ПОСЛЕ ПОХОРОН.
АВТОР: ОЛИВЕР УЭНДЕЛЛ ХОЛМС
Fallen with autumns falling leaf,
Ere yet his summers noon was past,
Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,—
What words can match a woe so vast?
And whose the chartered claim to speak
The sacred grief where all have part,
When sorrow saddens every cheek,
And broods in every aching heart?
Yet nature prompts the burning phrase
That thrills the hushed and shrouded hall,
The loud lament, the sorrowing praise,
The silent tear that love lets fall.
In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme,
Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,—
The singers of the new born time,
And trembling age with outworn lyre.
No room for pride, no place for blame—
We fling our blossoms on the grave,
Pale, scentless, faded,—all we claim,
This only,—what we had we gave.
Ah, could the grief of all who mourn
Blend in one voice its bitter cry,
The wail to heaven's high arches borne
Would echo through the caverned sky.
II.
O happiest land whose peaceful choice
Fills with a breath its empty throne!
God, speaking through thy people's voice,
Has made that voice for once his own.
No angry passion shakes the State
Whose weary servant seeks for rest,—
And who could fear that scowling hate
Would strike at that unguarded breast?
He stands, unconscious of his doom,
In manly strength, erect, serene,—
Around him summer spreads her bloom:
He falls,—what horror clothes the scene!
How swift the sudden flash of woe
Where all was bright as childhood's dream!
As if from heaven's ethereal bow
Had leaped the lightning's arrowy gleam.
Blot the foul deed from history's page,—
Let not the all-betraying sun
Blush for the day that stains an age
When murder's blackest wreath was won.
III.
Pale on his couch the sufferer lies,
The weary battle-ground of pain;
Love tends his pillow, science tries
Her every art, alas! in vain.
The strife endures how long! how long!
Life, death, seem balanced in the scale;
While round his bed a viewless throng
Awaits each morrow's changing tale.
In realms the desert ocean parts,
What myriads watch with tear filled eyes,
His pulse beats echoing in their hearts,
His breathings counted with their sighs!
Slowly the stories of life are spent,
Yet hope still battles with despair,—
Will heaven not yield when knees are bent?
Answer, O Thou that hearest prayer!
But silent is the brazen sky,—
On sweeps the meteor's threatening train,—
Unswerving Nature's mute reply
Bound in her adamantine chain.
Not ours the verdict to decide
Whom death shall claim or skill shall save:
The hero's life though Heaven denied,
It gave our land a martyr's grave.
Nor count the teaching vainly sent
How human hearts their griefs may share,—
The lesson woman's love has lent
What hope may do, what faith can bear!
Farewell! the leaf-strewn earth enfolds
Our stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears,
And autumn's golden sun beholds
A nation bowed, a world in tears.
Boston Globe.
СОНЕТ — ДЖЕЙМС А. ГАРФИЛД.
АВТОР: ПРЕПОДОБНЫЙ Г. БЕРНАРД КАРПЕНТЕР
Lo! as a pure white statue wrought with care
By some strong hand, which moulds from Life and Death
Beauty more beautiful than blood or breath,
And straight 'tis veiled, and, whilst all men repair
To see this wonder in the workshops there!
Behold it gleams unveiled to curious eye
Far-seen, high-placed in Art's pale gallery,
Where all stand mute before a work so fair:
So he, our man of men, in vision stands,
With Pain and Patience crowned imperial,
Death's veil has dropped, far from this house of woe
He hears one love chant out of many lands,
Whilst from his mystic noon-height he lets fall
His shadow o'er these hearts that bleed below.
26 сентября 1881 г. The Independent.
ПОЛНОЧЬ.
19 сентября 1881 г.
АВТОР: ДЖОН БОЙЛ О'РЕЙЛИ.
Once in a lifetime we may see the veil
Tremble and lift, that hides symbolic things:
The spirit's vision, when the senses fail,
Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook brings.
