The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Englishman and Other Poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (#8 in our series by Ella Wheeler Wilcox) Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: The Englishman and Other Poems Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6025] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on October 20, 2002] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII
Transcribed from he 1912 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email [email protected]
THE ENGLISHMAN AND OTHER POEMS
Contents:
Preface - the Queen’s last ride
The Englishman
Canada
The
Call
Coronation Poem and Prayer
Two Voices
A Ballade
of the Unborn Dead
The Truth Teller
Just You
Reflection
Songs
of Love and the Sea
Acquaintance
In India’s Dreamy Land
Rangoon
Thoughts
on leaving Japan
On seeing the Diabutsu - at Kamakura, Japan
The
Little Lady of the Bullock Cart
East and West
The Squanderer
Compensations
Song
of the Rail
Always at Sea
The Suitors
The Jealous Gods
God
Rules Alway
The Cure
The Forecast
Little Girls
Science
The
Earth
The Muse and the Poet
The Spinster
Brotherhood
The
Tavern of Last Times
The Two Ages
If I Were
Warned
Forward
In
England
Karma
The Gossips
Together
Petition
A
Waft of Perfume
The Plough
Go Plant a Tree
Pain’s
Purpose
Memory’s Mansion
Old Rhythm and Rhyme
All
in a Coach and Four
Songs of a Country Home
Worthy the name
of “Sir Knight”
PREFACE - THE QUEEN’S LAST RIDE
(Written on the day of Queen Victoria’s funeral)
The Queen is taking a drive to-day,
They have hung with purple
the carriage-way,
They have dressed with purple the royal track
Where
the Queen goes forth and never comes back.
Let no man labour as she goes by
On her last appearance to mortal
eye;
With heads uncovered let all men wait
For the Queen to
pass in her regal state.
Army and Navy shall lead the way
For
that wonderful coach of the Queen’s to-day.
Kings and Princes and Lords of the land
Shall ride behind her,
a humble band;
And over the city and over the world
Shall
the Flags of all Nations be half-mast-furled,
For the silent lady
of royal birth
Who is riding away from the Courts of earth,
Riding
away from the world’s unrest
To a mystical goal, on a secret
quest.
Though in royal splendour she drives through town,
Her robes
are simple, she wears no crown:
And yet she wears one, for widowed
no more,
She is crowned with the love that has gone before,
And
crowned with the love she has left behind
In the hidden depths
of each mourner’s mind.
Bow low your heads - lift your hearts on high -
The Queen in
silence is driving by!
THE ENGLISHMAN
Born in the flesh, and bred in the bone,
Some
of us harbour still
A New World pride: and we flaunt or hide
The
Spirit of Bunker Hill.
We claim our place, as a separate race,
Or
a self-created clan;
Till there comes a day when we like to say,
‘We
are kin of the Englishman.’
For under the front that seems so cold,
And
the voice that is wont to storm,
We are certain to find, a big,
broad mind
And a heart that is soft and warm.
And
he carries his woes in a lordly way,
As only
the great souls can:
And it makes us glad when in truth we say,
We
are kin of the Englishman.’
He slams his door in the face of the world,
If
he thinks the world too bold.
He will even curse; but he opens
his purse
To the poor, and the sick, and the
old.
He is slow in giving to woman the vote,
And
slow to put up her fan;
But he gives her room in the hour of doom,
And
dies - like an Englishman.
CANADA
England, father and mother in one,
Look
on your stalwart son.
Sturdy and strong, with the valour of
youth,
Where is another so lusty?
Coated and mailed, with
the armour of truth,
Where is another so trusty?
Flesh of
your flesh, and bone of your bone,
He is yours alone.
England, father and mother in one,
See
the wealth of your son.
Forests primeval, and virginal sod,
Wheat-fields
golden and splendid:
Riches of nature and opulent God
For
the use of his children intended.
A courage that dares, and a hope
that endures,
And a soul all yours.
England, father and mother in one,
Hear
the cry of your son.
Little cares he for the glories of earth
Lying
around and above him,
Yearning is he for the rights of his birth,
And
the heart of his mother to love him.
