For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands, On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn. "T is as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves, Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime; Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time? Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth rock sublime? They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts, Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's; But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free, Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea. They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires, Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires; Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay, From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day? New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth; They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth; Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be, Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's bloodrusted key. TOO LATE BY FITZ HUGH LUDLOW There sat an old man on a rock, And unceasing bewailed him of Fate For he sang the song, "Too late! too late." When we want, we have for our pains Till the want has burned out of our brains, While we send for the napkin the soup grows cold, And everything comes too late - too late. When strawberries seemed like red heavens, When my brain was at sixes and sevens, -- When the goodies all came in a stream — in a stream. I've a splendid blood-horse, and a liver I can buy boundless credits in Paris and Rome, How I longed, in that lonest of garrets, For the ground to grow two pecks of carrots, A rosebush a little thatched cottage Two spoons - love · Now in freestone I sit a basin of pottage! and my dotage With a woman's chair empty close by-close by! Ah! now, though I sit on a rock, I have shared one seat with the great; I have sat - knowing naught of the clock But the lips that kissed and the arms that caressed, ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA BY WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE - I am dying, Egypt, dying, too late. Though my scarr'd and veteran legions Strew dark Actium's fatal shore, Let not Cæsar's servile minions Should the base plebeian rabble As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian, |