Frances Ellen Watkins

Here you will find the Poem Maceo of poet Frances Ellen Watkins


Maceo dead! a thrill of sorrow 
Through our hearts in sadness ran 
When we felt in one sad hour 
That the world had lost a man. 

He had clasped unto his bosom 
The sad fortunes of his land -- 
Held the cause for which he perished 
With a firm, unfaltering hand. 

On his lips the name of freedom 
Fainted with his latest breath. 
Cuba Libre was his watchword 
Passing through the gates of death. 

With the light of God around us, 
Why this agony and strife? 
With the cross of Christ before us, 
Why this fearful waste of life? 

Must the pathway unto freedom 
Ever mark a crimson line, 
And the eyes of wayward mortals 
Always close to light divine? 

Must the hearts of fearless valor 
Fail 'mid crime and cruel wrong, 
When the world has read of heroes 
Brave and earnest, true and strong? 

Men to stay the floods of sorrow 
Sweeping round each war-crushed heart; 
Men to say to strife and carnage -- 
From our world henceforth depart. 

God of peace and God of nations, 
Haste! oh, haste the glorious day 

When the reign of our Redeemer 
O'er the world shall have its sway. 

When the swords now blood encrusted, 
Spears that reap the battle field, 
Shall be changed to higher service, 
Helping earth rich harvests yield. 

Where the widow weeps in anguish, 
And the orphan bows his head, 
Grant that peace and joy and gladness 
May like holy angels tread. 

Pity, oh, our God the sorrow 
Of thy world from thee astray, 
Lead us from the paths of madness 
Unto Christ the living way. 

Year by year the world grows weary 
'Neath its weight of sin and strife, 
Though the hands once pierced and bleeding 
Offer more abundant life. 

May the choral song of angels 
Heard upon Judea's plain 
Sound throughout the earth the tidings 
Of that old and sweet refrain. 

Till our world, so sad and weary, 
Finds the balmy rest of peace -- 
Peace to silence all her discords -- 
Peace till war and crime shall cease. 

Peace to fall like gentle showers, 
Or on parchéd flowers dew, 
Till our hearts proclaim with gladness: 
Lo, He maketh all things new.