Vast are your gifts to him,
ample his store,
Now open your door.
England, father and mother in one,
Heed
the voice of your son.
Proffer him place in your councils of
state:
Let him sit near, and attend you.
Ponder his words
in the hour of debate,
Strong is his arm to defend you.
Flesh
of your flesh, and bone of your bone,
Give him his own.
THE CALL
In the banquet hall of Progress
God has bidden to a feast
All
the women in the East.
Some have said ‘We are not ready, -
We
must wait another day.’
Some, with voices clear and steady,
‘Lord,
we hear, and we obey.’
Others, timid and uncertain,
Step forth trembling
in the light,
Many hide behind the curtain
With
their faces hid from sight.
In the banquet hall of Progress
All must gather soon or late,
And
the patient Host will wait.
If to-day, or if to-morrow,
If in gladness,
or in woe,
If with pleasure, or with sorrow,
All
must answer, all must go.
They must go with unveiled faces,
Clothed
in virtue and in pride.
For the Host has set their places,
And
He will not he denied.
CORONATION POEM AND PRAYER
The world has crowned a thousand kings:
But
destiny has kept
Her weightiest hour of kingly power
To
offer England’s son.
The rising bell of Progress rings;
And
Truths which long have slept,
Like prophets strange, predicting
change,
Before Time’s chariot run.
The greatest Empire of the Earth.
Old England
proudly stands.
Like arteries her Colonies
Reach
out from sea to sea.
She clasps all races in her girth;
Her
gaze the world commands;
And far and wide where strong ships ride,
The
British Flag floats free.
Oh, never since the stars began
Their round
of Cosmic law,
And souls evolved in ways unsolved,
And
kingdoms reached their prime
Has Destiny held out to Man
A
gift so full of awe,
As England’s crown which she hands down
In
this stupendous time.
This is a crucial hour, when Fate
Tries Monarchs
as by fire.
All rulers must be more than just -
Men
starve on bread alone.
Old England’s sense of right
is great:
But now let her aspire
To feel
more love, and build thereof
An everlasting Throne.
The dreaming East, awake at last,
Is asking
‘when’ and ‘why’;
Wait not too long nor
answer wrong,
Nor in too stern a voice.
Let
England profit by her past,
And with her wise
reply
Rouse hearts, within her foster kin
To
hope, and to rejoice.
True wealth dwells not in things we own,
But
in our use of things.
Who would command a conquered land
Must
conquer first its heart.
Such might as Man has never known,
And
power undreamed by kings,
And boundless strength would come at
length
To one who used that art.
For now has dawned the People’s day:
A
day of great unrest.
Nor king nor creed can still man’s need
Of
time and space to grow.
All lands must shape a wider way,
For
this eternal quest;
And Leisure yield a larger field
Where
work-worn feet may go.
The Universe is all a-thrill
With changes
imminent.
The World in faith, with bated breath,
Holds
free the Leader’s place.
And wise is he whose heart and will
At
one with Time’s intent,
Shall open wide doors long denied
To
mothers of the race.
On this round globe, oh, when and where
Were
fitter time and scene
For Woman’s soul to reach its goal
Than
now in England’s realm.
Was not the crown its King
will wear
Made glorious by its Queen?
And
who steered straight its ship of State?
Victoria
at the Helm!
Kings have been kings by accident,
By favour
and by force,
But right of birth and moral worth,
And
Empires rich and broad
For England’s King to-day are blent
Like
rivers on one course.
But, ah! the light falls searching white
Down
from the Throne of God.
Lord of the Earth and heavenly-spheres,
Creator
of all things,
Thou who hast wrought great worlds from naught,
Give
strength to England’s son.
Give courage to dispel those fears
That
come to even kings,
And for his creed give Love’s full mead;
Amen.
Thy Will be done.
TWO VOICES
VIRTUE
O wanton one, O wicked one, how was it that you came,
Down from
the paths of purity, to walk the streets of shame?
And wherefore
was that precious wealth, God gave to you in trust,
Flung broadcast
for the feet of men to trample in the dust?
