Part 12

This is the hill ... and over my city’s towers Across the world from sunset, yonder in air, Shines, through its scaffoldings, a civic dome Of piled masonry, which shall be ours To give, completed, to our children there ... And yonder far roof of my abandoned home Shall house new laughter.... Yet I tried ... I tried ... And, ever wistful of the doom to come, I built her many a fire for love ... for mirth ... (When snows were falling on our oaks outside, Dear, many a winter fire upon the hearth) ... (... farewell ... farewell ... farewell ...) We dare not think too long on those who died, While still so many yet must come to birth.

Vachel Lindsay

GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO HEAVEN

_To be sung to the tune of_ THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB _with indicated instruments_.

Booth led boldly with his big bass drum. _Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?_ The saints smiled gravely, and they said, “He’s come.” _Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?_ [Sidenote: _Bass drums_] Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, Lurching bravos from the ditches dank, Drabs from the alleyways and drug-fiends pale— Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail!

Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath Unwashed legions with the ways of death— _Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?_

Every slum had sent its half-a-score The round world over—Booth had groaned for more. Every banner that the wide world flies Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes. Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang! [Sidenote: _Banjos_] Tranced, fanatical, they shrieked and sang, _Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?_ Hallelujah! It was queer to see Bull-necked convicts with that land make free! Loons with bazoos blowing blare, blare, blare— On, on, upward through the golden air. _Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?_

Booth died blind, and still by faith he trod, Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God. Booth led boldly and he looked the chief: [Sidenote: _Bass drums slower and softer_] Eagle countenance in sharp relief, Beard a-flying, air of high command Unabated in that holy land.

Jesus came from out the Court-House door, Stretched his hands above the passing poor. Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there [Sidenote: _Flutes_] Round and round the mighty Court-House square. Yet in an instant all that blear review Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new. The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled And blind eyes opened on a new sweet world.

Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole! [Sidenote: _Bass drums louder and faster_] Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl; Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean, Rulers of empires, and of forests green!

The hosts were sandalled and their wings were fire— _Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?_ But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir. [Sidenote: _Grand chorus tambourines—all instruments in full blast_] _Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?_ Oh, shout Salvation! it was good to see Kings and princes by the Lamb set free. The banjos rattled and the tambourines blast Jing-jing-jingled in the hands of queens!

And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer He saw his Master through the flag-filled air. [Sidenote: _Reverently sung—no instruments_] Christ came gently with a robe and crown For Booth the soldier while the throng knelt down. He saw King Jesus—they were face to face, And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place. _Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?_

THE EAGLE THAT IS FORGOTTEN

_John P. Altgeld: Dec. 30, 1847–March 12, 1902._

Sleep softly ... eagle forgotten ... under the stone. Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own.

“We have buried him now,” thought your foes, and in secret rejoiced. They made a brave show of their mourning, their hatred unvoiced. They had snarled at you, barked at you, foamed at you day after day; Now you were ended. They praised you ... and laid you away.

The others that mourned you in silence and terror and truth, The widow bereft of her crust, and the boy without youth, The mocked and the scorned and the wounded, the lame and the poor, That should have remembered forever ... remember no more.

Where are those lovers of yours, on what name do they call— The lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall? They call on the names of a hundred high-valiant ones; A hundred white eagles have risen, the sons of your sons. The zeal in their wings is a zeal that your dreaming began, The valor that wore out your soul in the service of man.

Sleep softly ... eagle forgotten ... under the stone. Time has its way with you there and the clay has its own. Sleep on, O brave-hearted, O wise man, that kindled the flame— To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name; To live in mankind, far, far more ... than to live in a name.

THE CONGO _A Study of the Negro Race_

I—THEIR BASIC SAVAGERY

Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable, Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, [Sidenote: _A deep rolling bass_] Pounded on the table, Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom, Hard as they were able, Boom, boom, BOOM, With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision. I could not turn from their revel in derision. THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, [Sidenote: _More deliberate. Solemnly chanted_] CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. Then along that riverbank A thousand miles Tattooed cannibals danced in files; Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong.

