Vachel Lindsay (Вэчел Линдсей)
The Firemen’s Ball
SECTION ONE ”Give the engines room, Give the engines room.” Louder, faster The little band-master Whips up the fluting, Hurries up the tooting. He thinks that he stands, [*] The reins in his hands, In the fire-chief’s place In the night alarm chase. The cymbals whang, The kettledrums bang: — ”Clear the street, Clear the street, Clear the street — Boom, boom. In the evening gloom, In the evening gloom, Give the engines room, Give the engines room. Lest souls be trapped In a terrible tomb.” The sparks and the pine-brands Whirl on high From the black and reeking alleys To the wide red sky. Hear the hot glass crashing, Hear the stone steps hissing. Coal black streams Down the gutters pour. There are cries for help From a far fifth floor. For a longer ladder Hear the fire-chief call. Listen to the music Of the firemen’s ball. Listen to the music Of the firemen’s ball. ”’Tis the NIGHT Of doom,” Say the ding-dong doom-bells. ”NIGHT Of doom,” Say the ding-dong doom-bells. Faster, faster The red flames come. ”Hum grum,” say the engines, ”Hum grum grum.” ”Buzz, buzz,” Says the crowd. ”See, see,” Calls the crowd. And the high walls fall:— Listen to the music Of the firemen’s ball ”’Tis the NIGHT Of doom,” Say the ding-dong doom-bells. NIGHT Of doom, Say the ding-dong doom-bells. Whangaranga, whangaranga, Whang, whang, whang, Clang, clang, clangaranga, Clang, clang, clang. Clang—a—ranga— Clang—a—ranga— Clang, Clang, Clang. Listen—to—the—music— Of the firemen’s ball— SECTION TWO ”Many’s the heart that’s breaking If we could read them all After the ball is over.” (An old song.) Scornfully, gaily The bandmaster sways, Changing the strain That the wild band plays. With a red and royal intoxication, A tangle of sounds And a syncopation, Sweeping and bending From side to side, Master of dreams, With a peacock pride. A lord of the delicate flowers of delight He drives compunction Back through the night. Dreams he’s a soldier Plumed and spurred, And valiant lads Arise at his word, Flaying the sober Thoughts he hates, Driving them back From the dream-town gates. How can the languorous Dancers know The red dreams come When the good dreams go? ’”Tis the NIGHT Of love,” Call the silver joy-bells, ”NIGHT Of love,” Call the silver joy-bells. ”Honey and wine, Honey and wine. Sing low, now, violins, Sing, sing low, Blow gently, wood-wind, Mellow and slow. Like midnight poppies The sweethearts bloom. Their eyes flash power, Their lips are dumb. Faster and faster Their pulses come, Though softer now The drum-beats fall. Honey and wine, Honey and wine. ’Tis the firemen’s ball, ’Tis the firemen’s ball. ”I am slain,” Cries true-love There in the shadow. ”And I die,” Cries true-love, There laid low. ”When the fire-dreams come, The wise dreams go.” BUT HIS CRY IS DROWNED BY THE PROUD BAND-MASTER. And now great gongs whang, Sharper, faster, And kettledrums rattle And hide the shame With a swish and a swirk In dead love’s name. Red and crimson And scarlet and rose Magical poppies The sweethearts bloom. The scarlet stays When the rose-flush goes, And love lies low In a marble tomb. ”’Tis the NIGHT Of doom,” Call the ding-dong doom-bells. ”NIGHT Of Doom,” Call the ding-dong doom-bells. Hark how the piccolos still make cheer. ’Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year.” CLANGARANGA, CLANGARANGA, CLANG . . . CLANG . . . CLANG. CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA . . . CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA . . . CLANG . . . CLANG . . . CLANG . . . LISTEN . . . TO . . . THE . . . MUSIC . . . OF . . . THE . . . FIREMEN’S BALL . . . LISTEN . . . TO . . . THE . . . MUSIC . . . OF . . . THE . . . FIREMEN’S . . . BALL . . . SECTION THREE
In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed before the reader.
(From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga: ”There Buddha thus addressed his disciples: ’Everything, O mendicants, is burning. With what fire is it burning? I declare unto you it is burning with the fire of passion, with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is burning with the anxieties of birth, decay and death, grief, lamentation, suffering and despair. . . . A disciple, . . . becoming weary of all that, divests himself of passion. By absence of passion, he is made free.’”)
I once knew a teacher, Who turned from desire, Who said to the young men ”Wine is a fire.” Who said to the merchants:— ”Gold is a flame That sears and tortures If you play at the game.” I once knew a teacher Who turned from desire Who said to the soldiers, ”Hate is a fire.” Who said to the statesmen:— ”Power is a flame That flays and blisters If you play at the game.” I once knew a teacher Who turned from desire, Who said to the lordly, ”Pride is a fire.” Who thus warned the revellers:— ”Life is a flame. Be cold as the dew Would you win at the game With hearts like the stars, With hearts like the stars.” SO BEWARE, SO BEWARE, SO BEWARE OF THE FIRE. Clear the streets, BOOM, BOOM, Clear the streets, BOOM, BOOM, GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, LEST SOULS BE TRAPPED IN A TERRIBLE TOMB. SAYS THE SWIFT WHITE HORSE TO THE SWIFT BLACK HORSE:— ”THERE GOES THE ALARM, THERE GOES THE ALARM. THEY ARE HITCHED, THEY ARE OFF, THEY ARE GONE IN A FLASH, AND THEY STRAIN AT THE DRIVER’S IRON ARM.” CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA, . . . CLANG.. A . . . RANGA. . . . CLANG . . . CLANG . . . CLANG. . . . CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA. . . . CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA. . . . CLANG . . . CLANG . . . CLANG. . . . CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA. . . . CLANG . . . A . . . RANGA. . . . CLANG . . . CLANG . . . CLANG . . . .
Vachel Lindsay’s other poems:
- The Potatoes’ Dance
- I Heard Immanuel Singing
- When Gassy Thompson Struck It Rich
- The Tree of Laughing Bells
- Where Is David, the Next King of Israel?
963