VICE
O prudent one, O spotless one, now listen well to me.
The ways
that led to where I tread these paths of sin, were three:
And God,
and good folks, all combined to make them fair to see.
VIRTUE
O wicked one, blasphemous one, now how could that thing be?
VICE
The first was Nature’s lovely road, whereon my life was hurled.
I
felt the stirring in my blood, which permeates the world.
I thrilled
like willows in the spring, when sap begins to flow,
It was young
passion in my veins, but how was I to know?
The second was the silent road, where modest mothers dwell,
And
hide from eager, curious minds, the truth they ought to tell.
That
misnamed road called ‘Innocence’ should bear the sign ‘to
Hell.’
With song and dance in ignorance I walked that road
and fell.
VIRTUE
O fallen one, unhappy one, but why not rise and go
Back to the
ways you left behind, and leave your sins below,
Nor linger in
this sink of sin, since now you see, and know.
VICE
The third road was the fair high way, trod by the good and great.
I
cried aloud to that vast crowd, and told my hapless fate.
They
hurried all through door and wall and shut Convention’s gate.
I
beat it with my bleeding hands: they must have heard me knock.
They
must have heard wild sob and word, yet no one turned the lock.
Oh, it is very desolate, on Virtue’s path to stand,
And
see the good folks flocking by, withholding look and hand.
And so with hungry heart and soul, and weary brain and feet,
I
left that highway whence you came, and sought the sinful street.
O prudent one, O spotless one, when good folks speak of me,
Go,
tell them of the roads I came; the road ways fair, and three.
A BALLADE OF THE UNBORN DEAD
They walked the valley of the dead;
Lit by
a weird half light;
No sound they made, no word they said;
And
they were pale with fright.
Then suddenly from unseen places came
Loud
laughter, that was like a whip of flame.
They looked, and saw, beyond, above,
A land
where wronged souls wait;
(Those spirits called to earth by love,
And
driven back by hate).
And each one stood in anguish dumb and wild,
As
she beheld the phantom of her child.
Yea, saw the soul her wish had hurled
Out
into night and death;
Before it reached the Mother world,
Or
drew its natal breath.
And terrified, each hid her face and fled
Beyond
the presence of her unborn dead.
And God’s Great Angel, who provides
Souls
for our mortal land,
Laughed, with the laughter that derides,
At
that fast fleeing band
Of self-made barren women of the earth.
(Hell
has no curse that withers like such mirth.)
‘O Angel, tell us who were they,
That
down below us fared;
Those shapes with faces strained and grey,
And
eyes that stared and stared;
Something there was about them, gave
us fear;
Yet are we lonely, now they are not here.’
Thus spake the spectral children; thus
The
Angel made reply:
‘They have no part or share with us;
They
were but passers-by.’
‘But may we pray for them?’
the phantoms plead.
‘Yea, for they need your prayers,’
the Angel said.
They went upon their lonely way;
(Far, far
from Paradise);
Their path was lit with one wan ray
From
ghostly children’s eyes;
The little children who were never
born;
And as they passed, the Angel laughed in scorn.
THE TRUTH TELLER
The Truth Teller lifts the curtain,
And shows
us the people’s plight;
And everything seems uncertain,
And
nothing at all looks right.
Yet out of the blackness groping,
My
heart finds a world in bloom;
For it somehow is fashioned for hoping,
And
it cannot live in the gloom.
He tells us from border to border,
That race
is warring with race;
With riot and mad disorder,
The
earth is a wretched place;
And yet ere the sun is setting
I
am thinking of peace, not strife;
For my heart has a way of forgetting
All
things save the joy of life.
I heard in my Youth’s beginning
That
earth was a region of woe,
And trouble, and sorrow, and sinning:
The
Truth Teller told me so.
I knew it was true, and tragic;
And
I mourned over much that was wrong;
And then, by some curious magic,
The
heart of me burst into song.
The years have been going, going,
A mixture
of pleasure and pain;
But the Truth Teller’s books are showing
That
evil is on the gain.
And I know that I ought to be grieving,
And
I should be too sad to sing;
But somehow I keep on believing
That
life is a glorious thing.
