Bars and Shadows | Page 5

not a dangerous man--except as his ideas are dangerous to
the existing order of society. His presence in the penitentiary, under a
twenty year sentence, indicates how dangerous those ideas are
considered by the masters of American public life. Rich those masters

are--fabulously rich; and strong they may be, yet so insecure do they
feel themselves that they are constrained to hold in prison this dreamer
and singer of the new social order.
Chaplin, in prison, like Debs in prison, is doing his work. He is
resisting the encroachments of those jail demons--hate, bitterness,
revenge; he is holding his mind on the goal--a newer, better social order;
he is keeping his vision of nature, of humanity, of
brotherhood, of
courage, of love, of beauty,--clear and bright. Chaplin, the man, is in
jail; but Chaplin the poet and singer is roaming wherever books go;
wherever papers are read, and wherever comrades repeat verses to one
another in the flickering light of the evening fire.
SCOTT NEARING.
MOURN NOT THE DEAD
Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie--
Dust unto dust--
The
calm, sweet earth that mothers all who die
As all men must;
Mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell--
Too strong to
strive--
Within each steel-bound coffin of a cell,
Buried alive;
But rather mourn the apathetic throng--
The cowed and the meek--

Who see the world's great anguish and its wrong
And dare not speak!
TAPS
The day is ended! Ghostly shadows creep
Along each dim-lit wall
and corridor.
The bugle sounds as from some faery shore
Silvered
with sadness, somnolent and deep.
Darkness and bars . . . God! shall
we curse or weep?
Somewhere a pipe is tapped upon the floor;
A
guard slams shut the heavy iron door;
The day is ended--go to
sleep--to sleep.
Three times it blows--weird lullaby of doom--
And then to dream

while fecund Night gives birth
To other days like this day that is
done. .
But Morning . . . does it live beyond the gloom--
This deep
black pall that hangs above the earth--
He fears the dark who dares to
doubt the sun!
NIGHT IN THE CELL HOUSE
Tier over tier they rise to dizzy height--
The cells of men who know
the world no more.
Silence intense from ceiling to the floor;
While
through the window gleams a lone blue light
Which stabs the dark
immensity of night.
Felt shod and ghostly like a shade of yore,
The
guard comes shuffling down the corridor;
His key-ring jingles . . . and
he glides from sight.
Oh, to forget the prison and its scars,
And face the breeze where
ocean meets the land;
To watch the foam-crests dance with silver
stars,
While long green waves come tumbling on the sand . . .
My
brow is hot against the icy bars;
There is the smell of iron on my
hand.
PRISON SHADOWS
Like grey-winged phantoms out of sullen skies
They flood our cells
and seem to fashion there
I know not what dim landscapes of despair;

All day we feel them lurking in our eyes.
At night they fall like
crosses, sombre-wise,
Upon the shameful uniforms we wear,
Upon
the brow, the face, the hand, the hair;
And on each heart their shadow
always lies.
O heart of mine, why throb with futile rage
And beat and beat against
these hopeless bars?
For, though you break in life's last deadly swoon,

You cannot pierce beyond this iron cage
To see the pulsing
splendor of the stars
Or feel the blue-green magic of the moon!
PRISON REVEILLE

Out through the iron doorway, bolted strong,
I see the night guard's
shadow on the wall.
The bugle sounds its thin, white silver call,

Awake! awake! O world-forgotten throng!
And then the sudden
clanging of the gong,
And . . . silence . . . aching silence . . . over all;

While through the windows, steel-barred, stern and tall,
Pale
daylight greets us like a plaintive song.
Somewhere the dawn breaks laughing o'er the sea
To splash with
gold the cities' domes and towers,
And countless men seek visions
wide and free,
In that alluring world that is not ours;
But no one
there could prize as much as we
The open road, the smell of grass and
flowers.
PRISON NOCTURNE
Outside the storm is swishing to and fro;
The wet wind hums its
colorless refrain;
Against the walls and dripping bars, the rain
Beats
with a rhythm like a song of woe;
Dimmed by the lightning's
ever-fitful glow
The purple arc-lamps blur each streaming pane;

The thunder rumbles at the distant plain,
The cells are hushed and
silent, row on row.
Fall, fruitful drops, upon the parching earth,
Fall, and revive the
living sap of spring;
Blossom the fields with wonder once again!

And, in all hearts, awaken to new birth
Those visions and endeavors
that will bring
A fresh, sweet morning to the world of men!
THE WARRIOR WIND
Once more the wind leaps from the sullen land
With his old battle-cry.

A tree bends darkly where the wall looms high;
Its tortured
branches, like a grisly hand,
Clutch at the sky.
Grey towers rise from gloom and underneath--
Black-barred and
strong--
The snarling