Poems (Linn)/An Old Sword

by Edith Willis Linn

AN OLD SWORD.

SWORD of Damascus on my wall
Hanging within thy time-worn sheath,
About thee like a faded wreath
 Twineth the story of thy fall;
Hangeth the story of thy fate,
Of cities sacked and desolate,
 Of ruined castle dark and tall.

On Persian fields thy blade was bare.
Beside the Nile's eternal stream;
On Athens' plains, where fondly dream
 The Greeks of days that yet shall wear
A something of the olden pride
When gods and men fought side by side;—
 Thy supple blade was gleaming there.

In din of war, 'mid cries and cheers,
Thy blade was glittering in the sun;
A hundred victories thou hast won
 That filled the world with hopes and fears;
And around thee yet the glory gleams;
But Fate is juster than she seems
 And thou art conquered with the years.

But though thy tales of love and woe
Are ended like a summer day,
One noble deed shall not decay,
 Its glory leaves an afterglow.
Who cares what hand has clasped thy hilt,
Or what heart-blood thy blade has spilt
 On Persian sand or Russian snow?

But all the good that men have done
Shall know not rusting or decay;
And though thy blade be hid away
 And nevermore reflect the sun,
Thy work for freedom shall endure
While men are noble, women pure,
 And love of life and country one.