JUST YOU
All the selfish joys of earth,
I am getting
through.
That which used to lure and lead
Now
I pass and give no heed;
Only one thing seems of worth -
Just
you.
Not for me the lonely height,
And the larger
view;
Lowlier ways seem fair and wide,
While
we wander side by side.
One thing makes the whole world bright
-
Just you.
Not for distant goals I run,
No great aim
pursue;
Most of earth’s ambitions seem
Like
the shadow of a dream.
All the world to me means one -
Just
you.
REFLECTION
Twice have I seen God’s full reflected grace.
Once
when the wailing of a child at birth
Proclaimed
another soul had come to earth,
That look shone on, and through
the mother’s face.
And once when silence, absolute and vast,
Followed
the final indrawn mortal breath,
Sudden upon
the countenance of death
That supreme glory of God’s grace
was cast.
SONGS OF LOVE AND THE SEA
I
When first we met (the Sea and I),
Like one
before a King,
I stood in awe; nor felt nor saw
The sun, the
winds, the earth, the sky
Or any other thing.
God’s
Universe, to me,
Was
just the Sea.
When next we met, the lordly Main
Played but
a courtier’s part;
Crowned Queen was I; and earth and sky,
And
sun and sea were my domain,
Since love was in
my heart.
Before, beyond, above,
Was
only Love.
II
Love built me, on a little rock,
A little
house of pine,
At first, the
Sea
Beat angrily
About
that house of mine;
(That dear, dear home of mine).
But when it turned to go away
Beyond the sandy
track,
Down o’er its
wall
The house would call,
Until
the Sea came back;
(It always hurried back).
And now the two have grown so fond,
(Oh, breathe
no word of this),
When clouds
hang low,
And east winds blow,
They
meet and kiss and kiss:
(At night, I hear them kiss).
III
No man can understand the Sea, until
He knows all passions of
the senses; all
The great emotions of the heart; and each
Exalted
aspiration of the soul.
Then may he sit beside the sea and say:
‘I,
too, have flung myself against the rocks,
And kissed their flinty
brows with no return;
And fallen spent upon unfeeling
sands.
I, too, have gone forth yearning, to far shores,
Seeking
that something which would bring content;
And
finding only what I took away;
And I have looked up, through the
veil of skies,
When all the world was still, and understood
That
I am one with Nature and with God.’
IV
The Dawn was flying from the Night;
Swift
as the wind she sped;
Her hair was like a fleece of light;
Her
cheeks were warm and red.
All passion pale, the Night pursued;
She fled
away, away;
And in her garments, rainbow hued,
She
gained the peak of day.
And then, all shaken with alarms,
She leaped
down from its crest;
Into the Sea’s uplifted arms,
And
swooned upon his breast.
ACQUAINTANCE
Not we who daily walk the City’s street;
Not those who
have been cradled in its heart,
Best understand its architectural
art,
Or realise its grandeur. Oft we meet
Some stranger
who has stayed his passing feet
And lingered with us for a single
hour,
And learned more of cathedral, and of tower,
Than we,
who deem our knowledge quite complete.
Not always those we hold most loved and dear,
Not always those
who dwell with us, know best
Our greater selves. Because
they stand so near
They cannot see the lofty mountain crest,
The
gleaming sun-kissed height, which fair and dear
Stands forth -
revealed unto the some-time guest.
IN INDIA’S DREAMY LAND
In India’s land one listens aghast
To the people who scream
and bawl;
For each caste yells at a lower caste,
And the Britisher
yells at them all.
RANGOON
Just a changing sea of colour
Surging up and flowing down;
And
pagodas shining golden, night and noon;
And a sun-burst-tinted
throng
Of young priests that move along
Under sun-burst-hued
umbrellas through the town.
That’s Rangoon.
THOUGHTS ON LEAVING JAPAN
A changing medley of insistent sounds,
Like broken airs, played
on a Samisen,
Pursues me, as the waves blot out the shore.
