And he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face, until The fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, Wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone; But it was ended. He was quite, quite dead: Driven to death beneath the burning sun, Driven to death upon the road he built. He was no "hero," he; a poor, black man, Taking "the will of God" and asking naught; Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet Strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road; Think that for this, this common thing, The Road, A human creature died; 'tis a blood gift, To an o'erreaching world that does not thank. Ignorant, mean and soulless was he? Well,-- Still human; and you drive upon his corpse. =Philadelphia=, July 24, 1900. ANGIOLILLO We are the souls that crept and cried in the days when they tortured men; His was the spirit that walked erect, and met the beast in its den. Ours are the eyes that were dim with tears for the thing they shrunk to see; His was the glance that was crystal keen with the light that makes men free. Ours are the hands that were wrung in pain, in helpless pain and shame; His was the resolute hand that struck, steady and keen to its aim. Ours are the lips that quivered with rage, that cursed and prayed in a breath: His was the mouth that opened but once to speak from the throat of Death. "Assassin, Assassin!" the World cries out, with a shake of its dotard head; "Germinal!" rings back the grave where lies the Dead that is not dead. "Germinal, Germinal," sings the Wind that is driving before the Storm; "Few are the drops that have fallen yet,--scattered, but red and warm." "Germinal, Germinal," sing the Fields, where furrows of men are plowed; "Ye shall gather a harvest over-rich, when the ear at the full is bowed." Springing, springing, at every breath, the Word of invincible strife, The word of the Dead, that is calling loud down the battle ranks of Life! For these are the Dead that live, though the earth upon them lie: But the doers of deeds of the Night of the Dead, they are the Live that die. =Torresdale, Pa.=, August 1, 1900. AVE ET VALE Comrades, what matter the watch-night tells That a New Year comes or goes? What to us are the crashing bells That clang out the Century's close? What to us is the gala dress? The whirl of the dancing feet? The glitter and blare in the laughing press, And din of the merry street? Do we not know that our brothers die In the cold and the dark to-night? Shelterless faces turned toward the sky Will not see the New Year's light!