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diff --git a/old/brssd10.txt b/old/brssd10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ba00a4a --- /dev/null +++ b/old/brssd10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1634 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bars and Shadows, by Ralph Chaplin + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Bars and Shadows + +Author: Ralph Chaplin + +Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6136] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on November 18, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARS AND SHADOWS *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +BARS AND SHADOWS + +THE PRISON POEMS OF RALPH CHAPLIN + +With an introduction By Scott Nearing + + +1922 + + +CONTENTS + +INTRODUCTION +MOURN NOT THE DEAD +TAPS +NIGHT IN THE CELL HOUSE +PRISON SHADOWS +PRISON REVEILLE +PRISON NOCTURNE +THE WARRIOR WIND +TO FREEDOM +THE VISION MAKER +DISTANCES +PHANTOMS +SEVEN LITTLE SPARROWS +SALAAM! +THE WEST IS DEAD +UP FROM YOUR KNEES! +THE EUNUCH +I. W. W. PRISON SONG +TO FRANCE +VILLANELLE +WESLEY EVEREST +THE INDUSTRIAL HERETICS +BLOOD AND WINE +THE RED GUARD +THE RED FEAST +THE GIRLS WHO SANG FOR US +TO EDITH +SONG OF SEPARATION +TO MY LITTLE SON +ESCAPED! +RETROSPECT + + + +INTRODUCTION + +I. + +Ralph Chaplin is serving a twenty year sentence in the Federal +Penitentiary, not as a punishment for any act of violence against +person or property, but solely for the expression of his opinions. + +Chaplin, together with a number of fellow prisoners who were sentenced +at the same time, was accused of taking part in a conspiracy with +intent to obstruct the prosecution of the war. To be sure the +Government did not produce a single witness to show that the war had +been obstructed by their activities; but it was argued that the +agitation which they had carried on by means of speeches, articles, +pamphlets, meetings and organizing campaigns, would quite naturally +hamper the country in its war work. On the face of their indictments +these men were accused of interfering with the conduct of the war; in +reality they were sent to jail because they held and expressed certain +beliefs. + +As a member of the Industrial Workers of the World, Ralph Chaplin did +his part to make the organization a success. He wrote songs and +poems; he made speeches: he edited the official paper, "Solidarity". +He looked about him; saw poverty, wretchedness and suffering among the +workers; contrasted it with the luxury of those who owned the land and +the machinery of production; studied the problem of distribution; and +decided that it was possible, through the organization of the +producers, to establish a more scientific, juster, more humane system +of society. All this he felt, intensely. With him and his +fellow-workers the task of freeing humanity from economic bondage took +on the aspect of a faith, a religion. They held their meetings; wrote +their literature; made their speeches and sang their songs with +zealous devotion. They had seen a vision; they had heard a call to +duty; they were giving their lives to a cause--the emancipation of the +human race. + +When the war broke out in Europe, with millions of working-men +flinging death and misery at one another, men like Chaplin, the world +over, regarded it as the last straw. Was it not bad enough that these +exploited creatures should be used as factory-fodder? Must they be +cannon-fodder too? Why should they fight to increase the economic +power of German traders? of British manufacturers? The war was a +capitalist war between capitalist nations. What interest had the +workers in these nations? in their winnings or in their losses? So ran +the argument. + +The I. W. W. was not primarily an anti-war organization In theory it +had abandoned political activity to devote itself exclusively to +agitation and organization on the field of industry. Practically its +funds and its energies were expended upon industrial struggles. Long +before the war, the I. W. W. had made itself known and feared for its +conduct of strikes, its free speech fights, and its ability to put the +sore spots of American industrial life on the front page of the daily +press and to keep them there until the people had become aroused to +the wrongs that were being perpetrated. It was in this domain of +industry that the I. W. W. was functioning, and it was among the +business interests that the determination had been reached to rid the +country of the organization at all costs. + +Had the chief offense of the I. W. W. consisted in its expressed +opposition to the war, it would not have been singled out for attack. +Many of the peace societies that flourished prior to 1917 were more +outspoken and more consistent in their opposition to war than were the +leaders of the I. W. W. None of these societies, however, had acquired +reputation for championing the cause of industrial under dogs, and for +demanding a complete change in the form of American economic life. +Consequently, in the prosecution, in the sentences, in the +commutations and in the pardons, the anti-war pacifists were treated +very leniently, while the revolutionary I. W. W. members were singled +out for the most ferocious legal and extra-legal attack. + +Technically, Ralph Chaplin and his comrades had conspired to obstruct +the war. Actually, they had lined themselves up solidly against the +present economic order, of which the World War was only one phase. +This was their real crime. + + +II. + +Ralph Chaplin was guilty of the most serious social offense that a man +can commit. While living in an old and shattered social