You, too, John Harvard? . . . Will you add your name
To the long, crimson chronicle of shame,
You who forsook dear Stratford’s hallowed sod
To seek new shrines where each might serve his God
In equal freedom? Do you turn at last
Reentering black horrors of the past?
Pontius’ cross and Torquemada’s fire,
The scorpion-scourge of Babylon and Tyre,
Bondage to Pharaoh, blows from Russian knout,
The yellow hat of Aragon, sneer and shout,
Exile, proscription, hatred—ghosts of sin
You call to life with this that you begin.

We have grown old in sorrow; suffering
To us is no untried and dreaded thing.
If you repeat what we have heard before,
And, like the rest, bar the half-opened door,
We’ll take our staff in an accustomed hand
And wear old shoes to many a stranger land.
Sadly, with never a curse nor uttered pang,
We’ll chant the dirges Jeremiah sang.
Our sole reply to this mad thing you do
Will be a weary, futile sigh: “You, too?”

We had a vision of a Western land,
Full of your spirit, by the setting sun,
New, free, where every man might boldly stand
Upon devotion given, struggles won.
That vision lured us over watery ways,
Consoled black nights, sustained through evil days.

And picked us up and set us down again
Where we might live, toil, study, love like men.
We’ve breathed the air of freedom, heads erect,
With roots deep in our country’s soil, we swear
Wherever she may need us and expect
Our dearest service, she shall find us there.

Where are they now who spurned the folk of God?
Rome sleeps beneath her seven ruined hills.
The desert shrouds the tombs of Egypt, fills
The palaces where Greek and Persian trod.
We raise no sword; we threaten with no rod.
We bow and pass from the oppressor’s eye;
Yet justice, in some hidden way, from high
Unto the victim levels him who kills.
Wrath eats her own heart; envy turns man blind;
Scorn plucks the pinions from the soaring mind
And leaves it strengthless. . . . Pride has brought Spain low.
Kaiser and Czar, who hated us, are down.
When we flee forth, the luster leaves the crown,
Eyes fail, life’s pulse wanes, tremulous and slow.

What all have tried, you may attempt anew,
But will you choose their destiny — you too?

^^^

This poem, by Julian M. Drachman, originally appeared in The Literary Digest on February 24, 1923. 

Julian M. Drachman died in 1983. His poetry appeared in numerous prestigious magazines and journals during his lifetime.