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<h4>THE MARCH OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN 1913</h4> What will there be to remember Of us in the days to be? Whose faith was a trodden ember And even our doubt not free; Parliaments built of paper, And the soft swords of gold That twist like a waxen taper In the weak aggressor's hold; A hush around Hunger, slaying A city of serfs unfed; What shall we leave for a saying To praise us when we are dead? But men shall remember the Mountain That broke its forest chains, And men shall remember the Mountain When it arches against the plains: And christen their children from it And season and ship and street, When the Mountain came to Mahomet And looked small before his feet. His head was as high as the crescent Of the moon that seemed his crown, And on glory of past and present The light of his eyes looked down; One hand went out to the morning Over Brahmin and Buddhist slain, And one to the West in scorning To point at the scars of Spain; One foot on the hills for warden By the little Mountain trod; And one was in a garden And stood on the grave of God. But men shall remember the Mountain, Though it fall down like a tree, They shall see the sign of the Mountain Faith cast into the sea; Though the crooked swords overcome it And the Crooked Moon ride free, When the Mountain comes to Mahomet It has more life than he. But what will there be to remember Or what will there be to see— Though our towns through a long November Abide to the end and be? Strength of slave and mechanic Whose iron is ruled by gold, Peace of immortal panic, Love that is hate grown cold— Are these a bribe or a warning That we turn not to the sun, Nor look on the lands of morning Where deeds at last are done? Where men shall remember the Mountain When truth forgets the plain— And walk in the way of the Mountain That did not fail in vain; Death and eclipse and comet, Thunder and seals that rend: When the Mountain came to Mahomet; Because it was the end. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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