Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MINES OF AVONDALE, by ALICE CARY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MINES OF AVONDALE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Old death proclaims a holocaust
Last Line: For the brave two hundred men.
Subject(s): Mines & Miners


OLD Death proclaims a holocaust --
Two hundred men must die!
And he cometh not like a thief in the night,
But with banners lifted high.
He calleth the North wind out o' th' North
To blow him a signal blast,
And to plough the air with a fiery share,
And to sow the sparks, broadcast.
No fear hath he of the arm of flesh,
And the maketh the winds to cry,
Let come who will to this awful hill
And his strength against me try!

So quick those sparks along the land
Into blades of flame have sprung;
So quick the piteous face of Heaven
With a veil of black is hung:
And men are telling the news with words,
And women with tears and sighs,
And the children with the frightened souls
That are staring from their eyes.
"Death, death is holding a holocaust!
And never was seen such pyre --
Head packed to head and above them spread
Full forty feet of fire!"

From hill to hill-top runs the cry.
Through farm and village and town,
And high and higher -- "The mine's on fire!
Two hundred men sealed down!
And not with the dewy hand o'th' earth,
And not with the leaves of the trees --
Nor is it the waves that roof their graves --
Oh no, it is none of these --
From sight and sound walled round and round --
For God's sake haste to the pyre!
In the black coal-beds, and above their heads
Full forty feet of fire!"

And now the villages swarm like bees,
And the miners catch the sound,
And climb to the land with their picks in hand
From their chambers in the ground.
For high and low and rich and poor,
To a holy instinct true,
Stand forth as if all hearts were one
And a-tremble through and through.
On, side by side they roll like a tide,
And the voice grows high and higher,
"Come woe, come weal, we must break the seal
Of that forty feet of fire."

Now cries of fear, shrill, far and near,
And a palsy shakes the hands,
And the blood runs cold, for behold, behold
The gap where the enemy stands!
Oh, never had painter scenes to paint
So ghastly and grim as these --
Mothers that comfortless sit on the ground
With their babies on their knees;
The brown-cheeked lad and the maid as sad
As the grandame and the sire,
And 'twixt them all and their loved, that wall --
That terrible wall of fire!

And the grapple begins and the foremost set
Their lives against death's laws,
And the blazing timbers catch in their arms
And bear them off like straws.
They have lowered the flaunting flag from its place --
They will die in the gap, or save;
For this they have done, whate'er be won --
They have conquered fear of the grave.
They have baffled -- have driven the enemy,
And with better courage strive;
"Who knoweth," they say, "God's mercy to-day,
And the souls He may save alive!"

So now the hands have digged through the brands --
They can see the awful stairs,
And there falls a hush that is only stirred
By the weeping women's prayers.
"Now who will peril his limb and life,
In the damps of the dreadful mine?"
"I, I, and I!" a dozen cry,
As they forward step from line!
And down from the light and out o' th' sight,
Man after man they go,
And now arise th' unanswered cries
As they beat on the doors below.
And night came down -- what a woeful night!
To the youths and maidens fair,
What a night in the lives of the miners' wives
At the gate of a dumb despair.
And the stars have set their solemn watch
In silence o'er the hill,
And the children sleep and the women weep,
And the workers work with a will.
And so the hours drag on and on,
And so the night goes by,
And at last the east is gray with dawn,
And the sun is in the sky.

Hark, hark! the barricades are down,
The torchlights farther spread,
The doubt is past -- they are found at last --
Dead, dead! two hundred dead!
Face, close to face, in a long embrace,
And the young and the faded hair --
Gold over the snow as if meant to show
Love stayed beyond despair.
Two hundred men at yester morn
With the work of the world to strive;
Two hundred yet when the day was set,
And not a soul alive!

Oh, long the brawny Plymouth men,
As they sit by their winter fires,
Shall tell the tale of Avondale
And its awful pyre of pyres.
Shall hush their breath and tell how Death
His flag did wildly wave,
And how in shrouds of smoky clouds
The miners fought in their graves.
And how in a still procession
They passed from that fearful glen,
And there shall be wail in Avondale,
For the brave two hundred men.





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