Part XIX

The mother's nursing milk no baby takes
More eagerly than he inhaled the free
Air which he won. Each of his breaths, it seemed.
Took from his weary soul one painful year.
He felt re-born, restored, and light as light
As does the butterfly. His mind took wings
And over nature's verdant fields, — his heart's
Sweet recollections of the past — it flew.
The balmy, pure air made him young again,
Built up, renewed the vigor of his soul,
His body, though, remained infirm and old,
With staff in hand he drags his steps along.
The zephyr gently blows his flowing hair,
During the ten, he had lived five score years.

He reached the house the garret-room of which
Had been his home. He scrutinized each face
Most searchingly, but none he recognized.
New tenants they, had he forgotten them?
And then he made enquires if they knew
A family that once, but years and years ago,
Had lived upstairs, — describing his own folks.

"Oh, yes, I do, I do remember well,"

A poor old woman said. "I knew them well,
She was a dear-good soul, a lady fair.
The husband, though, was but a godless scamp.
The law forced him to pay the penalty.
He was caught and then into prison thrown,
And if he did not die, he still is there.
The poor wife, when she learned of his arrest
And that no more he would return to her:
Fell in a swoon and never rose again,
She died, — the poor thing, — of a broken heart.
I never could make out how could she love, —
Herself so good, — a worthless man like him,
Love him so well that she e'en died for him."
Sylvester listened to the speech he heard
All unconcerned as had it been said
Of some strange man. He asked whether she knew
Where had been burried that good woman who
Died of a broken heart, and what became
Of their young son? — "I can not tell you that," —
The old woman replied,— "I never saw
Him since the morning of the funeral.
The funeral itself, I could'nt attend,
I had a christening on hand that day."

The husband to himself said: "I shall find,
I'm bound to find her final resting place.
From grave to grave I'll go and scrutinize
Each stone and cross until I come to hers."
And to the churchyard he then slowly went,
And looked at every stone and every cross.
When through, he did it all over again
And still again, but his beloved one's grave
He never found. "Ah, well! Then all is o'er!
Naught left of her, the glorious creature 's gone,
Without a trace, as disappear the rays
Of setting sun. The angry storm had swept
The grave away, uprooted, broke the stone
God be with her. and all is over now"

It hurt the poor old man, it hurt him much
That he her grave had not been able to find
To shed the tears which still were left to him,—
His sufferings had made him weep enough, —
Above the earthly dust of his dear wife.
He found sweet consolation in the thought
That in his life the last sorrow this is,
That he for evermore is done and through
With sorrow and with woe, that through this life
He now can roam a shadow without form,
A human shape without life-giving soul.
He was in error though, this sorrow was
Not yet the last. When he his prison left
He asked. "My country then at last is free?"
To this enquiry then was no reply,
He happily believed his country free.

Ere long, however, what did he observe?
He saw his country and the world to be
More deeply bent beneath fell slavery's yoke
Than e'en ten years before. Man's dignity
Corrupted day by day, and more and more
Had grown the tyrant's all mastering strength.

Had then been all in vain his sufferings?
In vain the sacrifices made by hearts
Surcharged with thoughts sublime? In vain
Then had been all the mighty battles fought?
That can not be! An hundred times No! No!
This thought renewed his strength, to flames arose
The dying embers of his erstwhile fire.
The broken down old man became a youth,
Determined, stout of will, upon his brow
Decision sat, decision of great plans
On the success of which depends the fate
Of his own land, nay more, of all the world.
The plan 's not new, already it has cost
The lives of thousands, but once must succeed,
And why not he? He safely hid his plans
Within the deep recesses of his heart,
He never even slept near other folk
So that if in his sleep perchance he talked
He should thereby his secret not betray,
The which, if prematurely brought to light
Endangered its success. He sought no aids —
Not from ambition that to him alone
—If once success be gained — the glory be,
That he alone the mighty work shall do,
But that no other human being's life

Endangered be if failure come to him.

In sumptuous, festive garb the city 's clad.
The populace, by thousands throngs the streets,
Rolls like a stream which overflowed its bed
Through avenues with flags and bunting draped.
Loud cheers resound, all seems in sunny mood.
What is this day? What festival is held?
Did God in His own image come to earth,
Did with His own hand He break slavery's chains,
Give back to man his long lost liberties,
That such a celebration should be held?
Oh, no! it is not God who walketh there,
"Lis but a man, but one who thinks himself
More than a God, it is the haughty king!
With condescending pride he walks among
The crowd as does the mastiff in the midst
Of little dogs, and heads and knees bend low
Where'er he looks as bends the storm-swept reed,
A thousand throats bawl out: "Long Jive the King!"
Who'd dare among the thousands in the street
Not cheer at all, or cheer for some one else?
Who'd dare? One man within the. crowd did dare.
His thunder-voice resounds o'er all the noise
And yells and cheers of the assembled crowd.
He boldly cries aloud: "Death to the King!"
A shot is heard, — the King lies in the dust...
Rise, coward King, thou art not hurt, the aim
Was bad, the bullet did not reach thy heart,
Tore but thy cloak. To whom thy life thou sold —
The devil, — he saved thy life. Rise tyrant King
And wipe the dust off thy pale face which shows
All plainly what a coward base thou art.

Who is the murderer? And where is he?
He stands up straight. Oh, no! he stands no more,
With blows and kicks he has been felled to earth,
Half dead he lies and happy they who have
The chance to spit into his wrinkled face
And once again kick at his hoary head.

Poor, wretched people, why heap o'er your head
The curse of God? Are you not cursed enough?
You crucified the Lord, our Jesus Christ
Wasn't that enough? Must you then crucify
All saviors who try to serve you well?
Poor wretched folks! A hundred times poor race!

Within a day or two a scaffold stood
Upon the city-square. Condemned to die
A hoary headed man, all fearless stood
On it, near him: the headsman with his sword,
— The shining instrument which deals fell death

The gray-head looked into the eyes of those
Who came, — a mighty crowd,— to see him die,
Whose eyes with exultation seemed to burn.
One tear-drop of deep pity glistened in
His own eye. He felt sympathy for those
Who had with blows and kicks belabored hjm,
And now rejoice to see him yield his life.
With awful swish the sword sweeps through the air,
The head rolls to the ground, Sylvester's head!
The populace bawls loud: "Long live the King!"

The headsman's men inter Sylvester's corpse
In the deep grave dug at the scaffold's foot.