THE YEARS OF POETIC SCARCITY

As a result of the boycott and the difficulties that Franko experienced in'making a living with the pen after his second imprisonment and the great outburst of song which it seems to have stimulated at first, a change of mood came over him which is naturally reflected in the sparse poetical productiveness of the next years. The first two poems in the present group need no remark.

However, in the Duel, the poet seems to be setting forth in symbolism the inner spiritual conflict he was conscious of in being compelled to labor for bread on journals to whose general principles he was at heart opposed. As to
the one. To A Young Mend, we have an interesting note on Franco's method of utilizing his ideas. A friend records that he once saw Franko write a verse or two in a young lady's album beginning with the same lines as in the printed poem. When it appeared in print several years later, he recognized it as elaborated and enlarged, but this time addressed to a male friend, not to a girl. It is quite clear that the deep thought expressed as to the mission of the poet would have hardly found a place in full in a young lady's album. The final poem in this group is closely related to the preceding one as dealing with the theme of the inner life of the poet in achieving self-expression in his artistic productions.

            FORGET NOT

Forget not, ne'er forget

    The days of youth so bright.

On life's dark path they. cast

    A beam of radiant light,

The golden dreams of youth

    Of love, of action bold,

Of pure impulse, of such

    Be not ashamed, but hold.

They pass, and then in gloom

    Thou'lt labor like the mole,

And callouses will come

    Both on thy hands and soul.

He only, who can love,

    Endure, whose blood can thrill,

Whom hope can always heal,

    Whose courage naught can still,

Who grieves o'er man's defeat,

    Rejoices when he wins—

He is a man complete.

Throughout thy life, perhaps,

    'Twill not lie in thy power

To be such man complete—

    Yet be one for an hour!

And then in evil days,

    When grief makes thy heart sore,

When thy hopes pass away,

    And feeling glows no more,

When from the broad highways

    Where tides of life still sweep,

Thy way through bypaths leads,

    Deserted, narrow, steep;

When cares compress the heart,

    When thorns thy feet shall gall—

Thou wilt then life's springtime

    With gratitude recall!

And those bright dreams shall then

    A light on thy path bring.

Forget not, ne'er forget

    The days of youth, of spring!

1882

                AUTUMN WIND

O autumn wind! who o'er the trees dost moan
And weep, like mother sorrowing o'er a child;
Who drivest clouds in wild confusion piled,
As though thou wouldst sleep, winter, death

dethrone;

Who in the deep ravines dost howl and whine:
Who tearest thatch from off the peasants' huts,
And withered leaves dost scatter from the ruts
And send them flying till they sink supine__
Long have I listened to thy mighty moan;
Well do I know why thou dost weep and groan.
Thou grievest for the flowers, the summer day.
O brother wind! When some day thou shalt see
Me old and withered, wilt thou weep for me,
Or grimly sweep all trace of me away ?
1882

                            THE DUEL

The smoke rolled up in clouds. The cannon roared.
Like unseen serpents bullets hissed. Shells whined,
And as they burst, death and destruction poured.

The face of earth with bloody streams was lined.
Men's hearts pulsed with high courage for the fray.
A thousand hopes were lost in death entwined.

The proudest standards went down on that day,
Thrones fell that yesterday still seemed secure
Nor ever dreamed that they might feel dismay.

And in the ranks, in dread discomfiture,
With dust—begrimed, attenuated frame,
I also marched, our victory to assure.

Upon my cheeks there glowed a feverish flame,
A voice reproving spoke within my breast,
Yet on I marched, like traitor whipped by shame.

For I, a loyal subject like the rest,
Marched in obedience to authority,
Fulfilling duty at the state's behest.

I marched against the fierce hostility
Of those who on all thrones would wreak vile harm,
Who fain would put the torch to majesty.

Flood-like, we spread o'er fertile field and farm —
Naught but our troops where'er one turned the eye.
Somewhere, far off, we heard bells ring alarm.

A village burns. . . . The smoke rolls up on high . . .
The bugles blare and dissipate all thought . . .
Our pulses throb, our throats are parched and dry.

Directly to the foe we have been brought,
Through hazy smoke they loom indefinite,
Their ragged flags speak of grim battles fought.

In close formation, they stand opposite,
Fatigued, in wretched garb, yet without fright
Each holds his gun determined not to quit.

As sun rays dart to put the night to flight,
Or frightened birds flee from the hurricane,
So from their rifles spurts a leaden blight.

As whizzing hailstones slash the standing grain,
As furious tempests whip the falling snow,
Our answering volley mows them down amain. ,

"Hey, men, advance! Charge forward, strike a blow
Before they rally! Not a single one
Must get away who dares resistance show.

"No prisoners! Kill every mother's son!"
The general yelled to spur us to the fray.
Like wolves on sheep, we all began to run.

What then came over me, I cannot say;
A fit of shivering almost made me yield,
I saw not where I ran or stood that day.

I only know that on that bloody field
I stepped on bodies now beyond all aid
And trod on dreadful wounds still uncongealed.

I heard wild yells that in my hearing brayed,
Smoke seared my eyes and bullets whistled by,
While men rushed past who raved, or swore, or prayed.

In that wild rout naught could I dear descry,
Ears, eyes, and feet flashed by in turbulence,
As stinging swarms of angry bees might fly.

My hands seemed glued unto my rifle whence
A stream of bullets seemed to multiply
Like serpents spitting venomous violence.

