Classic Poem

I knew a king was but a wandering star, —
That accident alone his orbit rules.
'T was not the comet's nucleus , but the far
Extended tail of charlatans, and fools,
And slaves, I warned; I said within my heart, —
" Thy princely character is more to thee
Than all the pride and pomp of pedigree " ;
But I forgot that always threefold brass
Keeps, e'en in death, a monarch far apart
From his vile subjects; — so my words did pass
For a mere jest with thee, — thy bosom felt no smart.

Fool that I was, I dreamed I knew thee well;
One mother's breast had suckled thee and me, —
The mother whom I name my century.
I seemed upon the Atlantic coast to dwell,
And, listening toward the German wilderness,
To hear the gushings of a distant spring;
And on my ear, in grateful cadences,
Borne by the murmuring breeze's rushing wing,
The solemn words, " I swear, " so sweetly fell!
Sounding across from the far Baltic Sea,
Through my republic rang the hymns of jubilee!

Inspired, I cried, — " Great monarch of the North!
The maiden whom the father wooed and won
Is grown too old and homely for the son;
Take for thy bride this young age; lead her forth!
Let haggard beauty's withered ruins lie;
Take up no wail that slavery should die;
Give to the shades the atonement they demand;
Let us possess at length the promised land;
Light thou the oriflamme of virgin liberty!

" Let all the ghostly brood at cockcrow die;
Be of good cheer! only the birds of night
Shall quake and perish at the new-born light, —
The light that greets thy people from on high.
O, speak the word that shall their fears control!
O, speak the word that shall awake the soul!
Give us a law that shall not soothe alone,
But heal, the wound, — a royal law, whose force
Shall check our falling only, not our course;
Give this, and glory's light shall beam around thy throne!

" So, be a prince! tear up the tinsel trash
Of paltry pomp and of mock majesty!
Break through and trample down, with one bold dash,
The nets by popes and nobles spread for thee!
Fling out the match into the waiting world,
And spring the mine, and, heaving from below,
Let the old musty edifice be hurled
High in the air! Art thou from God? then show
Thy wonders, and the world thy right divine shall know.

" Leave thou the dead to slumber in the tomb,
Nor seek to wake the dead who walk the ground!
Too early would the final trumpet sound,
To wake this people from their sleep profound,
Too early for their eyes will dawn the day of doom! "

Not quite so fierce was then my holy hate;
Not quite so sharp my burning speech did sting;
Yet such the deep sense of our murmuring,
As if, like Hamlet, we to thee had spoken: —
" Something is foul and rotten in the state
Of Denmark, and its power within itself is broken! "

But thou dost still enact the royal Saul
(Not him whose name thou didst reproachfully
Cast in my teeth, the old apostate Paul); —
Our manly words have found no grace with thee;
But thou, with murderous heart, hast shamelessly
Throttled or gagged the freeman and the brave,
Who paid not flattery's toll to every pompous slave.

Each idle paramour and parasite
Thou call'st thy friend, who loudly trumpets forth
With his puffed cheeks the honor, and thy shame;
Thou hast despised of our pure hearts the flame
That would but purge from dross the metal bright;
The day must come, — it comes e'en now, — on earth,
When Cossacks shall no more obscure the freeman's worth.

And still thou standest there, with scornful mien,
Amidst thy masks, thou helpless, hapless prince! —
Those masks whose faces true will ne'er be seen, —
And at the truth too sharp for thee dost wince,
The vain Maecenas of a juggling crew,
Who light and dark confound before thy cheated view!

Too timid eye to eye to meet this age,
Too fond of praise its language to despise,
Too high-born its true tones to recognize,
Through painted glasses thou wouldst read the page, —
Glasses thy puppets slide before thy sight,
To quench thy last clear glimpse of truth in rayless night.

What boots it to lop off a leaf or two?
The great creative force thou canst not kill!
The fruits will ripen, — yea, and faster still!
Poor plaything of poor fools! Hadst thou been true,
The banner of thy age thou might'st have borne,
Who bearest now its train, — and yet shalt bear its scorn!

Think not the dust upon the ground will lie
For ever! No; there comes a day, ye kings!
When ye shall quail to see the storm sweep by,
And fling the dust on high with rushing wings.
Then shall ye see the dust upon your crown,
Shall see your purple pillows gray with dust;
Then, if ye dare, on freeborn men look down;
Then, if ye dare, your proud and pensioned hire-lings trust!

Slaves as they are, ye then shall see them bow
Before the people's feet, and cringe, and quail, —
Your pages, — feeble reeds, with which you now
Think to control the tempest and the gale.
Thou scornest for the stream to dig a bed,
In which its rushing waves might freely flow;
Fain wouldst thou drive back to its fountain-head
That flood which still doth deeper, broader, grow,
Which mocks thy puny dams with its proud leap,
Or bears them all away in its triumphant sweep.

Thy office 't was, with peaceful master-stroke,
To beat out wide the ring of liberty.
Thou hast despised the task! — It must be broke,
That all too narrow ring, and we be free!
The ship in careless pilot's hands I see,
With thee and thy unhappy throne on deck,
Ere nightfall on the cliff, a miserable wreck!

The Sphinx yet lives — of Revolution! Thou
Wast sent to end the hour of sacrifice.
O, were there not already o'er thy brow
A thousand garlands hovering? — And, lo! now
Thy faithless hand the knot still faster ties,
And I have falsely read the starry skies!
The Sphinx will not yet plunge, — and thou to us
Hast proved thyself to be no oedipus!