Angiolillo
We are the souls that crept and cried in the days when theytortured men;His was the spirit that walked erect, and met the beast in its den.
Ours are the eyes that were dim with tears for the thing theyshrunk to see;His was the glance that was crystal keen with the light thatmakes men free.
Ours are the hands that were wrung in pain, in helpless painand shame;His was the resolute hand that struck, steady and keen to its aim.
Ours are the lips that quivered with rage, that cursed and prayedin a breath:His was the mouth that opened but once to speak from thethroat of Death.
“Assassin, Assassin!” the World cries out, with a shake of itsdotard head;“Germinal!” rings back the grave where lies the Dead that isnot dead.
“Germinal, Germinal,” sings the Wind that is driving beforethe Storm;“Few are the drops that have fallen yet,—scattered, but red andwarm.”
“Germinal, Germinal,” sing the Fields, where furrows of menare plowed;“Ye shall gather a harvest over-rich, when the ear at the fullis bowed.”
Springing, springing, at every breath, the Word of invinciblestrife,The word of the Dead, that is calling loud down the battle ranksof Life!
For these are the Dead that live, though the earth upon them lie:But the doers of deeds of the Night of the Dead, they are theLive that die.
=Torresdale, Pa.=, August 1, 1900.