The
trot of wooden heels; the warning cry
Of patient runners; laughter
and strange words
Of children, children, children everywhere:
The
clap of reverent hands, before some shrine;
And over all the haunting
temple bells,
Waking, in silent chambers of the soul,
Dim
memories of long-forgotten lives.
But oh! the sorrow of the undertone;
The wail of hopeless
weeping in the dawn
From lips that smiled through gilded bars at
night.
Brave little people, of large aims, you bow
Too often, and too
low before the Past;
You sit too long in worship of the dead.
Yet
have you risen, open eyed, to greet
The great material Present.
Now salute
The greater Future, blazing its bold trail
Through
old traditions. Leave your dead to sleep
In quiet peace with
God. Let your concern
Be with the living, and the yet unborn;
Bestow
on them your thoughts, and waste no time
In costly honours to insensate
dust.
Unlock the doors of usefulness, and lead
Your lovely
daughters forth to larger fields,
Away from jungles of the ancient
sin.
For oh! the sorrow of that undertone,
The wail of hopeless
weeping in the dawn
From lips that smiled through gilded bars at
night.
ON SEEING THE DIABUTSU - AT KAMAKURA, JAPAN
Long have I searched, cathedral shrine, and hall,
To find a
symbol, from the hand of art,
That gave the full expression (not
a part)
Of that ecstatic peace which follows all
Life’s
pain and passion. Strange it should befall
This outer emblem
of the inner heart
Was waiting far beyond the great world’s
mart -
Immortal answer, to the mortal call.
Unknown the artist, vaguely known his creed:
But the bronze
wonder of his work sufficed
To lift me to the heights his faith
had trod.
For one rich moment, opulent indeed,
I walked with
Krishna, Buddha, and the Christ,
And felt the full serenity of
God.
THE LITTLE LADY OF THE BULLOCK CART
Now is the time when India is gay
With wedding parties; and
the radiant throngs
Seem like a scattered rainbow taking part
In
human pleasures. Dressed in bright array,
They fling upon
the bride their wreaths of songs -
The Little Lady of the Bullock
Cart.
Here is the temple ready for the rite:
The large-eyed bullocks
halt; and waiting arms
Lift down the bride. All India’s
curious art
Speaks in the gems with which she is bedight.
And
in the robes which hide her sweet alarms -
The Little Lady of the
Bullock Cart.
This is her day of days: her splendid hour
When joy is hers,
though love is all unknown.
It has not dawned upon her childish
heart.
But human triumph, in a temporal power,
Has crowned
her queen upon a one-day throne -
The Little Lady of the Bullock
Cart.
Ah, Little Lady! What will be your fate?
So long, so long,
the outward-reaching years:
So brief the joy of this elusive part;
So
frail the shoulders for the loads that wait:
So bitter salt the
virgin widow’s tears -
O Little Lady of the Bullock cart.
EAST AND WEST
The Day has never understood the Gloaming or the Night;
Though
sired by one Creative Power, and nursed at Nature’s breast;
The
White Man ever fails to read the Dark Man’s heart aright;
Though
from the self-same Source they came, upon the self-same quest;
So
deep and wide, the Great Divide,
Between the East and West.
But like a shadow on a screen, mine eyes behold, above
The yawning
gulf, a dim forecast, of structures strong and broad;
Where caste,
and colour prejudice, by countless feet down trod,
With old traditions
crushed by Time, pave smooth the bridge of Love;
And all the creed
that men shall heed
Is consciousness of God.
THE SQUANDERER
God gave him passions, splendid as the sun,
Meant for the lordliest
purposes; a part
Of nature’s full and fertile mother heart,
From
which new systems and new stars are spun.
And now, behold, behold,
what he has done!
In Folly’s court and
carnal Pleasures’ mart
He flung the wealth
life gave him at the start.
(This, of all mortal sins, the deadliest
one.)
At dawn he stood, potential, opulent,
With
virile manhood, and emotions keen,
And
wonderful with God’s creative fire.
At noon he stands, with
Love’s large fortune spent
In petty traffic,
unproductive, mean -
A pauper,
cursed with impotent desire.
