| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
| |
| 1155. My Fatherland |
| | | By William Cranston Lawton |
| |
| |
| THE IMPERIAL boy had fallen in his pride | |
| Before the gates of golden Babylon. | |
| The host, who deemed that priceless treasure won, | |
| For many a day since then had wandered wide, | |
| By famine thinned, by savage hordes defied. | 5 |
| In a deep vale, beneath the setting sun, | |
| They saw at last a swift black river run, | |
| While shouting spearmen thronged the farther side. | |
| |
| Then eagerly, with startled, joyous eyes, | |
| Toward the desponding chief a soldier flew: | 10 |
| “I was a slave in Athens, never knew | |
| My native country; but I understand | |
| The meaning of yon wild barbarian cries, | |
| And I believe this is my fatherland!” | |
| |
| This glimpse have we, no more. Did parents fond, | 15 |
| Brothers, or kinsmen, hail his late return? | |
| Or did he, doubly exiled, only yearn | |
| To greet the Euxine’s waves at Trebizond, | |
| The blue Ægean, and Pallas’ towers beyond? | |
| Mute is the record. We shall never learn. | 20 |
| But as once more the well-worn page I turn, | |
| Forever by reluctant schoolboys conned, | |
| |
| A parable to me the tale appears, | |
| Of blacker waters in a drearier vale. | |
| Ah me! When on that brink we exiles stand, | 25 |
| As earthly lights and mortal accents fail, | |
| Shall voices long forgotten reach our ears, | |
| To tell us we have found our fatherland? | |
| |
|
|
|