Deep in the midst of turmoil it may be,—
A crowded street, a forum, or a field,—
The soul inverts the telescope, to see
To-day's event in future years revealed.
Back from the present, let us look at Rome;
Now see what Cato meant, what Brutus said.
Hark! the Athenians welcome Cimon home!
How clear they are, those glimpses of the dead!
But we hard toilers, we who plan and weave
Through common days the web of common life,
What word, alas! shall teach us to receive
The mystic meaning of our peace and strife?
Whence comes our symbol? Surely God must speak;
No less than he can make us heed or pause:
Self-seekers we, too busy or too weak
To search beyond our daily lives and laws.
'Gainst things occult our earth-turned eyes rebel;
No sound of destiny can reach our ears;
We have no time for dreaming—Hark! a knell,—
A knell at midnight! All the nation hears!
A second grievous throb! The dreamers wake;
The merchant's soul forgets his goods and ships;
The humble workmen from their slumbers break;
The women raise their eyes with quivering lips;
The miner rests upon his pick to hear;
The printer's type stops midway from the case;
The solemn sound has reached the roisterer's ear,
And brought the shame and sorrow to his face.
Again it booms! Oh, mystic veil, upraise!—
Behold, 'tis lifted! On the darkness drawn,
A picture, lined with light! The people's gaze,
From sea to sea, beholds it till the dawn:
A death-bed scene—a sinking sufferer lies,
Their chosen ruler, crowned with love and pride;
Around, his counsellors, with streaming eyes;
His wife, heart-broken, kneeling by his side:
Death's shadow holds her, it will pass too soon;
She weeps in silence—bitterest of tears;
He wanders softly—Nature's kindest boon,
And as he whispers all the country hears.
For him the pain is past, the struggle ends:
His cares and honors fade: his younger life
In peaceful Mentor comes, with dear old friends;
His mother's arms take home his sweet young wife;
He stands among the students, tall and strong,
And teaches truths republican and grand:
He moves—ah, pitiful!—he sweeps along,
O'er fields of carnage leading his command!
He speaks to crowded faces; round him surge
Thousands and millions of excited men:
He hears them cheer, sees some great light emerge,
Is borne as on a tempest: then—ah, then!
The fancies fade, the fever's work is past;
A moment's pang—then recollections thrill:
He feels the faithful lips that kiss their last,
His heart beats once in answer, and is still!
The curtain falls; but hushed, as if afraid,
The people wait, tear-stained, with heaving breast;
'Twill rise again, they know, when he is laid
With Freedom, in the Capitol, at rest.
Once more they see him, in his coffin there,
As Lincoln lay in blood-stained martyr sleep;
The stars and stripes across his honored bier,
While Freedom and Columbia o'er him weep.
Boston Globe.
РАДУЙТЕСЬ.
АВТОР: ХОАКИН МИЛЛЕР.
«Вынесите меня из битвы, ибо, увы! я тяжело ранен».
I.
From out my deep, wide-bosomed West,
Where unnamed heroes hew the way
For worlds to follow, with stern zest,—
Where gnarled old maples make array,
Deep-scarred from red men gone to rest,—
Where pipes the quail, where squirrels play
Through tossing trees, with nuts for toy,—
A boy steps forth, clear-eyed and tall,
A bashful boy, a soulful boy,
Yet comely as the sons of Saul,—
A boy, all friendless, poor, unknown,
Yet heir-apparent to a throne.
II.
Lo! Freedom's bleeding sacrifice!
So like some tall oak tempest-blown
Beside the storied stream he lies
Now at the last, pale-browed and prone.
A nation kneels with streaming eyes,
A nation supplicates the throne,
A nation holds him by the hand,
A nation sobs aloud at this:
The only dry eyes in the land
Now at the last, I think, are his.
Why, we should pray, God knoweth best,
That this grand, patient soul should rest.
III.
The world is round. The wheel has run
Full circle. Now behold a grave
Beneath the old loved trees is done.
