No Coward Soul Is Mine
No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven's glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear
O God within my breast
Almighty ever-present Deity
Life, that in me hast rest
As I Undying Life, have power in Thee
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality
With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears
Though Earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee
There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render voidPage number 244-245 missing
I've often witnessed wise men fear
To meet distress which they foresaw;
And seeming cowards nobly bear*
A doom that thrilled the brave with awe.
Strange proofs I've seen, how hearts could hide
Their secret with a life-long pride,
And then reveal it as they died—
Strange courage, and strange weakness too,
In that last hour when most are true,
And timid natures strangely nerved
To deeds from which the desperate swerved.
These I may tell; but, leave them now:
Go with me where my thoughts would go;
Now all to-day and all last night
I've had one scene before my sight—
Wood-shadowed dales, a harvest moon
Unclouded in its glorious noon;
A solemn landscape wide and still;
A red fire on a distant hill—
A line of fires, and deep below
Another dusker, drearier glow—
Charred beams, and lime, and blackened stones
Self-piled in cairns o'er burning bones,
And lurid flames that licked the wood,
Then quenched their glare in pools of blood.
But yester-eve—No! never care;
Let street and suburb smoulder there—
Smoke-hidden in the winding glen
They lay too far to vex my ken.
Four score shot down—all veterans strong;
One prisoner spared—their leader—young,
And he within his house was laid
Wounded and weak and nearly dead.
We gave him life against his will,
For he entreated us to kill—
But statue-like we saw his tears—
And harshly1 fell our captain's sneers!*
“Now, heaven forbid!” with scorn he said,
“That noble gore our hands should shed
Like common blood—retain thy breath,
Or scheme if thou canst purchase death.
When men are poor we sometimes hear
And pitying grant that dastard prayer;
When men are rich we make them buy
The pleasant privilege to die.
O, we have castles reared for kings,
Embattled towers and buttressed wings
Thrice three feet thick and guarded well
With chain and bolt and sentinel!
We build our despots' dwellings sure
Knowing they love to live secure—
And our respect for royalty
Extends to thy estate and thee!”
The suppliant groaned; his moistened eye
Swam wild and dim with agony.
The gentle blood could ill sustain
Degrading taunts, unhonoured pain.
Bold had he shown himself to lead;
Eager to smite and proud to bleed;
A man amid the battle's storm:
An infant in the after calm.
Beyond the town his mansion stood
Girt round with pasture-land and wood;
And there our wounded soldiers lying
Enjoyed the ease of wealth in dying.
For him, no mortal more than he
Had softened life with luxury;
And truly did our priest declare
“Of good things he had had his share.”
We lodged him in an empty place,
The full moon beaming on his face
Through shivered glass and ruins, made
Where shell and ball the fiercest played.
I watched his ghastly couch beside
Regardless if he lived or died—
Nay, muttering curses on the breast
Whose ceaseless moans denied me rest.
'Twas hard, I know, 'twas harsh to say
“Hell snatch thy worthless soul away!”
But then 'twas hard my lids to keep
Through the long night1 estranged from sleep.
Captive and keeper both outworn
Each in his misery yearned for morn,
Even though returning morn should bring
Intenser toil and suffering.
Slow, slow it came! Our dreary room
Grew drearier with departing gloom;
Yet as the west wind warmly blew
I felt my pulses bound anew,
And turned to him—Nor breeze, nor ray
Revived that mould of shattered clay.
Scarce conscious of his pain he lay—
Scarce conscious that my hands removed
The glittering toys his lightness loved—
The jewelled rings and locket fair
Where rival curls of silken hair
Sable and brown revealed to me
A tale of doubtful constancy.
“Forsake the world without regret,”
I murmured in contemptuous tone;
“The world poor wretch will soon forget
Thy noble name when thou art gone!
Happy, if years of slothful shame
Could perish like a noble name—
If God did no account require
And being with breathing might expire!”
And words of such contempt I said,
Harsh insults o'er a dying bed,
Which as they darken memory now
Disturb my pulse and flush my brow.
