MARCH OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN

                                                            by G.K. CHESTERTON

 

WHAT WILL THERE BE TO REMEMBER                                                     

                                                             Of us,. in the days to be?

Whose faith was a trodden ember

                                                             And even our doubts 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 HAHOMET

                                                             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.