"GIVE US BARABBAS" [4]
There was a man--a Jew of kingly blood, But of the people--poor and lowly born, Accused of blasphemy of God, He stood Before the Roman Pilate, while in scorn The multitude demanded it was fit That one should suffer for the people, while Another be released, absolved, acquit, To live his life out virtuous or vile.
"Whom will ye have--Barabbas or this Jew?"
Pilate made answer to the mob, "The choice Is yours; I wash my hands of this, and you, Do as you will." With one vast ribald voice The populace arose and, shrieking, cried, "Give us Barabbas, we condone his deeds!"
And He of Nazareth was crucified-- Misjudged, condemned, dishonoured for their needs.
And down these nineteen centuries anew Comes the hoarse-throated, brutalized refrain, "Give us Barabbas, crucify the Jew!"
Once more a man must bear a nation's stain,-- And that in France, the chivalrous, whose lore Made her the flower of knightly age gone by.
Now she lies hideous with a leprous sore No skill can cure--no pardon purify.
And an indignant world, transfixed with hate Of such disease, cries, as in Herod's time, Pointing its finger at her festering state, "Room for the leper, and her leprous crime!"
And France, writhing from years of torment, cries Out in her anguish, "Let this Jew endure, Damned and disgraced, vicarious sacrifice.
The honour of my army is secure."
And, vampire-like, that army sucks the blood From out a martyr's veins, and strips his crown Of honour from him, and his herohood Flings in the dust, and cuts his manhood down.
Hide from your God, O! ye that did this act!
With lesser crimes the halls of Hell are paved.
Your army's honour may be still intact, Unstained, unsoiled, unspotted,--but unsaved.
[4] Written after Dreyfus was exiled.
YOUR MIRROR FRAME
Methinks I see your mirror frame, Ornate with photographs of them.
Place mine therein, for, all the same, I'll have my little laughs at them.
For girls may come, and girls may go, I think I have the best of them; And yet this photograph I know You'll toss among the rest of them.
I cannot even hope that you Will put me in your locket, dear; Nor costly frame will I look through, Nor bide in your breast pocket, dear.
For none your heart monopolize, You favour such a nest of them.
So I but hope your roving eyes Seek mine among the rest of them.
For saucy sprite, and noble dame, And many a dainty maid of them Will greet me in your mirror frame, And share your kisses laid on them.
And yet, sometimes I fancy, dear, You hold me as the best of them.
So I'm content if I appear To-night with all the rest of them.
THE CITY AND THE SEA
I
To none the city bends a servile knee; Purse-proud and scornful, on her heights she stands, And at her feet the great white moaning sea Shoulders incessantly the grey-gold sands,-- One the Almighty's child since time began, And one the might of Mammon, born of clods; For all the city is the work of man, But all the sea is God's.
II
And she--between the ocean and the town-- Lies cursed of one and by the other blest: Her staring eyes, her long drenched hair, her gown, Sea-laved and soiled and dank above her breast.
She, image of her God since life began, She, but the child of Mammon, born of clods, Her broken body spoiled and spurned of man, But her sweet soul is God's.
FIRE-FLOWERS
And only where the forest fires have sped, Scorching relentlessly the cool north lands, A sweet wild flower lifts its purple head, And, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed, It hides the scars with almost human hands.
And only to the heart that knows of grief, Of desolating fire, of human pain, There comes some purifying sweet belief, Some fellow-feeling beautiful, if brief.
And life revives, and blossoms once again.
A TOAST
There's wine in the cup, Vancouver, And there's warmth in my heart for you, While I drink to your health, your youth, and your wealth, And the things that you yet will do.
In a vintage rare and olden, With a flavour fine and keen, Fill the glass to the edge, while I stand up to pledge My faith to my western queen.
Then here's a Ho! Vancouver, in wine of the bonniest hue, With a hand on my hip and the cup at my lip, And a love in my life for you.
For you are a jolly good fellow, with a great, big heart, I know; So I drink this toast To the "Queen of the Coast."
Vancouver, here's a Ho!
And here's to the days that are coming, And here's to the days that are gone, And here's to your gold and your spirit bold, And your luck that has held its own; And here's to your hands so sturdy, And here's to your hearts so true, And here's to the speed of the day decreed That brings me again to you.
Then here's a Ho! Vancouver, in wine of the bonniest hue, With a hand on my hip and the cup at my lip, And a love in my life for you.
For you are a jolly good fellow, with a great, big heart, I know; So I drink this toast To the "Queen of the Coast."
Vancouver, here's a Ho!
LADY ICICLE
Little Lady Icicle is dreaming in the north-land And gleaming in the north-land, her pillow all a-glow; For the frost has come and found her With an ermine robe around her Where little Lady Icicle lies dreaming in the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is waking in the north-land, And shaking in the north-land her pillow to and fro; And the hurricane a-skirling Sends the feathers all a-whirling Where little Lady Icicle is waking in the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is laughing in the north-land, And quaffing in the north-land her wines that overflow; All the lakes and rivers crusting That her finger-tips are dusting, Where little Lady Icicle is laughing in the snow.