The druid oaks lift up, and wave
A solemn welcome back. The brave
Old maples murmur, every one,
"Receive him, Earth!" In centre land,
As in the centre of each heart,
As in the hollow of God's hand,
The coffin sinks. And with it part
All party hates! Now, not in vain
He bore his peril and hard pain.
IV.
Therefore, I say, rejoice! I say,
The lesson of his life was much,—
This boy that won, as in a day,
The world's heart utterly; a touch
Of tenderness and tears; the page
Of history grows rich from such;
His name the nation's heritage,—
But oh! as some sweet angel's voice
Spake this brave death that touched us all,
Therefore, I say, Rejoice! rejoice!
Run high the flags! Put by the pall!
Lo! all is for the best for all!
Boston Globe.
Д. А. Г.
HUMANITAS REGNANS.
АВТОР: М. Дж. СЭВИДЖ.
With finger on lip, and breath bated
With an eager and sad desire,
The world stood hushed, as it waited
For the click of the fateful wire,—
"Better:" and civilization
Breathed freer and hoped again;
"Worse:" and through every nation
Went throbbing a thrill of pain.
A cry at midnight! and listening—
"Dead!" tolled out the bells of despair;
And millions of eyelids were glistening
As sobbed the sad tones on the air.
But who is he toward whom all eyes are turning.
And who is he for whom all hearts are yearning?
What is the threat at which earth holds its breath
While one lone man a duel fights with death?
No thrones are hanging in suspense;
No kingdoms totter to their fall.
Peace, with her gentle influence,
Is hovering over all.
'Tis just one man at Elberon,
Who waiteth day by day,
Whose patience all our hearts hath won
As ebbs his life away.
His birthday waked no cannon-boom;
No purple round him hung;
A backwoods cabin gave him room;
And storms his welcome sung.
He seized the sceptre of that king
Who treads a freehold sod;
He wore upon his brow that ring
That crowns a son of God.
By his own might he built a throne,
With no unhuman arts,
And by his manhood reigned alone
O'er fifty millions hearts.
Thus is humanity's long dream,
Its highest, holiest hope begun
To harden into fact, and gleam
A city 'neath the sun—
A city, not like that which came
In old-time vision from the skies;
But wrought by man through blood and flame,
From solid earth to rise,—
Man's city; the ideal reign
Where every human right hath place;
Where blood, nor birth, nor priest again
Shall bind the weary race,—
In which no king but man shall be.
'Twas this that thrilled with loving pain
The heart of all the earth, as he
Died by the sobbing main.
For, mightiest ruler of the earth,
He was the mightiest, not because
Of priestly touch or blood, or birth.
But by a people's laws.
O Garfield! brave and patient soul!
Long as the tireless tides shall roll
About the Long Branch beaches, where
Thy life went out upon the air,
So long thy land, from sea to sea,
Will hold thy manhood's legacy.
There were two parties: there were those,
In thine own party, called thy foes;
There was a North; there was a South,
Ere blazed the assassin's pistol-mouth.
But lo! thy bed became a throne:
And as the hours went by, at length
The weakness of thine arm alone
Grew mightier than thy strongest strength.
No petulant murmur; no vexed cry
Of balked ambitions; but a high,
Grand patience! And thy whisper blent
In one heart all the continent.
To-day there are no factions left,
But one America bereft.
O Garfield! fortunate in death wast thou,
Though at the opening of a grand career!
Thou wast a meteor flashing on the brow
Of skies political, where oft appear,
And disappear, so many stars of promise. Then,
While all men watched thy high course, wondering
If them wouldst upward sweep, or fell again,
Thee from thine orbit mad hands thought to fling;
And lo! the meteor, with its fitful light,
All on a sudden stood, and was a star,—
A radiance fixed, to glorify the night
There where the world's proud constellations are.
Boston Globe.
Д. А. Г.
