Chapter 2

Out on the "lookout" in the wind and sleet, Out in the woods of fir and spruce and pine, Down in the hot slopes of the dripping mine We dreamed of you and Oh, the dream was sweet! And now you bless the felon food we eat And make each iron cell a sacred shrine; For when your love thrills in the blood like wine, The very stones grow holy to our feet.

We shall be faithful though we march with Death And singing storm the barricades of Wrong, For life is such a little thing to give. We shall fight on as long as we have breath-- Love in our hearts and on our lips a song-- Without you it were better not to live!

THE VISION MAKER

To EUGENE VICTOR DEBS

Christ-like he spoke. While angry cannon roared, His vision tinged the torn and bleeding skies, Men heard in him their own dumb anguished cries, The heavens seemed to open at his word. Give us a victim, shouted Caesar's horde, From his black pyre red warnings shall arise, The vision perishes, the prophet dies. . . His truth is far more deadly than our sword!

And deadlier his dream--a quenchless flame, For which no dungeon fastness can be built . . . You have but made the convict half divine, Crowned Truth with martyrdom, yourselves with shame; Not he, but you are branded deep with guilt; His cell is holier than your highest shrine.

DISTANCES

Above the moist earth, tremulous and bright, The stars creep forth--stars that I cannot see; And to my cell steals, oh, so tenderly The dewy fragrance of a summer night! All wan and wistful, somewhere out of sight, Stalking o'er landscapes wide and dark and free, My friend, the moon, looks everywhere for me, Splashing the paths I loved with silver light.

Oh loveliness! why do you torture so With such keen beauty till the day appears? Why touch to life things buried long ago, Whose aching cries trouble the heart to tears; Ghostly--like wind tossed sea gulls calling low Out of the poignant vistas of the years?

PHANTOMS

Ghost of a mountain And ghost of a moon; Night birds sink droopingly Over the dune

Clouds drifting hazily Stars blurring through; Darkness come close to me-- Darkness and you.

Mist on the water And mist in the sky; Netted with silver The waves ripple by.

_Ghost of a solitude_ _Lit with dead stars._ _You have your memories_ _I have my bars!_

SEVEN LITTLE SPARROWS

Beyond the deep-cut window The bars are heaped with snow, And seven little sparrows Are sitting in a row.

Fluffy blur of snowflakes; Dappled haze of light; The narrow prison vista Is all awhirl with white.

Seven little sparrows Ruffled brown and grey Snuggled close against the bars-- And this is Christmas day!

SALAAM!

Serene, complacent, satisfied, Content with things that be; The paragon of paltriness Upraised for all to see; With loving pride he cherishes His mediocrity!

The smirking, ass-like multitudes Cringe down at his command. With wagging ears and blinded eyes They do not understand. With pride they show each shackled wrist And on each brow the brand.

The young, the old, the great, the small Give homage--all supine. Fond parents bring their children there As to some holy shrine. And every one the Beast transforms From human into swine!

Well praised are they--rewarded well-- Who on their shoulders bore The gilded Thing that all the mob Fawned in the dust before. And each that did obeisance there Was naked like a whore.

The poet with his teeming song, The wise his deep-delved lore, The maiden with her tender flesh, The strong his sturdy store: Each yielded all he had to give; No harlot could do more.

Is there not one to share with me The shame and wrath I own? Is there not one to curse that Thing Or pick up stones to stone-- To rend and wreck and raze to earth-- Or do I stand alone?

Raise high the swine-like incubus, Obediently bow! Shatter the flame on rebel lips And wreath that brazen brow! So blaze the banners, ring the bells, Apotheosis now!

My kind but scorn your dull "success"-- Your subtle ways to "win," We eat our hearts in solitude Or sear our souls with "sin"; Yet we are better men than you Who fit so smugly in.

Go! grovel for the shoddy goods And plod and plot and plan, And if you win the paltry prize Go prize it--if you can, But I would hurl it in your face To hold myself a man!

I will not bow with that mad horde And passively obey. I will not think their sordid thoughts Nor say the things they say, Nor wear their shameful uniforms, Nor branded be as they.

Nor can they bend me to their will Though black their numbers swell, Nor bribe with hopes of paradise Nor force with fears of hell; Me they may break but never bend,-- I live but to rebel!

I go my way rejoicingly, I, outcast, spurned and low, But undreamed worlds may come to birth From seeds that I may sow. And if there's pain within my heart Those fools shall never know.