I know that Justice holds in store
Reprisals for those days of gore;
Not for the blood but for the sin
Of stifling mercy's voice within.
The blood spilt gives no pang at all;
It is my conscience haunting me,
Telling how oft my lips shed gall
On many a thing too weak to be,
Even in thought, my enemy;*
And whispering ever, when I pray,
“God will repay—God will repay!”
He does repay and soon and well
The deeds that turn his earth to hell,
The wrongs that aim a venomed dart
Through nature at the Eternal Heart.
Surely my cruel tongue was cursed
I know my prisoner heard me speak
A transient gleam of feeling burst
And wandered o'er his haggard cheek
And from his quivering lids there stole
A look to melt a demon's soul
A silent prayer more powerful far
Than any breathed petitions are
Pleading in mortal agony
To mercy's Source but not to me.
Now I recall that glance and groan
And wring my hands in vain distress;
Then I was adamantine stone
Nor felt one touch of tenderness.
My plunder ta'en I left him there
Without one breath of morning air
To struggle with his last despair,
Regardless of the 'wildered cry
Which wailed for death, yea wailed to die.*
I left him there unwatched, alone,
And eager sought the court below
Where o'er a trough of chiselled stone
An ice cold well did gurgling flow.
The water in its basin shed
A stranger tinge of fiery red.
I drank and scarcely marked the hue;
My food was dyed with crimson too.*
As I went out, a ragged child*
With wasted cheek and ringlets wild,
A shape of fear and misery,
Raised up her helpless hands to me*
And begged her father's face to see.*
I spurned the piteous wretch away
“Thy father's face is lifeless clay*
As thine mayst be ere fall of day*
Unless the truth be quickly told—
Where they have hid thy father's gold.”
Yet in the intervals of pain
He heard my taunts and moaned again
And mocking moans did I reply
And asked him why he would not die
In noble agony—uncomplaining.*
Was it not foul disgrace and shame
To thus disgrace his ancient name?
Just then a comrade hurried in
“Alas,” he cried, “sin genders sin
For every soldier slain they've sworn
To hang up five to-morrow morn.
They've ta'en of stranglers sixty-three,
Full thirty from one company,
And all my father's family;
And comrade thou hadst only one—
They've ta'en thy all, thy little son.”
Down at my captive's feet I fell
I had no option in despair
“As thou wouldst save thy soul from hell
My heart's own darling bid them spare
Or human hate and hate divine
Blight every orphan flower of thine.”
He raised his head—from death beguiled,
He wakened up—he almost smiled
“I lost last night my only child
Twice in my arms twice on my knee
You stabbed my child and laughed at me
And so,” with choking voice he said
“I trust in God I hope she's dead
Yet not to thee, not even to thee
Would I return such misery.
Such is that fearful grief I know*
I will not cause thee equal woe*
Write that they harm no infant there
Write that it is my latest prayer.”
I wrote—he signed—and thus did save
My treasure from the gory grave
And O my soul longed wildly then
To give his saviour life again.
But heedless of my gratitude
The silent corpse before me lay
And still methinks in gloomy mood
I see it fresh as yesterday
The sad face raised imploringly*
To mercy's God and not to me.
I could not rescue him; his child
I found alive, and tended well
But she was full of anguish wild*
And hated me like we hate hell*
And weary with her savage woe
One moonless night I let her go.
This poem was left in an incomplete state by the author. Lines 1 to 148 contain comparatively few alterations, and were probably copied from an earlier draft, but from line 149 onwards the alterations and cancellations are very numerous and much of the script is almost unreadable. Some of the printed words are partly conjectural.
Lines 149 to 156 and 172 to 189 are cancelled by lines drawn across them in the manuscript. A few almost illegible trial lines and parts of lines have been disregarded.
In line 224 “stranglers” may have been written in mistake for “stranglers.”
Lines 1 to 8, 27 to 54, and 76 to 263 are now printed for the first time in an edition of the poems, but see note on page 35.1 Or “coldly.”1 Or “night following night.”
