Poems (Jones)/The Prophecy of the Dead

by Amanda Theodosia Jones

THE PROPHECY OF THE DEAD. APRIL, 1861.

S the groaning earth stabbed to its core? Are the seas oozing blood in their bed?Have all troubles of ages before Grown quick in those homes of the dead?    The red plagues of yore— Must they to our season be wed?

We thought the volcano of War Would belch out its flames in the East;We knew where the winds were ajar With the quarrel of soldier and priest;    We shuddered—though far— To think how the vultures might feast.

We said, "We have Liberty's smile: Go to! we are safe in the West!"But the plague-spot was on us the while, And the serpent was warm in our breast:    We can no more revile— The ox is for sacrifice dressed.

Do ye hear, O ye Dead, in your tombs— Ye Dead, whose bold blows made us free—Do ye hear the reveillè of drums? Can ye say what the issue shall be?    Past the midnight that comes, Is the noon rising up from the sea?

Who whispered? Is life underneath Astir in the dust of the brave?For there steals to my ear such a breath As can only steal out of the grave:    "Ye must go down to death: Ye have drunk of the blood of the slave."

We have sinned, we have sinned, O ye Dead! Our fields with the out-crying bloodOf Abel, our brother, are fed: Must we therefore be drowned in the flood?    Waits no Ararat's head? Is no ark guided there by our God?

"Ye must go down to death: have ye heard The tale of the writings of yore,—How One in the sepulchre stirred, And cast off the grave-clothes he wore?    In the flesh dwelt the Word— Inheriting life evermore.

"When the foes of the nation have pressed To its lips the sponge reeking in gall;When the spear has gone into its breast, And the skies have been rent by its call;    It shall rise from its rest: It shall rise and shall rule over all."