АВТОР: ДЖУЛИЯ УОРД ХАУ.
Our sorrow sends its shadow round the earth.
So brave, so true! A hero from his birth!
The plumes of Empire moult, in mourning draped,
The lightning's message by our tears is shaped.
Life's vanities that blossom for an hour
Heap on his funeral car their fleeting flower.
Commerce forsakes her temples, blind and dim,
And pours her tardy gold, to homage him.
The notes of grief to age familiar grow
Before the sad privations all must know;
But the majestic cadence which we hear
To-day, is new in either hemisphere.
What crown is this, high hung and hard to reach,
Whose glory so outshines our laboring speech?
The crown of Honor, pure and unbetrayed;
He wins the spurs who bears the knightly aid.
While royal babes incipient empire hold,
And, for bare promise, grasp the sceptre's gold,
This man such service to his age did bring
That they who knew him servant hailed him king.
In poverty his infant couch was spread;
His tender hands soon wrought for daily bread;
But from the cradle's bound his willing feet
The errand of the moment went to meet.
When learning's page unfolded to his view,
The quick disciple straight a teacher grew;
And, when the fight of freedom stirred the land,
Armed was his heart and resolute his hand.
Wise in the council, stalwart in the field!
Such rank supreme a workman's hut may yield.
His onward steps like measured marbles show,
Climbing the height where God's great flame doth glow.
Ah! Rose of joy, that hid'st a thorn so sharp!
Ah! Golden woof, that meet'st a severed warp!
Ah! Solemn comfort, that the stars rain down!
The hero's garland his, the martyr's crown!
Ньюпорт, 25 сентября 1881 г. Boston Globe.
НАКОНЕЦ ДОМА.
АВТОР: РОУЗ ТЕРРИ КУК.
So long he prayed to come,
Lingered so long away;
Now, with the muffled beat of drum
And solemn dirges, at last he hath come,
Come home to stay.
Yes, he has come to stay!
The homesick heart is still,
The hurried pulse and the aching breast
Now in the lap of home shall rest;
He has his will.
No more of heat or chill,
No frost or evil blight,
The work of living a life is done,
The long fight over, the victory won,
He sleeps to-night.
Silent is home's delight,
Peaceful its tranquil cheer;
Here is the cool, unbroken calm,
The soft wind's breath and the fir-tree's balm,
All, all are here.
He and the dying year
Lie in their slumber deep.
Safe in the heart of home at last,
Anxious slumber nor grievous past
Shall stir his sleep.
Woe for us to keep,
For him a joy to last!
Woe for the land in years to come,
Wail, O trumpet! and mutter, drum!
The dead comes home at last!
Уинстед, Коннектикут.
The Independent.
ОДА ОБ УБИЙСТВЕ.
[Приз, предложенный лондонским еженедельником за лучшее стихотворение о покушении на убийство президента Гарфилда, был присужден автору следующего.]
Veil now, O Liberty! thy blushing face,
At the fell deed that thrills a startled world;
While fair Columbia weeps in dire disgrace,
And bows in sorrow o'er the banner furled.
No graceless tyrant falls by vengeance here,
'Neath the wild justice of a secret knife;
No red Ambition ends its grim career,
And expiates its horrors with its life.
Not here does rash Revenge misguided burn,
To free a nation with the assassin's dart;
Or roused Despair in angry madness turn,
And tear its freedom from a despot's heart.
But where blest Liberty so widely reigns,
And Peace and Plenty mark a smiling land,
Here the mad wretch its fair white record stains,
And blurs its beauties with a "bloody hand."
Here the elect of millions, and the pride
Of those who own his mild and peaceful rule,—
Here virtue sinks and yields the crimson tide,
Beneath the vile unreason of a fool!
ОСИРОТЕВШИЙ.
АВТОР: КЕЙТ ТАННАТТ ВУДС.
Over the land the tidings sped,
"The leader has fallen, our chief is dead."
And over the land a cry of pain
Began and ended with Garfield's name.