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven's glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear
O God within my breast
Almighty ever-present Deity
Life, that in me hast rest
As I Undying Life, have power in Thee
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality
With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears
Though Earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee
There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render voidPage number 244-245 missing
I've often witnessed wise men fear
To meet distress which they foresaw;
And seeming cowards nobly bear*
A doom that thrilled the brave with awe.
Strange proofs I've seen, how hearts could hide
Their secret with a life-long pride,
And then reveal it as they died—
Strange courage, and strange weakness too,
In that last hour when most are true,
And timid natures strangely nerved
To deeds from which the desperate swerved.
These I may tell; but, leave them now:
Go with me where my thoughts would go;
Now all to-day and all last night
I've had one scene before my sight—
Wood-shadowed dales, a harvest moon
Unclouded in its glorious noon;
A solemn landscape wide and still;
A red fire on a distant hill—
A line of fires, and deep below
Another dusker, drearier glow—
Charred beams, and lime, and blackened stones
Self-piled in cairns o'er burning bones,
And lurid flames that licked the wood,
Then quenched their glare in pools of blood.
But yester-eve—No! never care;
Let street and suburb smoulder there—
Smoke-hidden in the winding glen
They lay too far to vex my ken.
Four score shot down—all veterans strong;
One prisoner spared—their leader—young,
And he within his house was laid
Wounded and weak and nearly dead.
We gave him life against his will,
For he entreated us to kill—
But statue-like we saw his tears—
And harshly1 fell our captain's sneers!*
“Now, heaven forbid!” with scorn he said,
“That noble gore our hands should shed
Like common blood—retain thy breath,
Or scheme if thou canst purchase death.
When men are poor we sometimes hear
And pitying grant that dastard prayer;
When men are rich we make them buy
The pleasant privilege to die.
O, we have castles reared for kings,
Embattled towers and buttressed wings
Thrice three feet thick and guarded well
With chain and bolt and sentinel!
We build our despots' dwellings sure
Knowing they love to live secure—
And our respect for royalty
Extends to thy estate and thee!”
The suppliant groaned; his moistened eye
Swam wild and dim with agony.
The gentle blood could ill sustain
Degrading taunts, unhonoured pain.
Bold had he shown himself to lead;
Eager to smite and proud to bleed;
A man amid the battle's storm:
An infant in the after calm.
Beyond the town his mansion stood
Girt round with pasture-land and wood;
And there our wounded soldiers lying
Enjoyed the ease of wealth in dying.
For him, no mortal more than he
Had softened life with luxury;
And truly did our priest declare
“Of good things he had had his share.”
We lodged him in an empty place,
The full moon beaming on his face
Through shivered glass and ruins, made
Where shell and ball the fiercest played.
I watched his ghastly couch beside
Regardless if he lived or died—
Nay, muttering curses on the breast
Whose ceaseless moans denied me rest.
'Twas hard, I know, 'twas harsh to say
“Hell snatch thy worthless soul away!”
But then 'twas hard my lids to keep
Through the long night1 estranged from sleep.
Captive and keeper both outworn
Each in his misery yearned for morn,
Even though returning morn should bring
Intenser toil and suffering.
Slow, slow it came! Our dreary room
Grew drearier with departing gloom;
Yet as the west wind warmly blew
I felt my pulses bound anew,
And turned to him—Nor breeze, nor ray
Revived that mould of shattered clay.
Scarce conscious of his pain he lay—
Scarce conscious that my hands removed
The glittering toys his lightness loved—
The jewelled rings and locket fair
Where rival curls of silken hair
Sable and brown revealed to me
A tale of doubtful constancy.
“Forsake the world without regret,”
I murmured in contemptuous tone;
“The world poor wretch will soon forget
Thy noble name when thou art gone!
Happy, if years of slothful shame
Could perish like a noble name—
If God did no account require
And being with breathing might expire!”
And words of such contempt I said,
Harsh insults o'er a dying bed,
Which as they darken memory now
Disturb my pulse and flush my brow.