order, he had +championed a new order of society and had expounded a new culture. +Socrates and Jesus, for like offenses, lost their lives. Thousands of +their followers, guilty of no greater crime than that of denouncing +vested wrong and expounding new truths, have suffered in the dungeon, +on the scaffold and at the stake. + +Not because he and his fellows conspired to obstruct the war, but +because they denounced the present order of economic society and +taught the inauguration of a better one, are they still held in prison +more than three years after the signing of the armistice; after the +proclamation of peace and the resumption of trade with all of the +enemy countries; after the repeal or the lapse of the Espionage Act +and the other war-time laws under which they were convicted; and after +German agents and German spies, caught red-handed in their attempts to +interfere with the prosecution of the war, have won their freedom +through presidential pardon. + +The most dangerous men in the United States, during the years 1917 and +1918, were not those who were taking pay to do the will of the German +or the Austrian Governments, but those who were trying to convince the +American working people that they should throw aside a system of +economic parasitism and economic exploitation, should take possession +of the machinery of production and should secure for themselves the +product of their own toil. In the eyes of the masters of American +life, such men are still dangerous, and that is the reason that they +are kept in prison. + + +III. + +The culture of any age consists of the feelings, habits, customs, +activities, thoughts, ambitions and dreams of a people. It is a +composite picture of their homes, their work, their arts, their +pleasures and the other channels of their life-expression. + +The culture of each age has two aspects. On the one hand there is the +established or accepted culture of those who dominate and +control,--the culture of the leisure or ruling class. This culture is +respected, admired, applauded, and sometimes even worshipped by those +who benefit from it most directly. Civilization--even life itself +seems bound up with its continuance. When the advocates of the +established culture cry "Long live the King!" they are really shouting +approval of royalty, aristocracy, landlordism, vassalage, exploitation +and of all the other attributes of divine right. The world as it is +becomes in their minds, synonymous with the world as it should be. For +them the old culture is the best culture. + +On the other hand there is the new culture, comprising the hopes, +beliefs, ideas and ideals of those who feel that the present is but a +transition-stage, leading from the past into the future--a future that +they see radiant with the best that is in man, developing soundly +against the bounties that are supplied by the hand of nature. These +forward looking ones, impatient with the mistakes and injustices of +to-day, preach wisdom and justice for the morrow. So imperfect does +the present seem to them, and so obvious are the possibilities of the +future, that they look forward confidently to the overthrow of the old +social forms, and the establishment, in their places, of a new +society, the embryo of which is already germinating within the old +social shell. + +The old culture relies on tradition, custom, and the normal +conservatism of the masses of mankind, The new culture relies on +concepts of justice, truth, liberty, love, brotherhood. Eighteenth +century, Feudal France was filled with the prophecies of a form of +society that would supplant Feudalism. Nineteenth century Russia, in +the grip of a capitalist burocracy, proved to be the centre for the +revolutions of the early twentieth century. The new culture, growing +at first under the shadow of the old, gradually assumes larger and +larger proportions until it takes all of the sunlight for itself, +throwing the old culture into the shadow of oblivion. + +Each ruling class knows these facts,--knows that the old must give +place to the new; knows that the living, ruling culture of to-day will +be the history of the day after tomorrow, yet because of the vested +interests which they rely upon for their power, and because they are +satisfied to have the deluge come after them, they oppose each +manifestation of the new culture and strain every nerve to make the +temporary organization of the world permanent. The more vigorously the +new culture thrives, the more eagerly do the representatives of the +old order strive to destroy it. + + +IV. + +During three eventful centuries, the part of North America that is now +the United States has witnessed two fierce culture-survival struggles. +In the first of these struggles--that between the American Indians and +the whites, the culture of Western Europe supplanted the culture of +primitive America. In the second struggle--that between the slave +holders of the South and the rising business interests of the North, +the slave oligarchy was swept from power, and in its place there was +established the new financial imperialism that dominates the public +life of the nation at the present time. Despite the extreme youth of +the capitalist system in the United States, there are already many +signs that those who profit by it must be prepared to defend it at no +distant date. The Russian Revolution of 1917 sounded the loudest note +of warning, but even before that occurred, the industrial capitalists +had entered upon a struggle which they believed to be of the greatest +importance to their future. + +During the twenty years that elapsed between the Homestead and Pullman +strikes and the