So let me stand back silently, The pageant passes by, And live my life with these new Christs Whom you would crucify, And laugh with mirth to see the mob Do homage to a Lie!

THE WEST IS DEAD

What path is left for you to tread When hunger-wolves are slinking near-- Do you not know the West is dead?

The "blanket-stiff" now packs his bed Along the trails of yesteryear-- What path is left for you to tread?

Your fathers, golden sunsets led To virgin prairies wide and clear-- Do you not know the West is dead?

Now dismal cities rise instead And freedom is not there nor here-- What path is left for you to tread?

Your fathers' world, for which they bled, Is fenced and settled far and near-- Do you not know the West is dead?

Your fathers gained a crust of bread, Their bones bleach on the lost frontier; What path is left for you to tread-- Do you not know the West is dead?

UP FROM YOUR KNEES

(Air: "Song of a Thousand Years")

Up from your knees, ye cringing serf men! What have ye gained by whines and tears? Rise! They can never break our spirits Though they should try a thousand years.

CHORUS

A thousand years, then speed the victory! Nothing can stop us nor dismay. After the winter comes the springtime; After the darkness comes the day.

Break ye your chains, strike off your fetters; Beat them to swords, the Foe appears. Slaves of the world arise and crush him-- Crush him or serve a thousand years.

Join in the fight--the Final Battle, Welcome the fray with ringing cheers. These are the times our fathers dreamed of, Fought to attain a thousand years.

Be ye prepared, be not unworthy, Greater the task when triumph nears. Master the earth, O men of labor; Long have ye learned--a thousand years.

Out of the East the sun is rising, Out of the night the day appears; See! at your feet the world is waiting, Bought with your blood a thousand years.

THE EUNUCH

(To those who fight on the side of the Powers of Darkness)

Once a Eunuch by the palace In the sunset's fading glow Felt the soft warm breezes blow; Watched the fair girls of the Harem Idly saunter to and fro.

Saw he beauty young and lavish-- Fierce to lure man's every sense-- (Grim the Eunuch stood and tense) Laughingly the sparkling fountain Mocked his bleak incompetence.

Came the Sultan from his hunting Flaming with the zest of life; (Laid aside were spear and knife) Came for wine and song and feasting, Came to seek his fairest wife.

Opened then the marble portals. Fragrant incense filled the air, (Sandalwood and roses rare) While the girls with red-lipped languor Scattered flowers everywhere.

Far away the fabled mountains, (Like some paradise of old) Glowed with lavender and gold. Tense the Eunuch stood and silent-- Tense and sullen, tense and cold.

Now a quick impotent fury Lashed him like a bronze-tipped cord. Sprang he at the youthful lord, Sprang again with blade all bloody . . . (Famished lust and dripping sword.)

* * * * *

Night crept on all chill and ghastly, Jackals trotted forth to bark, (Murder shuddered, still and stark . . .) By the palace ceased the fountain And the whole grey world grew dark.

I. W. W. PRISON SONG

(Tune: "The Red Flag")

The pale and dismal daylight falls Through iron bars on prison walls. In chains we came from far and near, And in dark cells they hold us here.

CHORUS

Defiant 'neath the Iron Heel; Their walls of stone and bars of steel! For though all hell at us is hurled, We and our kind shall rule the world!

At us the blood-hounds are let loose, The lynch-mobs with the knotted noose; In legal sanctioned mask and gown The New Black Hundreds hunt us down.

To all brave comrades o'er the sea, In chains for human liberty, And all jailed rebels everywhere We say: be bold to do and dare!

By all the graves of Labor's dead, By Labor's deathless flag of red, We make a solemn vow to you,-- We'll keep the faith; we will be true.

For Freedom laughs at prison bars Her voice re-echoes from the stars; Proclaiming with the tempest's breath A Cause beyond the reach of death!

TO FRANCE

(May Day, 1919)

Mother of revolutions, stern and sweet, Thou of the red Commune's heroic days; Unsheathe thy sword, let thy pent lightning blaze Until these new bastiles fall at thy feet. Once more thy sons march down the ancient street Led by pale men from silent Pere la Chaise; Once more La Carmignole--La Marseillaise Blend with the war drum's quick and angry beat.

