The Hill of the Dead

During my late childhood and the early teen, my introduction to the World Literature happened through a series of essays written by a very well-read journalist and literary figure in my language. Later, I found many of my smart friends criticising him on the ground that he often did not have much to say of his own, which was true. Even his novels and stories would often drift away to talk about some author (otheriwse unknown and unheard of in my part of world) or his/her work. It was through his works that I came to know about Jorge Luis Borges, Arthur Rimbaud, Paul Verlaine, existentialism, Simone de what's-her-name and many others, and I've forever remained grateful to him for that.

It was through his essay that I came to know about Edgar Lee Masters and Spoon River Anthology. In one of his books (a collection of his essays), this person from my state printed a translation of the poem entitled, The Hill. That was almost 20 years ago; but I still remember the excitement and the depression I felt after reading the poem. Needless to say that, I bought Spoon River Anthology the first time I saw it in a shelf.

Yesterday, I was talking to my brother, and as a part of his usual updates, he told me about the death of 7 different persons in my locality within a couple of weeks, an incident which had brought back to me the memory of my reading The Hill for the first time. Here's the text:

The Hill

WHERE are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,
The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
One passed in a fever,
One was burned in a mine,
One was killed in a brawl,
One died in a jail,
One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,
The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?—
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
One died in shameful child-birth,
One of a thwarted love,
One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,
One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire,
One after life in far-away London and Paris
Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,
And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,
And Major Walker who had talked
With venerable men of the revolution?—
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
They brought them dead sons from the war,
And daughters whom life had crushed,
And their children fatherless, crying—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where is Old Fiddler Jones
Who played with life all his ninety years,
Braving the sleet with bared breast,
Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,
Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?
Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,
Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove,
Of what Abe Lincoln said
One time at Springfield.

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Sources: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spoon_River_Anthology
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Lee_Masters
http://www.bartleby.com/84/1.html