John Jay Chapman

Lines On The Death Of Bismarck

(Reprinted from "The Political Nursery," midsummer number, 1898) AT midnight Death dismissed the chancellor, But left the soul of Bismarck on his face. Titanic, in the peace and power of bronze, With three red roses loosely in his grasp, Lies the Constructor. His machinery Revolving in the wheels of destiny Rolls onward over him. Alive, inspired, Vast, intricate, complete, unthinkable, Nice as a watch and strong as dynamite, An empire and a whirlwind, on it moves, While he that set it rolling lies so still. Unity! Out of chaos, petty courts, Princelings and potentates—thrift, jealousy, Weakness, distemper, cowardice, distrust, To build a nation: the material— The fibres to be twisted—human strands. One race, one tongue, one instinct. Unify By banking prejudice, and, gaining power, Attract by vanity, compel by fear. Arm to the teeth: your friends will love you more, And we have much to do for Germany. Organized hatred, that is unity. Prussia's a unit; Denmark's enmity Is so much gain, and gives us all the North. Next, humble Austria: a rapid stroke That leaves us laurels and a policy. Now for some chance, some—any fluke or crime By which a war with France can be brought on: And, God be glorified, the thing is done. Organized hatred. That foundation reaches The very bottom rock of Germany And out of it the structure rises up Bristling with arms. "But you forget the soul, "The universal shout, the Kaiser's name, "Fatherland, anthems, the heroic dead, "The discipline, the courage, the control, "The glory and the passion and the flame—" Are calculated by the captain's eye Are used, subdued, like electricity Turned on or off, are set to making roads, Or building monuments, or writing verse, Twitched by the inspired whim of tyranny To make that tyranny perpetual And kill what intellect it cannot use. The age is just beginning, yet we see The fruits of hatred ripen hourly And Germany's in bondage—muzzled press, The private mind suppressed,—while shade on shade Is darkened o'er the intellectual sky. And world-forgotten, outworn crimes and cries With dungeon tongue accost the citizen And send him trembling to his family. . . . . . . . . . . Thought cannot grasp the Cause: 'tis in the abyss With Nature's secrets. But, gigantic wreck, Thou wast the Instrument! And thy huge limbs Cover nine kingdoms as thou lie'st asleep.