COMPENSATIONS
I
BLIND
When first the shadows fell, like prison bars,
And darkness
spread before me, like a pall,
I cried out for the sun, the earth,
the stars,
And beat the air, as madmen beat a wall,
Till,
impotent, and broken with despair,
I turned my vision inward.
Lo, a spark -
A light - a torch; and all my world grew bright;
For
God’s dear eyes were shining through the dark.
Then, bringing
to me gifts of recompense,
Came keener hearing, finer taste, and
touch;
And that oft unappreciated sense,
Which finds sweet
odours, and proclaims them such;
And not until my mortal eyes were
blind
Did I perceive how kind the world, how kind.
II
DEAF
I can recall a time, when on mine ears
There fell chaotic sounds
of earthly life,
Shrill cries of triumph, and hoarse shouts of
strife;
A medley of despairs, and hopes and fears.
Then silence
came, and unavailing tears.
The stillness stabbed me, like a two
edged-knife;
Until I found the Universe was rife
With subtle
music of the neighbouring spheres.
Such harmonies, such congruous
sweet chords,
Wherein each note conveys a healing balm.
And
now no more I miss men’s spoken words;
For, in a quiet world
of larger thought,
I know the joy that comes from being calm.
III
SHUT-IN
Across my window glass
The moving shadows of the people pass.
Sometimes
the shadow’s pause; and through the hall
Kind neighbours
come to call,
Bringing a word or smile
To cheer my loneliness
a little while.
But as I hear them talk,
These people who
can walk
And go about the great green earth at will,
I wonder
if they know the joy of being still,
And all alone with thoughts
that soar afar -
High as the highest star.
And oft I feel
more free
Than those who travel over land and sea.
For one
who is shut in,
Away from all the outer strife and din,
With
faithful Pain for guide,
Finds where Great Truths abide.
Across my window glass
The moving shadows pass.
But swifter
moves my unimpeded thought,
Speeding from spot to spot -
Out
and afar -
High as the highest star.
SONG OF THE RAIL
Oh, an ugly thing is an iron rail,
Black, with its face to the
dust.
But it carries a message where winged things fail;
It
crosses the mountains, and catches the trail,
While the winds and
the sea make sport of a sail;
Oh, a rail is a friend to trust.
The iron rail, with its face to the sod,
Is only a bar of ore;
Yet
it speeds where never a foot has trod;
And the narrow path where
it leads, grows broad;
And it speaks to the world in the voice
of God,
That echoes from shore to shore.
Though the iron rail, on the earth down flung,
Seems kin to
the loam and the soil,
Wherever its high shrill note is sung,
Out
of the jungle fair homes have sprung,
And the voices of babel find
one tongue,
In the common language of toil.
Of priest, and warrior, and conquering king,
Of Knights of the
Holy Grail,
Of wonders of winter, and glories of spring,
Always
and ever the poets sing;
But the great God-Force, in a lowly thing,
I
sing, in my song of the rail.
ALWAYS AT SEA
Always at sea I think about the dead.
On barques invisible they
seem to sail
The self-same course; and from the decks cry ‘Hail’!
Then
I recall old words that they have said,
And see their faces etched
upon the mist -
Dear faces I have kissed.
Always the dead seem very close at sea.
The coarse vibrations
of the earth debar
Our spirit friends from coming where we are.
But
through God’s ether, unimpeded, free,
They wing their way,
the ocean deeps above -
And find the hearts that
love.
Always at sea my dead come very near.
A growing host; some old
in spirit lore,
And some who crossed to find the other shore
But
yesterday. All, all, I see and hear
With inner senses, while
the voice of faith
Proclaims - there is no death.
THE SUITORS
There is a little Bungalow
Perched on a granite ledge,
And
at its feet two suitors meet;
(I watch them, and I know)
One
waits outside the casement edge;
One paces to and fro.
The Patient Rock speaks not a word;
The Sea goes up and down,
And
sings full oft, in cadence soft;
(I listen, and have heard)
Again
he wears an angry frown
By jealous passion stirred.
This dawn, the Rock was all aglow;
Far out the mad Sea went;
Beyond
the raft, like one gone daft;
(I saw them, and I know)
While
radiant and well content
Smiled down the Bungalow.
