Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE MINES OF AVONDALE, by ALICE CARY 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EXTRAORDINARY RENDITION by PAUL MULDOON HOPE DIAMONDS by MADELINE DEFREES TO SEE THE STARS IN DAYLIGHT by JAMES GALVIN THE EYE IN THE ROCK by JOHN HAINES MINING CAMP RESIDENTS, WEST VIRGINIA, 1935 by MAGGIE ANDERSON THE EXPLOSION by PHILIP LARKIN A SPINSTER'S STINT by ALICE CARY |
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