[Decoration]
XIV.
_WILDEY'S DREAM._
A blacksmith stood, at his anvil good, Just fifty years ago, And struck in his might, to the left and right, The iron all aglow. And fast and far, as each miniature star Illumined the dusky air, The sparks of his mind left a halo behind, Like the aureola of prayer.
And the blacksmith thought, as he hammered and wrought, Just fifty years ago, Of the sins that start in the human heart When _its_ metal is all aglow; And he breathed a prayer, on the evening air, As he watched the fire-sparks roll, That with hammer and tongs, _he_ might right the wrongs That environ the human soul!
When he leaned on his sledge, not like minion or drudge, With center in self alone, But with vision so grand, it embraced every land, In the sweep of its mighty zone; O'er mountain and main, o'er forest and plain, He gazed from his swarthy home, Till rafter and wall, grew up in a hall, That covered the world with its dome!
'Neath that bending arch, with a tottering march All peoples went wailing by, To the music of groan, of sob, and of moan, To the grave that was yawning nigh, When the blacksmith rose and redoubled his blows On the iron that was aglow, Till his senses did seem to dissolve in a dream, Just fifty years ago.
He thought that he stood upon a mountain chain, And gazed across an almost boundless plain; Men of all nations, and of every clime, Of ancient epochs, and of modern time, Rose in thick ranks before his wandering eye, And passed, like waves, in quick succession by.
First came Osiris, with his Memphian band Of swarth Egyptians, darkening all the land; With heads downcast they dragged their limbs along, Laden with chains, and torn by lash and thong. From morn till eve they toiled and bled and died, And stained with blood the Nile's encroaching tide. Slowly upon the Theban plain there rose Old Cheop's pride, a pyramid of woes; And millions sank unpitied in their graves, With tombs inscribed--"Here lies a realm of slaves."
Next came great Nimrod prancing on his steed, His serried ranks, Assyrian and Mede, By bold Sennacherib moulded into one, By bestial Sardanapalus undone. He saw the walls of Babylon arise, Spring from the earth, invade the azure skies, And bear upon their airy ramparts old Gardens and vines, and fruit, and flowers of gold. Beneath their cold and insalubrious shade All woes and vices had their coverts made; Lascivious incest o'er the land was sown, From peasant cabin to imperial throne, And that proud realm, so full of might and fame, Went down at last in blood, and sin, and shame.
Then came the Persian, with his vast array Of armed millions, fretting for the fray, Led on by Xerxes and his harlot horde, Where billows swallowed, and where battle roared. On every side there rose a bloody screen, Till mighty Alexander closed the scene. Behold that warrior! in his pomp and pride, Dash through the world, and over myriads ride; Plant his proud pennon on the Gangean stream, Pierce where the tigers hide, mount where the eagles scream, And happy only amid war's alarms, The clank of fetters, and the clash of arms; And moulding man by battle-fields and blows, To one foul mass of furies, fiends and foes. Such, too, the Roman, vanquishing mankind, Their fields to ravage, and their limbs to bind; Whose proudest trophy, and whose highest good, To write his fame with pencil dipped in blood; To stride the world, like Ocean's turbid waves, And sink all nations into servient slaves.
As passed the old, so modern realms swept by, Woe in all hearts, and tears in every eye; Crimes stained the noble, famine crushed the poor; Poison for kings, oppression for the boor; Force by the mighty, fraud by the feebler shown; Mercy a myth, and charity unknown.
The Dreamer sighed, for sorrow filled his breast; Turned from the scene and sank to deeper rest. "Come!" cried a low voice full of music sweet, "Come!" and an angel touched his trembling feet. Down the steep hills they wend their toilsome way, Cross the vast plain that on their journey lay; Gain the dark city, through its suburbs roam, And pause at length within the dreamer's home.
Again he stood at his anvil good With an angel by his side, And rested his sledge on its iron edge And blew up his bellows wide; He kindled the flame till the white heat came, Then murmured in accent low: "All ready am I your bidding to try So far as a mortal may go."
'Midst the heat and the smoke the angel spoke, And breathed in his softest tone, "Heaven caught up your prayer on the evening air As it mounted toward the throne. God weaveth no task for mortals to ask Beyond a mortal's control, And with hammer and tongs you shall right the wrongs That encompass the human soul.
"But go you first forth 'mong the sons of the earth, And bring me a human heart That throbs for its kind, spite of weather and wind, And acts still a brother's part. The night groweth late, but here will I wait Till dawn streak the eastern skies; And lest you should fail, spread _my_ wings on the gale, And search with _my_ angel eyes."
The dreamer once more passed the open door, But plumed for an angel's flight; He sped through the world like a thunderbolt hurled When the clouds are alive with light; He followed the sun till his race was won, And probed every heart and mind; But in every zone man labored alone For himself and not for his kind.
All mournful and flushed, his dearest hopes crushed, The dreamer returned to his home, And stood in the flare of the forge's red glare, Besprinkled with dew and foam. "The heart you have sought must be tempered and taught In the flame that is all aglow." "No heart could I find that was true to its kind, So I left all the world in its woe."
Then the stern angel cried: "In your own throbbing side Beats a heart that is sound to the core; Will you give your own life to the edge of the knife For the widowed, the orphaned, and poor?" "Most unworthy am I for my brothers to die, And sinful my sorrowing heart; But strike, if you will, to redeem or to kill, With life I am willing to part."
Then he threw ope his vest and bared his broad breast To the angel's glittering blade; Soon the swift purple tide gushed a stream red and wide From the wound that the weapon had made. With a jerk and a start he then plucked out his heart, And buried it deep in the flame That flickered and fell like the flashes of hell O'er the dreamer's quivering frame.
"Now with hammer and tongs you may right all the wrongs That environ the human soul; But first, you must smite with a Vulcan's might The heart in yon blistering bowl." Quick the blacksmith arose, and redoubling his blows, Beat the heart that was all aglow, Till its fiery scars like a shower of stars Illumined the night with their flow.
Every sling of his sledge reopened the edge Of wounds that were healed long ago; And from each livid chasm leaped forth a phantasm Of passion, of sin, or of woe. But he heeded no pain as he hammered amain, For the angel was holding the heart, And cried at each blow, "Strike high!" or "Strike low!" "Strike hither!" or "Yonder apart!"
So he hammered and wrought, and he toiled and fought Till Aurora peeped over the plain; When the angel flew by and ascended the sky, _But left on the anvil a chain!_ Its links were as bright as heaven's own light, As pure as the fountain of youth; And bore on each fold in letters of gold, This token--LOVE, FRIENDSHIP AND TRUTH.
The dreamer awoke, and peered through the smoke At the anvil that slept by his side; And then in a wreath of flower-bound sheath, The triple-linked chain he espied. Odd Fellowship's gem is that bright diadem, Our emblem in age and in youth; For our hearts we must prove in the fire of LOVE, And mould with the hammer of TRUTH.