beginning of the world war, the pages of American +industrial history are crowded with stories of the labor conflict--on +an ever vaster and vaster scale, between nationally organized +employers, using the power of the police, the courts and, where +necessary, the army; and the nationally organized workers, backed by +some show of public sentiment, and armed with the strength of numbers. +Although the bulk of the workers was still unorganized, and although +those who were organized thought and acted within the lines of their +crafts, considering themselves as railway trainmen or as carpenters +first, and as workers afterward, there was not wanting a new +spirit--sometimes called the spirit of industrial unionism-- +emphasizing labor solidarity and speaking most loudly through the +propaganda, first of the Socialist Labor Party and later of the +I. W. W. + +The old culture was joining battle with the new. "America is the land +of opportunity. It was good enough for my father: it is good enough +for me" was the slogan of the capitalists. "The world for the +workers," answered the vanguard of the exploited masses. + +The advocate of a labor state is as unpopular in a capitalist society +as the abolitionist was in the Carolinas before the Civil War. He sees +a vision that the stalwarts of the existing order do not care to see; +he speaks a language that they cannot comprehend; he represents an +interest that is as hateful to them as it is alien to their +privileges. + + +V. + +At the outset, while the old order is still relatively strong, and the +new relatively weak, the spokesmen of the old order can afford to +ignore the champions of the new. But as the established order grows +more senile and the new order more vigorous, the defenders of the old +order, by force or by guile, set themselves to root out the new, even +though they should be compelled to destroy themselves in the process. +Then there ensues a savage struggle in which wits are matched against +wits and force against force. Families are divided; the community is +split into factions; civil war rages; society is torn to its +foundations. At times the struggle reaches the military phase, but for +the most part it instills itself into the lives of the people until it +becomes an accepted part of the day's work. + +Then it is that the real test comes between the old world and the new. +The old world holds power--economic, social, political. It holds in +its hands income, respectability and preferment, with which it seeks +first to buy, and later to destroy all who oppose its will. + +Buying is the easiest, the safest, and in the long run the cheapest +method of gaining the desired end. + +Each generation contains some men and women possessed of unusual +endowments--as organizers and enterprisers, as spokesmen, as singers, +as seers and prophets. These gifted ones the old order sets out to +win--lavishing upon them gratitudes, favors, rewards; filling their +lives out of the horn of economic and social plenty; teasing their +vanities and gratifying their ambitions; soothing, cajoling, +flattering. By these means the rulers succeed in bringing under their +control the strong thinkers, the capable executives, the sensitive, +the talented--all in fact who are worth buying, and who can be bought +for income and for social preferment, even though they may have been +born into the families of the humblest and most oppressed of the +workers. + +Most men and women go where income promises and social preferment +beckons. But not all! There are some whose love of justice, truth and +beauty; whose yearning for betterment and increased social +opportunity, outweighs the tempting bait of ease and respectability. +Them the established order smites. + +The strength of the old order is measured superficially by the extent +of its control over the means of common livelihood and by the +generalness of the satisfaction or discontent with which the masses +receive its administration. Fundamentally its strength is determined +by the direction in which its life is tending. The structure of the +Roman Empire was apparently sound before it buckled and disintegrated. +The French aristocracy was never surer of itself than in the gala days +that preceded 1789. The old order may undergo a process of gradual +transformation. In that case the change is slow, as it was when +Feudalism gave place to Capitalism in England. Again, the old order +may be exterminated as it was when Feudalism gave place to Capitalism +in France. In one case the masters of life loosens the reins of power +to ease the straining team; in the other case the masters hold the +reins taut till they are jerked from their hands, as masters and team +go together over the precipice. + +The strength of the new order, at any stage in its development may be +gauged by the solidarity of its organization, the efficacy of its +propaganda, and the tone of its art. These forms of expression are +necessary to the maintenance of any phase of culture, old or new, and +by the last of the three, the esthetic expression of the culture, its +morale may best be judged. It is for this reason that artists, +musicians, dramatists and poets are so important a part of any order +of society. They voice its deepest sentiments and express its most +sacred faiths and longings. When the time arrives that a new social +order can boast its permanent art and music and literature, it is +already far advanced on the path that leads to stability and power. + + +VI. + +The poems which appear in this volume are a contribution to the +propaganda and the art of the new culture. "Above all things," writes +Chaplin, "I don't want anyone to try to