Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
II. FreedomHeroes
Edna Dean Proctor (18291923)T
Have died by Neptune’s ruined shrines,
And her hull is the drift of the deep-sea floor,
Though shaped of Pelion’s tallest pines.
You may seek her crew on every isle
Fair in the foam of Ægean seas,
But out of their rest no charm can wile
Jason and Orpheus and Hercules.
By windy Ilion’s sea-built walls;
Nor great Achilles, stained with gore,
Shouts “O ye gods, ’t is Hector falls!”
On Ida’s mount is the shining snow,
But Jove has gone from its brow away;
And red on the plain the poppies grow
Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day.
Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?
Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red
All that is left of the brave of yore?
Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,
Far in the young world’s misty dawn?
Or teach as gray-haired Nestor taught?
Mother Earth, are the heroes gone?
Dead? We may clasp their hands in ours,
And catch the light of their clearer eyes,
And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.
Wherever a noble deed is done,
’T is the pulse of a hero’s heart is stirred;
Wherever Right has a triumph won,
There are the heroes’ voices heard.
Than the Greek and the Trojan fiercely trod;
For Freedom’s sword is the blade they wield,
And the gleam above is the smile of God.
So, in his isle of calm delight,
Jason may sleep the years away;
For the heroes live, and the sky is bright,
And the world is a braver world to-day.