where, famished, thin, Disease is shivering, wan, with hollow eyes, And yellow, withered skin, I enter in and watch as I remain In a lone corner's gloom, While dreadful dark sinks on the swampy plain And fills the smoky room. While fever grim the women's bodies shakes, Working its cruel blight, Naught but the peasants' heavy breathing breaks The silence of the night. I watch and in me springs a hot desire : Of a new dawn I dream, When, golden in the sun, shining like fire, An oriflamme supreme, Brandished by an inspired rustic crowd With strong almighty hand, I shall be raised with strength and life endowed, Above the fertile land, 24 But free my blade shall be from bloody stain, The Song And banners white shall fly, p!ckaxe The dragon dread of hatred shall be slain, In dust downtrodden lie, And from the earth that is with fragrance fraught, That teems with joyous love, Cleared from old wars that hostile forces wrought By ardour from above, A mighty tumult hoarse of human cries To the blue sky o'erhead, Mingled with sobs, yet as a hymn, shall rise : " Peace ! Labour ! Bread ! " THE DEFEATED YEA, there are hundreds, thousands, millions more, Unending hosts there are. The serried ranks are muttering like the roar Of thunder from afar. And they advance, chilled by the icy air, With even step and slow. They 're clad in sackcloth and their heads are bare, Their eyes in fever glow. 25 All, all united, as if seeking me Defeated Gray formS} by su fF er j ng bowed, Of surging waves a turbid, troubled sea, Of faces wan a crowd, Covering, imprisoning me, they press around, Their hoarse breath fills my ear, Their long-drawn sobs and sighs oh, woful sound Their blasphemies I hear. " We come from houses where no fire glows, From beds where rest is not, Where, broken, tamed, the body slowly grows Accustomed to its lot. We come from caves and dens, from chambers low, From many a dark retreat, Shadows of peril and of pain we throw Wherever tread our feet. And we sought faith that to ideals cleaves, Alas ! we were betrayed ; And we sought love that hopes and that believes, Alas ! we were betrayed. 26 And work we sought that gives new life and The strength, De f eated Only repelled to be. Where then is hope ? Oh mercy ! Where is strength ? The world's defeated, we ! In the great flood of sunshine's golden light All round us and above Bursts forth upon the air in joyous flight A hymn of work and love : An iron snake the steam-train thundering winds Through towering mountain-wall, And industry is summoning arms and minds With warlike trumpet-call. A thousand mouths each other seek, enticed By love's intent desire ; A thousand generous lives are sacrificed In glowing furnace-fire. And we are useless ! Who has thrust us, who On this stepmother earth ? Who has denied us every wish we knew, Yea, from our very birth ? What unknown power with hostile hand does reign And will not let us free ? Why does blind fate cry out to us : In vain ? The world's defeated, we ! " 27 THE HAND IN THE WHEELWORK THE belts are whirling, the machines are screaming, And those at work, happy, untiring, strong, Join in a joyous song. But suddenly a piercing shriek arises, As a wild animal, when wounded sore, Utters a frantic roar. The wheelwork's gnashing teeth are sharp and cutting, Poor mutilated fair-haired woman ! and, O God a severed hand ! The belts are whirling, the machines are screaming ; Alas ! no longer now the working throng Their voices raise in song. Mingled with drops of sweat their tears are falling, The motor in the distance sighs and wails, And telleth woful tales. Before their tear-dimmed eyes still reappearing The mutilated fair-haired woman, and, O God that severed hand ! 28 LOUD GROANS THE MACHINE LOUD groans the machine. Its tempestuous roar Goes up as an eagle to fly, On pinions of sound, strong and solemn, to soar To the great golden clouds in the sky. Loud groans the machine. 'Tis the heart-rend- ing cry Of him who gave up his last breath 'Mid the merciless teeth of the wheelwork to die, Surrendering his life unto death. O'er screws and o'er beltings, o'er steel and o'er fire, A ruler with power unbound, The huge snorting monster with dread doth inspire As it revels in clamouring sound. It laughs as with madness, it bellows and cries, Then, slackening, it comes to a stay ; Again it renews the assault, to the skies Ascends the prophetic Huzza. "Ye champions of labour to come, hear the call, Come forth to take part in the strife : With axe, spade, and saw, with the hatchet, come all To the grand competition of life. 29 Loud The kiss of the sun on your faces serene, GV