make me out a 'poet'--because +I'm not. I don't think much of these esthetic creatures who condescend +to stoop to our level that we may have the blessings of culture. We'll +manage to make our own--do it in our own way, and stagger through +somehow. . . . These are tremendous times, and sooner or later someone +will come along big enough to sound the right note, and it will be a +rebel note." It is that note which Chaplin has sought to strike, and +that he has succeeded will be the verdict of anyone who has read over +the poems. + +Chaplin's work speaks for itself. Some of the poems were written in +Leavenworth Prison and published in the prison paper. Others were +written during the tedious months of the Chicago trial, when the men +were kept in the Cook County jail. Chaplin has had ample time to work +them out. Christmas, 1921, was the fifth consecutive Christmas that +he has spent in prison. The poems bear the impress of the bars, but +they ring with the glad vigor of a free spirit that bars cannot +contain. + +The reader of Chaplin's prison poems unavoidably makes three mental +comments: + +1. When poems so reserved, so vigorous; so penetrating, so melodious, +so beautiful, come from behind jail bars, it is high time that +thinking men and women awoke to the fate that awaits bold dreamers and +singers under the present order in the United States. + +2. Men are not silenced when steel doors clang behind them. Free +spirits are as free behind the bars as they are under the open sky. +The jail, as a gag, is impotent. While it may master the body, it +cannot contain the soul. + +3. The new order in America is already finding its voice. Although it +is so young, and so immature, it is speaking with an accent of gifted +authority. + +Chaplin is not a dangerous man--except as his ideas are dangerous to +the existing order of society. His presence in the penitentiary, under +a twenty year sentence, indicates how dangerous those ideas are +considered by the masters of American public life. Rich those masters +are--fabulously rich; and strong they may be, yet so insecure do they +feel themselves that they are constrained to hold in prison this +dreamer and singer of the new social order. + +Chaplin, in prison, like Debs in prison, is doing his work. He is +resisting the encroachments of those jail demons--hate, bitterness, +revenge; he is holding his mind on the goal--a newer, better social +order; he is keeping his vision of nature, of humanity, of +brotherhood, of courage, of love, of beauty,--clear and bright. +Chaplin, the man, is in jail; but Chaplin the poet and singer is +roaming wherever books go; wherever papers are read, and wherever +comrades repeat verses to one another in the flickering light of the +evening fire. + +SCOTT NEARING. + + + + +MOURN NOT THE DEAD + + Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie-- + Dust unto dust-- + The calm, sweet earth that mothers all who die + As all men must; + + Mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell-- + Too strong to strive-- + Within each steel-bound coffin of a cell, + Buried alive; + + But rather mourn the apathetic throng-- + The cowed and the meek-- + Who see the world's great anguish and its wrong + And dare not speak! + + + +TAPS + + The day is ended! Ghostly shadows creep + Along each dim-lit wall and corridor. + The bugle sounds as from some faery shore + Silvered with sadness, somnolent and deep. + Darkness and bars . . . God! shall we curse or weep? + Somewhere a pipe is tapped upon the floor; + A guard slams shut the heavy iron door; + The day is ended--go to sleep--to sleep. + + Three times it blows--weird lullaby of doom-- + And then to dream while fecund Night gives birth + To other days like this day that is done. . + But Morning . . . does it live beyond the gloom-- + This deep black pall that hangs above the earth-- + He fears the dark who dares to doubt the sun! + + + +NIGHT IN THE CELL HOUSE + + Tier over tier they rise to dizzy height-- + The cells of men who know the world no more. + Silence intense from ceiling to the floor; + While through the window gleams a lone blue light + Which stabs the dark immensity of night. + Felt shod and ghostly like a shade of yore, + The guard comes shuffling down the corridor; + His key-ring jingles . . . and he glides from sight. + + Oh, to forget the prison and its scars, + And face the breeze where ocean meets the land; + To watch the foam-crests dance with silver stars, + While long green waves come tumbling on the sand . . . + My brow is hot against the icy bars; + There is the smell of iron on my hand. + + + +PRISON SHADOWS + + Like grey-winged phantoms out of sullen skies + They flood our cells and seem to fashion there + I know not what dim landscapes of despair; + All day we feel them lurking in our eyes. + At night they fall like crosses, sombre-wise, + Upon the shameful uniforms we wear, + Upon the brow, the face, the hand, the hair; + And on each heart their shadow always lies. + + O heart of mine, why throb with futile rage + And beat and beat against these hopeless bars? + For, though you break in life's last deadly swoon, + You cannot pierce beyond this iron cage + To see the pulsing splendor of the stars + Or feel the blue-green magic of the moon! + + + +PRISON REVEILLE + + Out through the iron doorway, bolted strong, + I see the night guard's shadow on the wall. + The bugle sounds its thin, white silver call, + Awake! awake! O world-forgotten throng! + And then the sudden clanging of the gong, + And . . . silence . . . aching silence . . . over all; + While through the windows, steel-barred, stern and tall, + Pale daylight greets us like a plaintive