Marmora
It was twenty and a hundred years, oh blue and rolling sea,
A thousand in the onward march of human liberty,
Since on its sunlit bosom, wind-tossed and sails unfurled,
Atlantic’s mighty billows bore a message to the world.
It thunders down its rocky coast, and stirs its frugal homes;
The Saxon hears it as he toils, the Indian as he roams;
The buffalo upon the plains, the panther in his lair,
And the eagle hails the kindred note, and screams it through the air.
“Make way for liberty,” it roared, “here let the oppressed go free,
Break loose your bands of tyrant hands, this land is not for thee.
The old world in its crusted grasp grinds out the souls of men,
Here plant their feet in freedom’s soil, this land was made for them.”
The mother slept in her island home, but the children heard the call,
And ere the western sun went down, had answered, one and all;
For Britain’s thirteen colonies had vanished in a day,
And six and half a hundred men had signed their lives away.
And brows were dark, and words were few, the steps were quick and strong,
And firm the lips as ever his who treasures up a wrong;
And stern the tone that offered up the prayer beside the bed,
And many a Molly Stark that night wept silent tears of dread.
The bugles call, and swords are out, and armies march abreast,
And the old world casts a wondering glance to the strange light in the west;
Lo, from its lurid lightnings play, free tossing in the wind,
Bursts forth the star-gemmed flag that wraps the hopes of all mankind.
And weary eyes grew brighter then, and fainting hearts grew strong,
And hope was mingled in the cry, “How long, oh Lord, how long?”
The seething millions turn and stir and struggle toward the light;
The free flag streams, and morning gleams where erst was hopeless night.
And grim Atlantic thunders still adown its rocky shores,
And still the eagle screams his note, as aloft he sails and soars;
And hope is born, that even thou, in some far day to come,
O blue and rolling Marmora, shalt bear the message home.
Dedicated to W.W. Peet, Esq.Clara Barton.
Constantinople, July 4, 1896.
Reports are always tedious. If some reader, having persevered thus far, if such there be, shall find himself or herself saying with a little thrill of disappointment, “But this does not give the information expected, it does not recommend any specific course to be pursued, whether emigration for the Armenians, and if so, where, and how; or autonomy, and if so, how to be secured, and assured; if more ships should be sent, and what they should do when there; if greater pressure of the Powers should be demanded by us, or what course, as a nation, we ought to pursue. We had expected some light on these questions.”
Appreciating and regretting this disappointment, we must remind our anxious readers and friends—for such they are—that we have never been required to do this; that all conclusions to that effect are simply inferential, and all such expectations were born of anxious hope. But that which we feel does immediately concern us, and comes directly within our province, is, to state that notwithstanding all that has been done through all sources, infinitely more remains to be done by some one; and while speculation upon the moral duty of nations, the rights or wrongs of governments, the problem of whether one ruler or another shall sit upon a throne for the next six months; what expressions of individual principle in regard to certain actions should be given; the proper stand for a people to take and maintain on high moral and religious questions—all important subjects—none value them more than I—all marking the high tone and progressive spirit of the most advanced stage of human thought and culture the world has yet known, it would seem that each and all of these, imperative and important as they are, admit of at least a little moment of time for consideration, and will probably take it whether admitted or not.
But the facts are, that between the Archipelago and the Caspian Seas, the Black and the Mediterranean, are to-day living a million and a half of people of the Armenian race, existing under the ordinances of, at least, semi-civilization, and professing the religion of Jesus Christ; that according to the stated estimate of intelligent and impartial observers of various countries and concurred in by our own agents, whose observations have been unrestricted, from 100,000 to 200,000 of these persons, men, women and children, are destitute of shelter, raiment, fire, food, medicines, the comforts that tend to make human life preservable, or any means of obtaining them, save through the charitable beneficence of the world.
The same estimates concur in the statement, that without such outside support, at least 50,000 of these persons will have died of starvation or perished through accumulated hardship, before the first of May, 1897.
That even now it is cold in their mountain recesses, the frosts are whitening the rocky crests, trodden by their wandering feet, and long before Christmas the friendly snow will have commenced to cover their graves.
These facts, bare and grim, are what I have to present to the American people; and if it should be proposed to make any use of them there is not much time for consideration. We have hastened, without loss of a day, to bring them plainly and truthfully before the public as a subject pertaining peculiarly to it.
I would like to add that this great work of human relief should not fall wholly upon the people of our own country—by no means without its own suffering poor—neither would it. The people of most enlightened nations should unite in this relief, and I believe, properly conferred with, would do so.
None of us have found any better medium for the dispensation of charitable relief than the faithful missionaries already on the ground, and our government officers, whose present course bespeaks their active interest.
Clara Barton.