Rhymes of a Rolling Stone | Page 4

shall sing to me
Its song of liberty;
And every morn
shall bring to me
Its mandate to be free.
In every throbbing vein of
me
I'll feel the vast Earth-call;
O body, heart and brain of me

Praise Him who made it all!
The Soldier of Fortune
"Deny your God!" they ringed me with their spears;
Blood-crazed
were they, and reeking from the strife;
Hell-hot their hate, and
venom-fanged their sneers,
And one man spat on me and nursed a
knife.
And there was I, sore wounded and alone,
I, the last living of
my slaughtered band.
Oh sinister the sky, and cold as stone!
In one
red laugh of horror reeled the land.
And dazed and desperate I faced
their spears,
And like a flame out-leaped that naked knife,
And like
a serpent stung their bitter jeers:
"Deny your God, and we will give
you life."
Deny my God! Oh life was very sweet!
And it is hard in youth and
hope to die;
And there my comrades dear lay at my feet,
And in that
blear of blood soon must I lie.
And yet . . . I almost laughed -- it
seemed so odd,
For long and long had I not vainly tried
To reason
out and body forth my God,
And prayed for light, and doubted -- and
DENIED:
Denied the Being I could not conceive,
Denied a
life-to-be beyond the grave. . . .
And now they ask me, who do not
believe,
Just to deny, to voice my doubt, to save
This life of mine
that sings so in the sun,

The bloom of youth yet red upon my cheek,

My only life! -- O fools! 'tis easy done,
I will deny . . . and yet I do
not speak.

"Deny your God!" their spears are all agleam,
And I can see their
eyes with blood-lust shine;
Their snarling voices shrill into a scream,

And, mad to slay, they quiver for the sign.
Deny my God! yes, I
could do it well;
Yet if I did, what of my race, my name?
How they
would spit on me, these dogs of hell!
Spurn me, and put on me the
brand of shame.
A white man's honour! what of that, I say?
Shall
these black curs cry "Coward" in my face?
They who would perish
for their gods of clay --
Shall I defile my country and my race?
My
country! what's my country to me now?
Soldier of Fortune, free and
far I roam;
All men are brothers in my heart, I vow;
The wide and
wondrous world is all my home.
My country! reverent of her splendid
Dead,
Her heroes proud, her martyrs pierced with pain:
For me her
puissant blood was vainly shed;
For me her drums of battle beat in
vain,
And free I fare, half-heedless of her fate:
No faith, no flag I
owe -- then why not seek
This last loop-hole of life? Why hesitate?

I will deny . . . and yet I do not speak.
"Deny your God!" their spears are poised on high,
And tense and
terrible they wait the word;
And dark and darker glooms the dreary
sky,
And in that hush of horror no thing stirred.
Then, through the
ringing terror and sheer hate
Leaped there a vision to me -- Oh, how
far!
A face, Her face . . . through all my stormy fate
A joy, a
strength, a glory and a star.
Beneath the pines, where lonely
camp-fires gleam,
In seas forlorn, amid the deserts drear,
How I had
gladdened to that face of dream!
And never, never had it seemed so
dear.
O silken hair that veils the sunny brow!
O eyes of grey, so
tender and so true!
O lips of smiling sweetness! must I now
For
ever and for ever go from you?

Ah, yes, I must . . . for if I do this
thing,
How can I look into your face again?
Knowing you think me
more than half a king,
I with my craven heart, my honour slain.
No! no! my mind's made up. I gaze above,
Into that sky insensate as a
stone;
Not for my creed, my country, but my Love
Will I stand up

and meet my death alone.
Then though it be to utter dark I sink,
The
God that dwells in me is not denied;
"Best" triumphs over "Beast", --
and so I think
Humanity itself is glorified. . . .
"And now, my butchers, I embrace my fate.
Come! let my heart's
blood slake the thirsty sod.
Curst be the life you offer! Glut your hate!

Strike! Strike, you dogs! I'll NOT deny my God."
I saw the spears that seemed a-leap to slay,
All quiver earthward at
the headman's nod;
And in a daze of dream I heard him say:
"Go,
set him free who serves so well his God!"
The Gramaphone at Fond-Du-Lac
Now Eddie Malone got a swell grammyfone to draw all the trade to his
store; An' sez he: "Come along for a season of song,
which the like ye
had niver before."
Then Dogrib, an' Slave, an' Yellow-knife brave, an'
Cree in his dinky canoe, Confluated near, to see an' to hear Ed's
grammyfone make its dayboo.
Then Ed turned the crank, an' there