And “BLOOD!” screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors, [Sidenote: _A rapidly piling climax of speed and racket_] “BLOOD!” screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors; “Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, Harry the uplands, Steal all the cattle, Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, Bing! Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM!” A roaring, epic, rag-time tune [Sidenote: _With a philosophic pause_] From the mouth of the Congo To the Mountains of the Moon. Death is an Elephant, Torch-eyed and horrible, [Sidenote: _Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre._] Foam-flanked and terrible. BOOM, steal the pygmies, BOOM, kill the Arabs, BOOM, kill the white men, HOO, HOO, HOO. Listen to the yell of Leopold’s ghost [Sidenote: _Like the wind in the chimney_] Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host. Hear how the demons chuckle and yell Cutting his hands off, down in Hell. Listen to the creepy proclamation, Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation, Blown past the white-ants’ hill of clay, Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play:— “Be careful what you do, [Sidenote: _All the O sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. Light accents very light. Last line whispered._] Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, And all of the other Gods of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.”

II—THEIR IRREPRESSIBLE HIGH SPIRITS

Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call [Sidenote: _Rather shrill and high_] Danced the juba in their gambling-hall And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town, And guyed the policemen and laughed them down With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, [Sidenote: _Read exactly as in first section_] CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. A negro fairyland swung into view, [Sidenote: _Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas._] A minstrel river Where dreams come true. The ebony palace soared on high [Sidenote: _Keep as light-footed as possible_] Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky. The inlaid porches and casements shone With gold and ivory and elephant-bone. And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore At the baboon butler in the agate door, And the well-known tunes of the parrot band That trilled on the bushes of that magic land.

A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came [Sidenote: _With pomposity_] Through the agate doorway in suits of flame, Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust And hats that were covered with diamond-dust. And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call And danced the juba from wall to wall. But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng [Sidenote: _With a great deliberation and ghostliness_] With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song: “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.”... Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes [Sidenote: _With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp_] Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats, Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine, And tall silk hats that were red as wine. And they pranced with their butterfly partners there, [Sidenote: _With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm_] Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair, Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet, And bells on their ankles and little black feet. And the couples railed at the chant and the frown Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down. (Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth while That made those glowering witch-men smile.)

The cake-walk royalty then began To walk for a cake that was tall as a man To the tune of “Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,” While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air, [Sidenote: _With a touch of negro dialect, and as rapidly as possible toward the end_] And sang with the scalawags prancing there: “Walk with care, walk with care, Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, And all of the other Gods of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. Beware, beware, walk with care, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.” Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth while [Sidenote: _Slow philosophic calm_] That made those glowering witch-men smile.

III—THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION

A good old negro in the slums of the town [Sidenote: _Heavy bass. With a literal imitation of camp-meeting racket, and trance_] Preached at a sister for her velvet gown. Howled at a brother for his low-down ways, His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days. Beat on the Bible till he wore it out Starting the jubilee revival shout. And some had visions, as they stood on chairs, And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs. And they all repented, a thousand strong, From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong, And slammed with their hymn-books till they shook the room With “Glory, glory, glory,” And “Boom, boom, BOOM.” THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil [Sidenote: _Exactly as in the first section. Begin with terror and power, end with joy_] And showed the apostles with their coats of mail. In bright white steel they were seated round, And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound. And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high, Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry: [Sidenote: _Sung to the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices”_] “Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; Never again will he hoo-doo you, Never again will he hoo-doo you.”

Then along that river, a thousand miles [Sidenote: _With growing deliberation and joy_] The vine-snared trees tell down in files. Pioneer angels cleared the way For a Congo paradise, for babes at play, For sacred capitals, for temples clean. Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean. There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed, [Sidenote: _In a rather high key—as delicately as possible_] A million boats of the angels sailed With oars of silver, and prows of blue And silken pennants that the sun shone through. ’Twas a land transfigured, ’twas a new creation. Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation, And on through the backwoods clearing flew:— [Sidenote: _To the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices”_] “Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. Never again will he hoo-doo you. Never again will he hoo-doo you.”

Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men, And only the vulture dared again By the far, lone mountains of the moon To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune: [Sidenote: _Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper_] “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. Mumbo ... Jumbo ... will ... hoo-doo ... you.”

