Black Beetles in Amber

Frank Pixley, you, who kiss the hand

That strove to cut the country's throat,

Cannot forgive the hands that smote

Applauding in a distant land,—

Applauding carelessly, as one

The weaker willing to befriend

Until the quarrel's at an end,

Then learn by whom it was begun.

When North was pitted against South

Non-combatants on either side

In calculating fury vied,

And fought their foes by word of mouth.

That devil's-camisade you led

With formidable feats of tongue.

Upon the battle's rear you hung—

With Samson's weapon slew the dead!

So hot the ardor of your soul

That every fierce civilian came,

His torch to kindle at your name,

Or have you blow his cooling coal.

Men prematurely left their beds

And sought the gelid bath—so great

The heat and splendor of your hate

Of Englishmen and "Copperheads."

King Liar of deceitful men,

For imposition doubly armed!

The patriots whom your speaking charmed

You stung to madness with your pen.

There was a certain journal here,

Its English owner growing rich—

Your hand the treason wrote for which

A mob cut short its curst career.

If, Pixley, you had not the brain

To know the true from false, or you

To Truth had courage to be true,

And loyal to her perfect reign;

If you had not your powers arrayed

To serve the wrong by tricksy speech,

Nor pushed yourself within the reach

Of retribution's accolade,

I had not had the will to go

Outside the olive-bordered path

Of peace to cut the birch of wrath,

And strip your body for the blow.

Behold how dark the war-clouds rise

About the mother of our race!

The lightnings gild her tranquil face

And glitter in her patient eyes.

Her children throng the hither flood

And lean intent above the beach.

Their beating hearts inhibit speech

With stifling tides of English blood.

"Their skies, but not their hearts, they change

Who go in ships across the sea"—

Through all centuries to be

The strange new land will still be strange.

The Island Mother holds in gage

The souls of sons she never saw;

Superior to law, the law

Of sympathetic heritage.

Forgotten now the foolish reign

Of wrath which sundered trivial ties.

A soldier's sabre vainly tries

To cleave a spiritual chain.

The iron in our blood affines,

Though fratricidal hands may spill.

Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill,

Yet Love abide at Seven Pines?