song. + + Somewhere the dawn breaks laughing o'er the sea + To splash with gold the cities' domes and towers, + And countless men seek visions wide and free, + In that alluring world that is not ours; + But no one there could prize as much as we + The open road, the smell of grass and flowers. + + + +PRISON NOCTURNE + + Outside the storm is swishing to and fro; + The wet wind hums its colorless refrain; + Against the walls and dripping bars, the rain + Beats with a rhythm like a song of woe; + Dimmed by the lightning's ever-fitful glow + The purple arc-lamps blur each streaming pane; + The thunder rumbles at the distant plain, + The cells are hushed and silent, row on row. + + Fall, fruitful drops, upon the parching earth, + Fall, and revive the living sap of spring; + Blossom the fields with wonder once again! + And, in all hearts, awaken to new birth + Those visions and endeavors that will bring + A fresh, sweet morning to the world of men! + + + +THE WARRIOR WIND + + Once more the wind leaps from the sullen land + With his old battle-cry. + A tree bends darkly where the wall looms high; + Its tortured branches, like a grisly hand, + Clutch at the sky. + + Grey towers rise from gloom and underneath-- + Black-barred and strong-- + The snarling windows guard their ancient wrong; + But the mad wind shakes them, hissing through his teeth + A battle song. + + O bitter is the challenge that he flings + At bars and bolts and keys. + Torn with the cries of vanished centuries + And curses hurled at long-forgotten kings + Beyond dim seas. + + The wind alone, of all the gods of old, + Men could not chain. + O wild wind, brother to my wrath and pain, + Like you, within a restless heart I hold + A hurricane. + + The wind has known the dungeons of the past + Knows all that are; + And in due time will strew their dust afar, + And singing, he will shout their doom at last + To a laughing star. + + O cleansing warrior wind, stronger than death, + Wiser than men may know; + O smite these stubborn walls and lay them low, + Uproot and rend them with your mighty breath-- + Blow, wild wind, blow! + + + +TO FREEDOM + + Out on the "lookout" in the wind and sleet, + Out in the woods of fir and spruce and pine, + Down in the hot slopes of the dripping mine + We dreamed of you and Oh, the dream was sweet! + And now you bless the felon food we eat + And make each iron cell a sacred shrine; + For when your love thrills in the blood like wine, + The very stones grow holy to our feet. + + We shall be faithful though we march with Death + And singing storm the barricades of Wrong, + For life is such a little thing to give. + We shall fight on as long as we have breath-- + Love in our hearts and on our lips a song-- + Without you it were better not to live! + + + +THE VISION MAKER + +To EUGENE VICTOR DEBS + + + Christ-like he spoke. While angry cannon roared, + His vision tinged the torn and bleeding skies, + Men heard in him their own dumb anguished cries, + The heavens seemed to open at his word. + Give us a victim, shouted Caesar's horde, + From his black pyre red warnings shall arise, + The vision perishes, the prophet dies. . . + His truth is far more deadly than our sword! + + And deadlier his dream--a quenchless flame, + For which no dungeon fastness can be built . . . + You have but made the convict half divine, + Crowned Truth with martyrdom, yourselves with shame; + Not he, but you are branded deep with guilt; + His cell is holier than your highest shrine. + + + +DISTANCES + + Above the moist earth, tremulous and bright, + The stars creep forth--stars that I cannot see; + And to my cell steals, oh, so tenderly + The dewy fragrance of a summer night! + All wan and wistful, somewhere out of sight, + Stalking o'er landscapes wide and dark and free, + My friend, the moon, looks everywhere for me, + Splashing the paths I loved with silver light. + + Oh loveliness! why do you torture so + With such keen beauty till the day appears? + Why touch to life things buried long ago, + Whose aching cries trouble the heart to tears; + Ghostly--like wind tossed sea gulls calling low + Out of the poignant vistas of the years? + + + +PHANTOMS + + Ghost of a mountain + And ghost of a moon; + Night birds sink droopingly + Over the dune + + Clouds drifting hazily + Stars blurring through; + Darkness come close to me-- + Darkness and you. + + Mist on the water + And mist in the sky; + Netted with silver + The waves ripple by. + + _Ghost of a solitude_ + _Lit with dead stars._ + _You have your memories_ + _I have my bars!_ + + + +SEVEN LITTLE SPARROWS + + Beyond the deep-cut window + The bars are heaped with snow, + And seven little sparrows + Are sitting in a row. + + Fluffy blur of snowflakes; + Dappled haze of light; + The narrow prison vista + Is all awhirl with white. + + Seven little sparrows + Ruffled brown and grey + Snuggled close against the bars-- + And this is Christmas day! + + + +SALAAM! + + Serene, complacent, satisfied, + Content with things that be; + The paragon of paltriness + Upraised for all to see; + With loving pride he cherishes + His mediocrity! + + The smirking, ass-like multitudes + Cringe down at his command. + With wagging ears and blinded eyes + They do not understand. + With pride they show each shackled wrist + And on each brow the brand. + + The young, the old, the great, the small + Give homage--all supine. + Fond parents bring their children there + As to some holy shrine. + And every one the Beast transforms + From human into swine! + + Well praised are they--rewarded well-- + Who on their shoulders bore + The gilded Thing that all the mob + Fawned in the dust before. + And each that did obeisance there + Was