"Death to the rebels!" from my breast the cry
Burst forth. Then, as though stabbed, I felt the gad
Of conscience — recognized the monstrous lie!

That very moment from that welter mad
There stepped a rebel, who was armed like me,
And in a blood-stained uniform was clad.

What's this? My fleshly double do I see?
Like me in every trait, eyes, mouth, and hair;
The very same, alike in each degree.

I stood there petrified. The bugles blare,
But yet I could not take my eyes off him,
I seemed to wait from him my fate to hear.

Fear, like ashroud of ice, wrapped every limb
In helplessness. I stood there as a bird
Is held by serpent fascination grim.

But he gazed at me calmly, undeterred
By what went on, then with reproach looked round
Upon the blood, the dead who no more stirred.

By his accusing gaze I stood there bound;
I felt my strength give way, my courage flee.
At last I cried: "Why dost thou me confound?

"Why standest thou there with the enemy?
Whence comes it that thou canst my gaze so claim
That I myself ih thee can only sec?"

He calmly said that Myron was his name,
That he was born where I was, the same date,
The story of our schooldays was the same,

My own life story did he recreate.
" Tis false!" I cried. "This is a foul deceit,
For I am Myron! Thou dost simulate

"This form of mine and with my story cheat."
He smiled and said: "Go slow, my friend, beware!
Be not so swift to speak words indiscreet.

"Alike one name and history we share,
With this exception: I the true one am,
While thou a spectre art, a ghost of air,

Creation of disordered nerves and sham."
He said this calmly as a doctor might
Denote a sickness or prescribe a dram.

Then fear rose in my throat and gripped me tight.
Of name and form, of all that life implied,
Had I been stripped by this demonic sprite?

"Nay, thou thyself the phantom art!" I cried.
"What proof hast thou to show that thou art real?"
"The proof?" he said, " Tis this; thou hast denied

"The cause of freedom, for 'gainst this ideal
Thou fight'st today, while to the oppressed and weak
The true Myron was always staunch and leal.

"Revenge against the tyrant he would seek,
He'd stand up for the right. In death's despite,
The real Myron still for the truth would speak.

"Thou marchest 'neath a tyrant's flag to fight,
Men's blood thou sheddest in brutality,
Thou dost defile the name of Myron bright.

"Away! Melt back into that nullity
From whence thou earnest forth! Renounce the name!
Myron will fight for sacred liberty!"

His words cut deep, and though I felt keen shame
And courage ebbed, I still my ground maintained
And raised my rifle to my cheek to aim.

My double laughed, derisive, unconstrained:
"So, phantom, thou wilt shoot? Now shalt thou learn
I fear no bullet by a spectre aimed.

"Here is my breast! Take aim, have no concern!
But if when thou hast shot I do not fall,
I have the right to shoot at thee in turn.

"And then, pierced by my consecrated ball,
This bullet that has dedicated been
To battles waged the slave to disenthrall —

"No more shall such false governments be seen,
The trickeries contrived by human art
With hate, oppression, and their obscene train."

Without a word I aimed straight at his heart
And shot. But no sound from my weapon came)
My double fell not, neither gave a start.

"Behold the emptiness of thy false claim!"
He said. "Thou hast assumed my form in vain.
Thou cam'st from nothing, back then to the same!"

He shot, and I fell dead amidst the slain.

1883

                TO A YOUNG FRIEND

Why is thy head sunk down in thoughtful pose,
Thy marble forehead resting on thy hand,
With eyes that seem to search an unseen strand
Which may for thee a happier lot disclose ?
Why dost thou ponder on deep thoughts like those ?
Dear heart, beware of all such trains of thought,
For thought like that with treachery is fraught.

At first 'twill seem as when the sun's bright ray
In spring doth gild the beauty of the day
Until thine eyes are ravished with the sight;
Like as a loved one shines in bride's array,
Like stars that glitter in the deep of night,
Like honey drawn from flowers by the bee —
Yet, if thou taste it, thou shalt feel a smart
Before unknown, that burns within thy heart —
Such thoughts can but prove treacherous to thee.

The sun's bright rays will be dissolved in flight,
The stars be sucked back in the abyss of night,
The lovely flowers be stained by passion's hue,
In bird songs will be heard the shriek of pain,
The coming storm be seen in skies of blue,
The secret griefs that lurk in joy's domain,
In pearls that on her neck the beauty wears
Thou'lt see the spots made by unhappy tears,
And all the youthful joys thou now dost feel,
Will soon in an unsparing frost congeal.

Ah, then those niddy cheeks will lose their tint,
And that broad brow which now doth bear the print
Of fate's kind kiss, will lose its ivory sheen
And take on furrows made by strenuous days;
And that free open gaze, so blue and keen,
Will darken and grow dim—to thy amaze.
The path of thought is thorny, without end,
Each step will wound thy tender feet, my friend.
Dear heart, beware of all such trains of thought,
For thought like that with treachery is fraught.
1883

WHAT MAKES SONG LIVE?
Each of the songs I've sung

    Took from my life a day,

'Twas something which I lived,

    Not just a written lay.

Each line of every song

    Was part of my own brain,

.The thoughts, they were my nerves,

    The sounds were my heart's pain.

What moved that soul of yours

    Was my own heartfelt grief;

What throbbed within the song

    Were tears which brought relief.

For this my soul is .strung

    Like strings upon a harp,

Each passing touch, each blow,

    Wakes tones now sweet, now sharp.

It matters not what flows

    Of good or ill therein—

In song there only lives

    What life itself puts in.

1884