ALADDIN AND THE JINN

“Bring me soft song,” said Aladdin; “This tailor-shop sings not at all. Chant me a word of the twilight, Of roses that mourn in the fall. Bring me a song like hashish That will comfort the stale and the sad, For I would be mending my spirit, Forgetting these days that are bad: Forgetting companions too shallow, Their quarrels and arguments thin; Forgetting the shouting muezzin.” “_I am your slave_,” said the Jinn.

“Bring me old wines,” said Aladdin, “I have been a starved pauper too long. Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell, Serve them with fruit and with song: Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans Digged from beneath the black seas, New-gathered dew from the heavens Dripped down from heaven’s sweet trees, Cups from the angels’ pale tables That will make me both handsome and wise; For I have beheld her, the Princess— Firelight and starlight her eyes! Pauper I am—I would woo her. And ... let me drink wine to begin, Though the Koran expressly forbids it.” “_I am your slave_,” said the Jinn.

“Plan me a dome,” said Aladdin, “That is drawn like the dawn of the moon, When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon. Build me a dome,” said Aladdin, “That shall cause all young lovers to sigh— The fulness of life and of beauty, Peace beyond peace to the eye; A palace of foam and of opal, Pure moonlight without and within, Where I may enthrone my sweet lady.” “_I am your slave_,” said the Jinn.

THE CHINESE NIGHTINGALE

_A Song in Chinese Tapestries_

_Dedicated to S. T. F._

“How, how,” he said. “Friend Chang,” I said, “San Francisco sleeps as the dead— Ended license, lust and play: Why do you iron the night away? Your big clock speaks with a deadly sound, With a tick and a wail till dawn comes round. While the monster shadows glower and creep, What can be better for man than sleep?”

“I will tell you a secret,” Chang replied; “My breast with vision is satisfied, And I see green trees and fluttering wings, And my deathless bird from Shanghai sings.” Then he lit five fire-crackers in a pan. “Pop, pop!” said the fire-crackers, “cra-cra-crack!” He lit a joss-stick long and black. Then the proud gray joss in the corner stirred; On his wrist appeared a gray small bird, And this was the song of the gray small bird:

“Where is the princess, loved forever, Who made Chang first of the kings of men?”

And the joss in the corner stirred again; And the carved dog, curled in his arms, awoke, Barked forth a smoke-cloud that whirled and broke. It piled in a maze round the ironing-place, And there on the snowy table wide Stood a Chinese lady of high degree, With a scornful, witching, tea-rose face ... Yet she put away all form and pride, And laid her glimmering veil aside With a childlike smile for Chang and for me.

The walls fell back, night was aflower, The table gleamed in a moonlit bower, While Chang, with a countenance carved of stone, Ironed and ironed, all alone. And thus she sang to the busy man Chang: “Have you forgotten ... Deep in the ages, long, long ago, I was your sweetheart, there on the sand— Storm-worn beach of the Chinese land? We sold our grain in the peacock town Built on the edge of the sea-sands brown— Built on the edge of the sea-sands brown ...

“When all the world was drinking blood From the skulls of men and bulls, And all the world had swords and clubs of stone, We drank our tea in China beneath the sacred spice-trees, And heard the curled waves of the harbor moan. And this gray bird, in Love’s first spring, With a bright-bronze breast and a bronze-brown wing, Captured the world with his carolling. Do you remember, ages after, At last the world we were born to own? You were the heir of the yellow throne— The world was the field of the Chinese man And we were the pride of the sons of Han. We copied deep books, and we carved in jade, And wove white silks in the mulberry shade.”...

“I remember, I remember That Spring came on forever, That Spring came on forever,” Said the Chinese nightingale.

My heart was filled with marvel and dream, Though I saw the western street-lamps gleam, Though dawn was bringing the western day, Though Chang was a laundryman ironing away ... Mingled there with the streets and alleys, The railroad-yard, and the clock-tower bright, Demon-clouds crossed ancient valleys; Across wide lotus-ponds of light I marked a giant firefly’s flight.