naked like a whore. + + The poet with his teeming song, + The wise his deep-delved lore, + The maiden with her tender flesh, + The strong his sturdy store: + Each yielded all he had to give; + No harlot could do more. + + Is there not one to share with me + The shame and wrath I own? + Is there not one to curse that Thing + Or pick up stones to stone-- + To rend and wreck and raze to earth-- + Or do I stand alone? + + Raise high the swine-like incubus, + Obediently bow! + Shatter the flame on rebel lips + And wreath that brazen brow! + So blaze the banners, ring the bells, + Apotheosis now! + + My kind but scorn your dull "success"-- + Your subtle ways to "win," + We eat our hearts in solitude + Or sear our souls with "sin"; + Yet we are better men than you + Who fit so smugly in. + + Go! grovel for the shoddy goods + And plod and plot and plan, + And if you win the paltry prize + Go prize it--if you can, + But I would hurl it in your face + To hold myself a man! + + I will not bow with that mad horde + And passively obey. + I will not think their sordid thoughts + Nor say the things they say, + Nor wear their shameful uniforms, + Nor branded be as they. + + Nor can they bend me to their will + Though black their numbers swell, + Nor bribe with hopes of paradise + Nor force with fears of hell; + Me they may break but never bend,-- + I live but to rebel! + + I go my way rejoicingly, + I, outcast, spurned and low, + But undreamed worlds may come to birth + From seeds that I may sow. + And if there's pain within my heart + Those fools shall never know. + + So let me stand back silently, + The pageant passes by, + And live my life with these new Christs + Whom you would crucify, + And laugh with mirth to see the mob + Do homage to a Lie! + + + +THE WEST IS DEAD + + What path is left for you to tread + When hunger-wolves are slinking near-- + Do you not know the West is dead? + + The "blanket-stiff" now packs his bed + Along the trails of yesteryear-- + What path is left for you to tread? + + Your fathers, golden sunsets led + To virgin prairies wide and clear-- + Do you not know the West is dead? + + Now dismal cities rise instead + And freedom is not there nor here-- + What path is left for you to tread? + + Your fathers' world, for which they bled, + Is fenced and settled far and near-- + Do you not know the West is dead? + + Your fathers gained a crust of bread, + Their bones bleach on the lost frontier; + What path is left for you to tread-- + Do you not know the West is dead? + + + +UP FROM YOUR KNEES + +(Air: "Song of a Thousand Years") + + Up from your knees, ye cringing serf men! + What have ye gained by whines and tears? + Rise! They can never break our spirits + Though they should try a thousand years. + + CHORUS + + A thousand years, then speed the victory! + Nothing can stop us nor dismay. + After the winter comes the springtime; + After the darkness comes the day. + + Break ye your chains, strike off your fetters; + Beat them to swords, the Foe appears. + Slaves of the world arise and crush him-- + Crush him or serve a thousand years. + + Join in the fight--the Final Battle, + Welcome the fray with ringing cheers. + These are the times our fathers dreamed of, + Fought to attain a thousand years. + + Be ye prepared, be not unworthy, + Greater the task when triumph nears. + Master the earth, O men of labor; + Long have ye learned--a thousand years. + + Out of the East the sun is rising, + Out of the night the day appears; + See! at your feet the world is waiting, + Bought with your blood a thousand years. + + + +THE EUNUCH + +(To those who fight on the side of the Powers of Darkness) + + Once a Eunuch by the palace + In the sunset's fading glow + Felt the soft warm breezes blow; + Watched the fair girls of the Harem + Idly saunter to and fro. + + Saw he beauty young and lavish-- + Fierce to lure man's every sense-- + (Grim the Eunuch stood and tense) + Laughingly the sparkling fountain + Mocked his bleak incompetence. + + Came the Sultan from his hunting + Flaming with the zest of life; + (Laid aside were spear and knife) + Came for wine and song and feasting, + Came to seek his fairest wife. + + Opened then the marble portals. + Fragrant incense filled the air, + (Sandalwood and roses rare) + While the girls with red-lipped languor + Scattered flowers everywhere. + + Far away the fabled mountains, + (Like some paradise of old) + Glowed with lavender and gold. + Tense the Eunuch stood and silent-- + Tense and sullen, tense and cold. + + Now a quick impotent fury + Lashed him like a bronze-tipped cord. + Sprang he at the youthful lord, + Sprang again with blade all bloody . . . + (Famished lust and dripping sword.) + + * * * * * + + Night crept on all chill and ghastly, + Jackals trotted forth to bark, + (Murder shuddered, still and stark . . .) + By the palace ceased the fountain + And the whole grey world grew dark. + + + +I. W. W. PRISON SONG + +(Tune: "The Red Flag") + + + The pale and dismal daylight falls + Through iron bars on prison walls. + In chains we came from far and near, + And in dark cells they hold us here. + + CHORUS + + Defiant 'neath the Iron Heel; + Their walls of stone and bars of steel! + For though all hell at us is hurled, + We and our kind shall rule the world! + + At us the blood-hounds are let loose, + The lynch-mobs with the knotted noose; + In legal sanctioned mask and gown + The New Black Hundreds hunt us down. + + To all brave comrades o'er the sea, + In chains for human liberty, + And all jailed rebels everywhere + We say: be bold to do and dare! + + By all the graves of Labor's dead, + By Labor's deathless flag of red, + We make a solemn vow to you,-- + We'll