Poems (Chilton, 1885)/Powers' Greek Slave
POWERS' GREEK SLAVE.
A flash of sabres and of scymitars,
Shouts, groans, then silence,—and the crescent waves
Victorious o'er the field where in their graves
The vanquished dead will moulder. But such wars
Have woes that stab the Grecian mother's heart
Deeper than death. In far Byzantium's mart
She sees her captive child, naked, forlorn,
Gazed at by pitiless eyes,—a thing of scorn.
Shouts, groans, then silence,—and the crescent waves
Victorious o'er the field where in their graves
The vanquished dead will moulder. But such wars
Have woes that stab the Grecian mother's heart
Deeper than death. In far Byzantium's mart
She sees her captive child, naked, forlorn,
Gazed at by pitiless eyes,—a thing of scorn.
With face averted and with shackled hands,
Clothed only with her chastity she stands.
Her heart is full of tears, as any rose
Bending beneath a shower; but pride and scorn,
And that fine feeling of endurance born,
Have strung the delicate fibres of her frame
Till not a tear can fall! Methinks such woes
As thine, pale sufferer, might rend in twain
A heart of sterner stuff—and yet the flame
Of thy pure spirit, like the sacred light
On Hestia's hearth, burns steadily and bright,
Unswayed by sorrow's gusts, unquenched by sorrow's rain.
Clothed only with her chastity she stands.
Her heart is full of tears, as any rose
Bending beneath a shower; but pride and scorn,
And that fine feeling of endurance born,
Have strung the delicate fibres of her frame
Till not a tear can fall! Methinks such woes
As thine, pale sufferer, might rend in twain
A heart of sterner stuff—and yet the flame
Of thy pure spirit, like the sacred light
On Hestia's hearth, burns steadily and bright,
Unswayed by sorrow's gusts, unquenched by sorrow's rain.
Thou canst confront, dumb marble as thou art,
And silence those whose lying lips declare
That virtue springs from circumstance, not God;
The snow that falls whore never foot hath trod,
On bleakest mountain-heights, is not more pure
Than thy white soul, though thou stand'st naked there,
Gazed at by those whose lustful passions start
With every heart-throb! Long may'st thou endure,
To vanquish with thy calm, immaculate brow
The unholy thoughts of men, as thou dost now!
And silence those whose lying lips declare
That virtue springs from circumstance, not God;
The snow that falls whore never foot hath trod,
On bleakest mountain-heights, is not more pure
Than thy white soul, though thou stand'st naked there,
Gazed at by those whose lustful passions start
With every heart-throb! Long may'st thou endure,
To vanquish with thy calm, immaculate brow
The unholy thoughts of men, as thou dost now!