Poems (Linn)/An Old Sword
AN OLD SWORD.
SWORD of Damascus on my wallHanging 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 wearA something of the olden prideWhen 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 woeAre 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 doneShall know not rusting or decay;And though thy blade be hid away And nevermore reflect the sun,Thy work for freedom shall endureWhile men are noble, women pure, And love of life and country one.