Gladioli

STEEPED in hot radiance to the brim,
Thy spires aflame with blossoms bright,
Ye stand beside the smoke-tree dim,
With color, dazzling blind our sight.

From palest flush to darkest red,
From orange dull to amber clear,—
All tints of glory on thee shed,
Gradations to the artist dear.

Carbuncle flames within thee burn,
Thou bearest thee with rigid pride,
Thy tawny tints in bronzed urn
Suggest the leopard’s spotted side.

When first I heard thy Latin name,
A vision rose, of Roman state,
A broad arena’s cruel game,
The lion and the martyr’s fate.

We see the gladiator stand,
His level eyes the crowds explore,
He seeks the sign of uplift hand,
He dies ! The pageant is well o’er.

But English thought and English tongue
Have lent their fitness to thy face ;
Sword-lily summons to my song
The history of the human race.

A glory flashes in the sword ;
The Pagan craved it as his need.
To fight with banners never lowered,
To conquer, was his chosen creed.

Then came the chastening Christian life,
The sword was hung upon the wall;
And, emblem of their saintly strife,
Sprang lilies, sweet and white and tall.

But men must fight as well as pray;
Fight living foes, outside the heart;
Nor wear their life in dreams away,
But in the conflict bear their part.

So grew the times of tented field,
Of ladies’ scarf, of squire and knight.
The lily bloomed upon the shield,
The sword, unsheathed, flashed forth its light.

O vision of our hearts’ desire !
Thy carven topaz still suggests
The sword of fate, the flame of fire,
The white heat of the crucial tests.

Still lift thy sturdy flower-stem up,
And show thy splendors at their best,
For hid within thy painted cup
A poet’s dream lies unconfest.

When peace shall rule the broad world round,
And banish selfish greed and pride,
When war is but an old-time sound
And blossoms bloom on each roadside,

Ye flowers that blaze with warlike red,
And bristle with such martial mien,
Peace rests upon thy glowing head,
Of slumberous noontide crowns thee queen.

For gardens green and summer home
War beats down with relentless hoof;
And tramping feet have never come
To desecrate this sacred roof.

O nations! who at this late day
Contend in deep and bitter hate,
Your rifles drop, your bayonets stay,
Your consciousness may come, too late.

Farewell, yon beauties ! Fairer far
Such prophecy of good to come
When truth and love may banish war,
And cannons rust, forever dumb.