I know that Justice holds in store
Reprisals for those days of gore;
Not for the blood but for the sin
Of stifling mercy's voice within.
The blood spilt gives no pang at all;
It is my conscience haunting me,
Telling how oft my lips shed gall
On many a thing too weak to be,
Even in thought, my enemy;*
And whispering ever, when I pray,
“God will repay—God will repay!”
He does repay and soon and well
The deeds that turn his earth to hell,
The wrongs that aim a venomed dart
Through nature at the Eternal Heart.
Surely my cruel tongue was cursed
I know my prisoner heard me speak
A transient gleam of feeling burst
And wandered o'er his haggard cheek
And from his quivering lids there stole
A look to melt a demon's soul
A silent prayer more powerful far
Than any breathed petitions are
Pleading in mortal agony
To mercy's Source but not to me.
Now I recall that glance and groan
And wring my hands in vain distress;
Then I was adamantine stone
Nor felt one touch of tenderness.
My plunder ta'en I left him there
Without one breath of morning air
To struggle with his last despair,
Regardless of the 'wildered cry
Which wailed for death, yea wailed to die.*
I left him there unwatched, alone,
And eager sought the court below
Where o'er a trough of chiselled stone
An ice cold well did gurgling flow.
The water in its basin shed
A stranger tinge of fiery red.
I drank and scarcely marked the hue;
My food was dyed with crimson too.*
As I went out, a ragged child*
With wasted cheek and ringlets wild,
A shape of fear and misery,
Raised up her helpless hands to me*
And begged her father's face to see.*
I spurned the piteous wretch away
“Thy father's face is lifeless clay*
As thine mayst be ere fall of day*
Unless the truth be quickly told—
Where they have hid thy father's gold.”
Yet in the intervals of pain
He heard my taunts and moaned again
And mocking moans did I reply
And asked him why he would not die
In noble agony—uncomplaining.*
Was it not foul disgrace and shame
To thus disgrace his ancient name?
Just then a comrade hurried in
“Alas,” he cried, “sin genders sin
For every soldier slain they've sworn
To hang up five to-morrow morn.
They've ta'en of stranglers sixty-three,
Full thirty from one company,
And all my father's family;
And comrade thou hadst only one—
They've ta'en thy all, thy little son.”
Down at my captive's feet I fell
I had no option in despair
“As thou wouldst save thy soul from hell
My heart's own darling bid them spare
Or human hate and hate divine
Blight every orphan flower of thine.”
He raised his head—from death beguiled,
He wakened up—he almost smiled
“I lost last night my only child
Twice in my arms twice on my knee
You stabbed my child and laughed at me
And so,” with choking voice he said
“I trust in God I hope she's dead
Yet not to thee, not even to thee
Would I return such misery.
Such is that fearful grief I know*
I will not cause thee equal woe*
Write that they harm no infant there
Write that it is my latest prayer.”
I wrote—he signed—and thus did save
My treasure from the gory grave
And O my soul longed wildly then
To give his saviour life again.
But heedless of my gratitude
The silent corpse before me lay
And still methinks in gloomy mood
I see it fresh as yesterday
The sad face raised imploringly*
To mercy's God and not to me.
I could not rescue him; his child
I found alive, and tended well
But she was full of anguish wild*
And hated me like we hate hell*
And weary with her savage woe
One moonless night I let her go.
This poem was left in an incomplete state by the author. Lines 1 to 148 contain comparatively few alterations, and were probably copied from an earlier draft, but from line 149 onwards the alterations and cancellations are very numerous and much of the script is almost unreadable. Some of the printed words are partly conjectural.
Lines 149 to 156 and 172 to 189 are cancelled by lines drawn across them in the manuscript. A few almost illegible trial lines and parts of lines have been disregarded.
In line 224 “stranglers” may have been written in mistake for “stranglers.”
Lines 1 to 8, 27 to 54, and 76 to 263 are now printed for the first time in an edition of the poems, but see note on page 35.1 Or “coldly.”1 Or “night following night.”
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