Ah, France--our--France--must they again endure The crown of thorns upon the cross of death? Is morning here . . .? Then speak that we may know! The sky seems lighter but we are not sure. Is morning here . . .? The whole world holds its breath To hear the crimson Gallic rooster crow!

VILLANELLE

(Torquato Tasso from his cell at Ste. Anne, 1548)

Her beauty haunts me everywhere-- A lone lark singing as it flies-- Sweet, O sweet beyond compare.

Amber and gold meet in her hair, Dark pools and starlight in her eyes; Her beauty haunts me everywhere.

Slim body, petal soft and fair, Cool lips, cool, cool as evening skies-- Sweet, O sweet beyond compare.

Pale fingers delicate and rare, To lull and lure caressing-wise; Her beauty haunts me everywhere.

Here in my dungeon dim and bare The last frail not of music dies-- Sweet, O sweet beyond compare.

My heart? I steeled it not to care. . . . But God! her love is paradise! Her beauty haunts me everywhere, O sweet, sweet, sweet beyond compare!

WESLEY EVEREST

(Mutilated and murdered at Centralia, Washington, November 11th, 1919, by a mob of "respectable" businessmen.)

Torn and defiant as a wind-lashed reed, Wounded he faced you as he stood at bay; You dared not lynch him in the light of day, But on your dungeon stones you let him bleed; Night came . . . and you black vigilants of Greed . . . Like human wolves, seized hard upon your prey, Tortured and killed . . . and, silent slunk away Without one qualm of horror at the deed.

Once . . . long ago . . . do you remember how You hailed Him king for soldiers to deride-- You placed a scroll above His bleeding brow And spat upon Him, scourged Him, crucified . . .?

A rebel unto Caesar--then as now Alone, thorn-crowned, a spear wound in his side!

THE INDUSTRIAL HERETICS

They say we are revolters--that we stirred The workers of all nations to rebel-- And that we would not compromise with Hell, But damned it with our every deed and word. They feared us as we faced them undeterred, And gave us each a coffin of a cell In this steel cave where living corpses dwell-- Hate-throttled here that we might not be heard.

We are those fools too stubborn-willed to bend Our necks to Wrong and parley and discuss. Today we face the awful test of fire-- The prison, gallows, cross--but in the end Your sons will call your children after us And name their dogs from men you now admire!

BLOOD AND WINE

(A certain little renegade of the Revolution chants a hymn of praise to his erstwhile enemy.)

Behold! The helots of the land Are cowed beneath thy iron fist; They are too dumb to understand-- Too tame and spineless to resist.

Victorious one! Against thy gains These chattels cannot, dare not rise; Stifle the thought within their brains And rule . . . with bayonets and lies.

So may thy sons, with greed uncurbed, Their children's children rule again; Aye, rule with iron, undisturbed, The all-prolific sons of men.

What matters that ten million died To give thy lust a dwelling place? Does not thy Terror set aside The ancient freedom of the race?

What matters that the peasant's plow Bites at a soil baptised with red? Are not thy bloody dollars now More myriad than the myriad dead?

That in charred cities, wan with pain, War-desolated mothers live, While lips of babies tug in vain At breasts that have no milk to give?

Or that beneath thy battered walls, Cursed with the eloquence of hell, Black Want to red Rebellion calls . . .? Heed not, I tell thee all is well!

Heed not! Have vine-clad maidens sing And serve thee scented wine and gore; Laugh! Glut thyself to vomiting, And hiccough, screaming still for more.

What of the Men against the gate, Black-massed and sullen, gaunt and lean . . . Like thee they crave one thing to hate. Be glad . . . and whet thy guillotine!

THE RED GUARD

Sons of the dawn! No more shall you enslave Nor lull them with your honied lies to sleep, Nor lead them on like herds of human sheep, To hopeless slaughter for the loot you crave. For now upon you, wave on mighty wave, The iron-stern battalions rise and leap To extirpate your breed and bury deep And sow with salt the unlamented grave!

Accursed Monster -- nightmare of the years-- Pause but a moment ere you pass away! Pause and behold the earth made clean and pure-- Our earth, that you have drenched with blood and tears-- Then greet the crimson usurer of Day,-- The mighty Proletarian Dictature!

THE RED FEAST

Go fight, you fools! Tear up the earth with strife And spill each others guts upon the field; Serve unto death the men you served in life So that their wide dominions may not yield.

Stand by the flag--the lie that still allures; Lay down your lives for land you do not own, And give unto a war that is not yours Your gory tithe of mangled flesh and bone.