keep the faith; we will be true. + + For Freedom laughs at prison bars + Her voice re-echoes from the stars; + Proclaiming with the tempest's breath + A Cause beyond the reach of death! + + + +TO FRANCE + +(May Day, 1919) + + Mother of revolutions, stern and sweet, + Thou of the red Commune's heroic days; + Unsheathe thy sword, let thy pent lightning blaze + Until these new bastiles fall at thy feet. + Once more thy sons march down the ancient street + Led by pale men from silent Pere la Chaise; + Once more La Carmignole--La Marseillaise + Blend with the war drum's quick and angry beat. + + Ah, France--our--France--must they again endure + The crown of thorns upon the cross of death? + Is morning here . . .? Then speak that we may know! + The sky seems lighter but we are not sure. + Is morning here . . .? The whole world holds its breath + To hear the crimson Gallic rooster crow! + + + +VILLANELLE + +(Torquato Tasso from his cell at Ste. Anne, 1548) + +Her beauty haunts me everywhere-- + A lone lark singing as it flies-- +Sweet, O sweet beyond compare. + +Amber and gold meet in her hair, + Dark pools and starlight in her eyes; +Her beauty haunts me everywhere. + +Slim body, petal soft and fair, + Cool lips, cool, cool as evening skies-- +Sweet, O sweet beyond compare. + +Pale fingers delicate and rare, + To lull and lure caressing-wise; +Her beauty haunts me everywhere. + +Here in my dungeon dim and bare + The last frail not of music dies-- +Sweet, O sweet beyond compare. + +My heart? I steeled it not to care. . . . + But God! her love is paradise! +Her beauty haunts me everywhere, +O sweet, sweet, sweet beyond compare! + + + +WESLEY EVEREST + +(Mutilated and murdered at Centralia, Washington, +November 11th, 1919, by a mob of "respectable" +businessmen.) + + Torn and defiant as a wind-lashed reed, + Wounded he faced you as he stood at bay; + You dared not lynch him in the light of day, + But on your dungeon stones you let him bleed; + Night came . . . and you black vigilants of Greed . . . + Like human wolves, seized hard upon your prey, + Tortured and killed . . . and, silent slunk away + Without one qualm of horror at the deed. + + Once . . . long ago . . . do you remember how + You hailed Him king for soldiers to deride-- + You placed a scroll above His bleeding brow + And spat upon Him, scourged Him, crucified . . .? + + A rebel unto Caesar--then as now + Alone, thorn-crowned, a spear wound in his side! + + + +THE INDUSTRIAL HERETICS + + They say we are revolters--that we stirred + The workers of all nations to rebel-- + And that we would not compromise with Hell, + But damned it with our every deed and word. + They feared us as we faced them undeterred, + And gave us each a coffin of a cell + In this steel cave where living corpses dwell-- + Hate-throttled here that we might not be heard. + + We are those fools too stubborn-willed to bend + Our necks to Wrong and parley and discuss. + Today we face the awful test of fire-- + The prison, gallows, cross--but in the end + Your sons will call your children after us + And name their dogs from men you now admire! + + + +BLOOD AND WINE + +(A certain little renegade of the Revolution chants a +hymn of praise to his erstwhile enemy.) + + Behold! The helots of the land + Are cowed beneath thy iron fist; + They are too dumb to understand-- + Too tame and spineless to resist. + + Victorious one! Against thy gains + These chattels cannot, dare not rise; + Stifle the thought within their brains + And rule . . . with bayonets and lies. + + So may thy sons, with greed uncurbed, + Their children's children rule again; + Aye, rule with iron, undisturbed, + The all-prolific sons of men. + + What matters that ten million died + To give thy lust a dwelling place? + Does not thy Terror set aside + The ancient freedom of the race? + + What matters that the peasant's plow + Bites at a soil baptised with red? + Are not thy bloody dollars now + More myriad than the myriad dead? + + That in charred cities, wan with pain, + War-desolated mothers live, + While lips of babies tug in vain + At breasts that have no milk to give? + + Or that beneath thy battered walls, + Cursed with the eloquence of hell, + Black Want to red Rebellion calls . . .? + Heed not, I tell thee all is well! + + Heed not! Have vine-clad maidens sing + And serve thee scented wine and gore; + Laugh! Glut thyself to vomiting, + And hiccough, screaming still for more. + + What of the Men against the gate, + Black-massed and sullen, gaunt and lean . . . + Like thee they crave one thing to hate. + Be glad . . . and whet thy guillotine! + + + +THE RED GUARD + + Sons of the dawn! No more shall you enslave + Nor lull them with your honied lies to sleep, + Nor lead them on like herds of human sheep, + To hopeless slaughter for the loot you crave. + For now upon you, wave on mighty wave, + The iron-stern battalions rise and leap + To extirpate your breed and bury deep + And sow with salt the unlamented grave! + + Accursed Monster -- nightmare of the years-- + Pause but a moment ere you pass away! + Pause and behold the earth made clean and pure-- + Our earth, that you have drenched with blood and tears-- + Then greet the crimson usurer of Day,-- + The mighty Proletarian Dictature! + + + +THE RED FEAST + + Go fight, you fools! Tear up the earth with strife + And spill each others guts upon the field; + Serve unto death the men you served in life + So that their wide dominions may not yield. + + Stand by the flag--the lie that still allures; + Lay down your lives for land you do not own, + And give unto a war that is not yours + Your gory tithe of mangled flesh and bone. + + But whether it be yours to fall or