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Edmund Clarence Stedman (Эдмунд Кларенс Стедман)


Fuit Ilium


One by one they died,—
⁠Last of all their race;
Nothing left but pride,
⁠⁠Lace, and buckled hose.
Their quietus made,
⁠On their dwelling-place
Ruthless hands are laid:
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!

See the ancient manse
⁠Meet its fate at last!
Time, in his advance,
⁠⁠Age nor honor knows;
Axe and broadaxe fall,
⁠Lopping off the Past:
Hit with bar and maul,
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!

Sevenscore years it stood:
⁠Yes, they built it well,
Though they built of wood,
⁠⁠When that house arose.
For its cross-beams square
⁠Oak and walnut fell;
Little worse for wear,
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!

Rending board and plank,
⁠Men with crowbars ply,
Opening fissures dank,
⁠⁠Striking deadly blows.
From the gabled roof
⁠How the shingles fly!
Keep you here aloof,—
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!

Holding still its place,
⁠There the chimney stands,
Stanch from top to base,
⁠⁠Frowning on its foes.
Heave apart the stones,
⁠Burst its iron bands!
How it shakes and groans!
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!

Round the mantel-piece
⁠Glisten Scripture tiles;
Henceforth they shall cease
⁠⁠Painting Egypt's woes,
Painting David's fight,
⁠Fair Bathsheba's smiles,
Blinded Samson's might,—
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!

On these oaken floors
⁠High-shoed ladies trod;
Through those panelled doors
⁠⁠Trailed their furbelows:
Long their day has ceased;
⁠Now, beneath the sod,
With the worms they feast,—
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!

Many a bride has stood
⁠In yon spacious room;
Here her hand was wooed
⁠⁠Underneath the rose;
O'er that sill the dead
⁠Reached the family tomb:
All, that were, have fled,—
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!

Once, in yonder hall,
⁠Washington, they say,
Led the New-Year's ball,
⁠⁠Stateliest of beaux.
O that minuet,
⁠Maids and matrons gay!
Are there such sights yet?
⁠⁠Down the old house goes.

British troopers came
⁠Ere another year,
With their coats aflame,
⁠⁠Mincing on their toes;
Daughters of the house
⁠Gave them haughty cheer,
Laughed to scorn their vows,—
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!

Doorway high the box
⁠In the grass-plot spreads;
It has borne its locks
⁠⁠Through a thousand snows;
In an evil day,
⁠From those garden-beds
Now 't is hacked away,—
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!

Lo! the sycamores,
⁠Scathed and scrawny mates,
At the mansion doors
⁠⁠Shiver, full of woes;
With its life they grew,
⁠Guarded well its gates;
Now their task is through,—
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!

On this honored site
⁠Modern trade will build,—
What unseemly fright
⁠⁠Heaven only knows!
Something peaked and high,
⁠Smacking of the guild:
Let us heave a sigh,—
⁠⁠Down the old house goes!



Edmund Clarence Stedman's other poems:
  1. Treason's Last Device
  2. Israel Freyer's Bid for Gold
  3. Country Sleighing
  4. Mors Benefica
  5. Pan in Wall Street


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