But whether it be yours to fall or kill You must not pause to question why nor where. You see the tiny crosses on that hill? It took all those to make one millionaire.

It was for him the seas of blood were shed, That fields were razed and cities lit the sky; And now he comes to chortle o'er the dead-- The condor Thing for whom the millions die!

The bugle screams, the cannons cease to roar. "Enough! enough! God give us peace again." The rats, the maggots and the Lords of War Are fat to bursting from their meal of men.

So stagger back, you stupid dupes who've "won," Back to your stricken towns to toil anew, For there your dismal tasks are still undone And grim Starvation gropes again for you.

What matters now your flag, your race, the skill Of scattered legions--what has been the gain? Once more beneath the lash you must distil Your lives to glut a glory wrought of pain.

In peace they starve you to your loathsome toil, In war they drive you to the teeth of Death; And when your life-blood soaks into their soil They give you lies to choke your dying breath.

So will they smite your blind eyes till you see, And lash your naked backs until you know That wasted blood can never set you free From fettered thraldom to the Common Foe.

Then you will find that "nation" is a name And boundaries are things that don't exist; That Labor's bondage, worldwide, is the same, And ONE the enemy it must resist.

Montreal, 1914.

THE GIRLS WHO SANG FOR US

What does it mean to us that Spring is here? We asked ourselves within the great grey hall. We shall not feel the magic of her call; This day, like others, will be dull and drear. And then you sang . . . and brought so very near, The fragrant world beyond the prison wall, The tender fields, the trees and grass, and all The hopes and dreams that every man holds dear.

O, silvery voices, sweet with life and youth Brushing our grey lives with your rainbow wings-- Lives that were stern and bitter with old wrong, And cleansing them with beauty and with truth; Reviving memories of vanished springs-- Making us whole with miracles of song!

TO EDITH

Do you remember how we walked that night In early spring? And how we found a new and sweet delight In everything? Do you remember how the air was filled With mist and moonlight--how our hearts were thrilled-- And seemed to sing?

What if these walls shut out the world for me And heaven too, There still lives fragrant in my memory The thought of you. And out there now with life's high dome above you If you but knew how very much I love you-- If you but knew . . . .

SONG OF SEPARATION

Two that I love must live alone, Far away. All in the world I can call my own, Only they. Mother and boy in the rocking chair, Thinking of one who cannot be there, Breathing a hope that is half a prayer; Night and day, night and day.

Here in my cell I must sit alone, Clothed in grey. Bars of iron and walls of stone Bid me stay. What of the world with its pomp and show? Baubles of nothing! This I know: Deep in my heart I miss them so Night and day, night and day.

TO MY LITTLE SON

I cannot lose the thought of you It haunts me like a little song, It blends with all I see or do Each day, the whole day long.

The train, the lights, the engine's throb, And that one stinging memory: Your brave smile broken with a sob, Your face pressed close to me.

Lips trembling far too much to speak; The arms that would not come undone; The kiss so salty on your cheek; The long, long trip begun.

I could not miss you more it seemed, But now I don't know what to say. It's harder than I ever dreamed With you so far away.

ESCAPED!

(The boiler house whistle is blown "wildcat" when a prisoner makes a "getaway")

A man has fled. . . .! We clutch the bars and wait; The corridors are empty, tense and still; A silver mist has dimmed the distant hill; The guards have gathered at the prison gate. Then suddenly the "wildcat" blares its hate Like some mad Moloch screaming for the kill, Shattering the air with terror loud and shrill, The dim, grey walls become articulate.

Freedom, you say? Behold her altar here! In those far cities men can only find A vaster prison and a redder hell, O'ershadowed by new wings of greater fear. Brave fool, for such a world to leave behind The iron sanctuary of a cell!

RETROSPECT

The wall-girt distance undulates with heat; The buildings crouch in terror of the sun; Steel bars and stones, heat-tortured ton on ton, On which the noon's remorseless hammers beat. Alone I trudge the wide red-cobbled street: How long before this evil dream is done . . .? These strange mad stones I know them every one, Worn with the tread of oh, how many feet!

And yet it seems that I have seen it all Before . . . I know not when . . . but there should be Blunt buildings near a cliff, as I recall; Bare rocks--a burning white--a gnarled dark tree . . . And looming clear above a sentried wall The foam-laced splendor of a warm blue sea . . .