And the lady, rosy-red, Opened her fan, closed her fan, Stretched her hand toward Chang, and said: “Do you remember, Ages after, Our palace of heart-red stone? Do you remember The little doll-faced children With their lanterns full of moon-fire, That came from all the empire Honoring the throne?— The loveliest fête and carnival Our world had ever known? The sages sat about us With their heads bowed in their beards, With proper meditation on the sight. Confucius was not born; We lived in those great days Confucius later said were lived aright ... And this gray bird, on that day of spring, With a bright-bronze breast and a bronze-brown wing, Captured the world with his carolling. Late at night his tune was spent. Peasants, Sages, Children, Homeward went, And then the bronze bird sang for you and me. We walked alone, our hearts were high and free. I had a silvery name, I had a silvery name, I had a silvery name—do you remember The name you cried beside the tumbling sea?”

Chang turned not to the lady slim— He bent to his work, ironing away; But she was arch and knowing and glowing. And the bird on his shoulder spoke for him.

“Darling ... darling ... darling ... darling ...” Said the Chinese nightingale.

· · · · ·

The great gray joss on a rustic shelf, Rakish and shrewd, with his collar awry, Sang impolitely, as though by himself, Drowning with his bellowing the nightingale’s cry: “Back through a hundred, hundred years Hear the waves as they climb the piers, Hear the howl of the silver seas, Hear the thunder! Hear the gongs of holy China How the waves and tunes combine In a rhythmic clashing wonder, Incantation old and fine: ‘Dragons, dragons, Chinese dragons; Red fire-crackers, and green fire-crackers, And dragons, dragons, Chinese dragons.’”

Then the lady, rosy-red, Turned to her lover Chang and said: “Dare you forget that turquoise dawn When we stood in our mist-hung velvet lawn, And worked a spell this great joss taught Till a God of the Dragons was charmed and caught? From the flag high over our palace-home He flew to our feet in rainbow-foam— A king of beauty and tempest and thunder Panting to tear our sorrows asunder, A dragon of fair adventure and wonder. We mounted the back of that royal slave With thoughts of desire that were noble and grave. We swam down the shore to the dragon-mountains, We whirled to the peaks and the fiery fountains. To our secret ivory house we were borne. We looked down the wonderful wing-filled regions Where the dragons darted in glimmering legions. Right by my breast the nightingale sang; The old rhymes rang in the sunlit mist That we this hour regain— Song-fire for the brain. When my hands and my hair and my feet you kissed, When you cried for your heart’s new pain, What was my name in the dragon-mist, In the rings of rainbowed rain?”

“Sorrow and love, glory and love,” Said the Chinese nightingale. “Sorrow and love, glory and love,” Said the Chinese nightingale.

And now the joss broke in with his song: “Dying ember, bird of Chang, Soul of Chang, do you remember?— Ere you returned to the shining harbor There were pirates by ten thousand Descended on the town In vessels mountain-high and red and brown, Moon-ships that climbed the storms and cut the skies. On their prows were painted terrible bright eyes. But I was then a wizard and a scholar and a priest; I stood upon the sand; With lifted hand I looked upon them And sunk their vessels with my wizard eyes, And the stately lacquer-gate made safe again. Deep, deep below the bay, the sea-weed and the spray, Embalmed in amber every pirate lies, Embalmed in amber every pirate lies.”

Then this did the noble lady say: “Bird, do you dream of our home-coming day When you flew like a courier on before From the dragon-peak to our palace-door, And we drove the steed in your singing path— The ramping dragon of laughter and wrath; And found our city all aglow, And knighted this joss that decked it so? There were golden fishes in the purple river And silver fishes and rainbow fishes. There were golden junks in the laughing river, And silver junks and rainbow junks: There were golden lilies by the bay and river, And silver lilies and tiger-lilies, And tinkling wind-bells in the gardens of the town By the black-lacquer gate Where walked in state The kind king Chang And his sweetheart mate ... With his flag-born dragon And his crown of pearl ... and ... jade; And his nightingale reigning in the mulberry shade, And sailors and soldiers on the sea-sands brown, And priests who bowed them down to your song— By the city called Han, the peacock town, By the city called Han, the nightingale town, The nightingale town.”

Then sang the bird, so strangely gay, Fluttering, fluttering, ghostly and gray, A vague, unravelling, answering tune, Like a long unwinding silk cocoon; Sang as though for the soul of him Who ironed away in that bower dim: