Classic Poem

Dark is the night as on the slopes
Of that deserted battle-ground
The mother, crazed with sorrow, gropes
Until her sons three swords are found.

And as she roams through Servian lands
(Her mirth more piteous than tears)
She bears a blade in her thin hands
To right the wrongs of many years.

And offering Danka's plighted knife
Or one of those three patriot swords,
She calls the coldest rock to strife, —
" Take, and repel the Turkish hordes! "

And as the rock no word replies,
She asks, " Are you not Servian too?
Why are you silent then? " she cries;
" Is there no living heart in you? "

She treads the dreary night alone;
There is no echo to her moan.
Is every heart a heart of stone?