"He is dead," said each, with tearful eye:
"So strong, so true, why must he die?"
And the children paused that autumn day
To talk of the good man passed away.
Over the land when the tidings came,
Even the babies lisped his name;
And youthful eyes grew sad that day
For the fatherless children far away.
Fatherless,—word with a life of pain;
Fatherless,—never complete again;
Always to miss, and never to know,
The joy of his greeting,—his love below.
Missing the cheerful smile each day,
Missing his care in studies or play,
Missing each hour, each day, each year,
The sound of a voice so tender and dear.
Fatherless! only the children can tell
The sound of that dreary funeral knell;
For only they, in all coming years,
Find the roses of youth bedewed with tears.
Over the land from shore to shore,
The prayer of the children is echoed o'er,—
"God of the fatherless, help we pray,
The wards of our mourning nation to-day."
Boston Globe.
Сейлем, 24 сентября 1881 г.
ГЛАВА XLVIII.
Валюта. — Линкольн. — Формы правления. — Призыв. — Рабство. — Человеческий прогресс. — Независимость. — Республиканство и демократия. — Мятеж. — Протекционизм и свободная торговля. — Радикализм. — Образование. — Реконструкция. — Уильям Г. Сьюард. — Четырнадцатая поправка. — Классические исследования. — История. — Право. — Свобода. — Статистическая наука. — Бедность. — Рост. — Этика. — Пункт о зарплате. — Железнодорожная проблема. — Церковь и государство. — Мужество. — Искусство. — Литература. — Характер. — Общественное мнение. — Доход. — Государственное управление. — Наука. — Истина. — Элементы успеха. — Избирательное право. — Густав Шлейхер. — Обращение к молодым людям. — Союз. — Инаугурационная речь.
[Речь о валюте. — 46-й Конгресс.]
Никто не может сомневаться в том, что в последние годы, и особенно в последние месяцы, ведущие мыслители цивилизованного мира встревожились отношением двух драгоценных металлов друг к другу; и многие ведущие мыслители приходят к ясному мнению, что посредством какого-то мудрого, разумного соглашения оба драгоценных металла должны быть сохранены в качестве валюты мира. И это мнение очень быстро завоевывало почву в течение последних шести месяцев до такой степени, что Англия, которая более полувека твердо придерживалась единого золотого стандарта, теперь серьезно размышляет о том, как она может запрячь оба этих металла в денежную колесницу мира. И все же за пределами этой столицы я не знаю на сегодняшний день ни одного великого и признанного сторонника биметаллической денежной системы, который считал бы разумным или безопасным для какой-либо нации значительно увеличивать стандарт чеканки серебра в настоящее время сверх пределов, установленных существующими законами... И все же мы, которые за последние два года отчеканили гораздо больше серебряных долларов, чем когда-либо прежде с момента основания правительства; в десять раз больше, чем мы отчеканили за полвека нашей национальной жизни; сегодня игнорируем и бросаем вызов просвещенному всеобщему мнению биметаллизма и говорим, что Соединенные Штаты, в одиночку и самостоятельно, могут выйти на поле и решить эту могучую проблему. Мы оправдываем старую пословицу, что «дураки лезут туда, куда ангелы боятся ступить». Это чистое безумие, господин спикер. Я однажды видел собаку на большой стоге сена, который был смыт в дикий переполненный поток реки, с его загоном и фундаментом, все еще держащимися вместе, но готовыми к разрушению. Некоторое время животное казалось совершенно счастливым. Его стог сена был там, и загон вокруг него, и он, казалось, думал, что мир ярок, а его счастье обеспечено, в то время как солнечный свет мягко падал на его голову и сено. Но постепенно он начал обнаруживать, что дом, сарай и их окружение — не все на месте, как они были, когда он заснул накануне вечером; и он начал видеть, что не может командовать всей перспективой и мирно доминировать над сценой, как он делал это раньше.