kill + You must not pause to question why nor where. + You see the tiny crosses on that hill? + It took all those to make one millionaire. + + It was for him the seas of blood were shed, + That fields were razed and cities lit the sky; + And now he comes to chortle o'er the dead-- + The condor Thing for whom the millions die! + + The bugle screams, the cannons cease to roar. + "Enough! enough! God give us peace again." + The rats, the maggots and the Lords of War + Are fat to bursting from their meal of men. + + So stagger back, you stupid dupes who've "won," + Back to your stricken towns to toil anew, + For there your dismal tasks are still undone + And grim Starvation gropes again for you. + + What matters now your flag, your race, the skill + Of scattered legions--what has been the gain? + Once more beneath the lash you must distil + Your lives to glut a glory wrought of pain. + + In peace they starve you to your loathsome toil, + In war they drive you to the teeth of Death; + And when your life-blood soaks into their soil + They give you lies to choke your dying breath. + + So will they smite your blind eyes till you see, + And lash your naked backs until you know + That wasted blood can never set you free + From fettered thraldom to the Common Foe. + + Then you will find that "nation" is a name + And boundaries are things that don't exist; + That Labor's bondage, worldwide, is the same, + And ONE the enemy it must resist. + +Montreal, 1914. + + + +THE GIRLS WHO SANG FOR US + + What does it mean to us that Spring is here? + We asked ourselves within the great grey hall. + We shall not feel the magic of her call; + This day, like others, will be dull and drear. + And then you sang . . . and brought so very near, + The fragrant world beyond the prison wall, + The tender fields, the trees and grass, and all + The hopes and dreams that every man holds dear. + + O, silvery voices, sweet with life and youth + Brushing our grey lives with your rainbow wings-- + Lives that were stern and bitter with old wrong, + And cleansing them with beauty and with truth; + Reviving memories of vanished springs-- + Making us whole with miracles of song! + + + +TO EDITH + + Do you remember how we walked that night + In early spring? + And how we found a new and sweet delight + In everything? + Do you remember how the air was filled + With mist and moonlight--how our hearts were thrilled-- + And seemed to sing? + + What if these walls shut out the world for me + And heaven too, + There still lives fragrant in my memory + The thought of you. + And out there now with life's high dome above you + If you but knew how very much I love you-- + If you but knew . . . . + + + +SONG OF SEPARATION + + Two that I love must live alone, + Far away. + All in the world I can call my own, + Only they. + Mother and boy in the rocking chair, + Thinking of one who cannot be there, + Breathing a hope that is half a prayer; + Night and day, night and day. + + Here in my cell I must sit alone, + Clothed in grey. + Bars of iron and walls of stone + Bid me stay. + What of the world with its pomp and show? + Baubles of nothing! This I know: + Deep in my heart I miss them so + Night and day, night and day. + + + +TO MY LITTLE SON + + I cannot lose the thought of you + It haunts me like a little song, + It blends with all I see or do + Each day, the whole day long. + + The train, the lights, the engine's throb, + And that one stinging memory: + Your brave smile broken with a sob, + Your face pressed close to me. + + Lips trembling far too much to speak; + The arms that would not come undone; + The kiss so salty on your cheek; + The long, long trip begun. + + I could not miss you more it seemed, + But now I don't know what to say. + It's harder than I ever dreamed + With you so far away. + + + +ESCAPED! + +(The boiler house whistle is blown "wildcat" when +a prisoner makes a "getaway") + + A man has fled. . . .! We clutch the bars and wait; + The corridors are empty, tense and still; + A silver mist has dimmed the distant hill; + The guards have gathered at the prison gate. + Then suddenly the "wildcat" blares its hate + Like some mad Moloch screaming for the kill, + Shattering the air with terror loud and shrill, + The dim, grey walls become articulate. + + Freedom, you say? Behold her altar here! + In those far cities men can only find + A vaster prison and a redder hell, + O'ershadowed by new wings of greater fear. + Brave fool, for such a world to leave behind + The iron sanctuary of a cell! + + + +RETROSPECT + + The wall-girt distance undulates with heat; + The buildings crouch in terror of the sun; + Steel bars and stones, heat-tortured ton on ton, + On which the noon's remorseless hammers beat. + Alone I trudge the wide red-cobbled street: + How long before this evil dream is done . . .? + These strange mad stones I know them every one, + Worn with the tread of oh, how many feet! + + And yet it seems that I have seen it all + Before . . . I know not when . . . but there should be + Blunt buildings near a cliff, as I recall; + Bare rocks--a burning white--a gnarled dark tree . . . + And looming clear above a sentried wall + The foam-laced splendor of a warm blue sea . . . + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bars and Shadows, by Ralph Chaplin + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARS AND SHADOWS *** + +This file should be named brssd10.txt or brssd10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, brssd11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, brssd10a.txt + +Produced by David Starner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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