That was at Dawn; ere day had set,
The Sea with pleading voice
Came
back to woo his love anew;
(I saw them when they met)
And
now I know not which her choice -
(The Rock’s gray face was
wet.)
THE JEALOUS GODS
‘Oh life is wonderful,’ she said,
‘And all
my world is bright;
Can Paradise show fairer skies,
Or more
effulgent light?’
(Speak lower, lower, mortal heart,
The
jealous gods may hear.)
She turned for answer; but his gaze
Cut past her like a lance,
And
shone like flame on one who came
With radiant glance for glance.
(You
spoke too loud, O mortal heart,
The jealous gods were near.)
They walked through green and sunlit ways;
And yet the earth
seemed black,
For there were three, where two should be;
So
runs the world, alack.
(The listening gods, the jealous gods,
They
want no Edens here.)
GOD RULES ALWAY
Into the world’s most high and holy places
Men
carry selfishness, and graft and greed.
The air is rent with warring
of the races;
Loud Dogmas drown a brother’s
cry of need.
The Fleet-of-Creeds, upon Time’s ocean lurches;
And
there is mutiny upon her decks;
And in the light of temples, and
of churches,
Against life’s shores drift
wrecks and derelicts.
(God
rules, God rules alway.)
Right in the shadow of the lofty steeple,
Which
crowns some costly edifice of faith,
Behold the throngs of hungry,
unhoused people;
The ‘Bread Line,’
flanked by charity and death.
See yonder Churchman, opulently doing
Unnumbered
deeds, which gladden and resound;
The while his thrifty tenant
is pursuing
The white slave trade on sacred,
untaxed ground.
(God rules,
God rules alway.)
For these are but the outward signs of fever;
Those
flaunting signs, which through delirium burn;
And the clear-seeing
eye of each Believer
Can note the coming crisis.
It will turn,
For it has reached its summit. Convalescing,
The
sick world shall arise to strength and peace,
And earth shall bloom,
with each and every blessing
Life waits to give,
when wars and conflicts cease.
(God
rules, God rules alway.)
This is a mighty hour. No sounds of drumming,
No
flying flags, no heralds do appear;
No Wise Men of the East proclaim
His coming;
Yet He is coming - nay, our Christ
is here!
And man shall leave his fever dreams behind him;
Those
dreams of avarice, and lust, and sin,
And seek his Lord; yea, he
shall seek and find Him,
In his own soul, where
He has always been.
(God rules,
God rules alway.)
Man longs for God. Before the Christ we wot of,
With
His brief mighty message, came to earth,
Before His life, or creed,
or cross were thought of,
The love of love within
man’s breast had birth.
But blindly, through his carnal senses
reaching,
He plucked dead fruit, and nothing
has sufficed;
Nor can his soul find rest in any teaching,
Until
he knows that he, himself, is Christ.
(God
rules, God rules alway.)
Oh, when he knows this truth in all its splendour,
What
majesty, what glory crowns his life:
And, one with God, his every
thought is tender;
He cannot enter into war,
or strife.
His love goes out to every race and nation;
His
whole religion lies in being kind.
THIS IS THE CREED THAT MEANS
THE WORLD’S SALVATION;
THE BIRTH OF CHRIST
IN EVERY MORTAL MIND.
(God
rules, God rules alway.)
THE CURE
You may talk of reformations, of the Economic Plan,
That
shall stem the Social Evil in its course;
But the Ancient Sin of
nations, must be got at in THE MAN.
If you want
to cleanse a river, seek the source.
Ever since his first beginning, Man has had his way, in lust.
He
has never learned the law of Self-Control;
And the World condones
his sinning, and the Doctors say he must,
And
the Churches shut their eyes, and take his toll.
And the lauded ‘Lovely Mothers’ send the son out into
life
With no knowledge-welded armour for the
fight;
‘He will make his way like others, through the Oat
field, to the Wife’;
‘He will somehow
be led onward, to the light.’
Yes, his leaders, they shall find him. On the highways at each
turn,
(Since you did not choose to counsel or
to warn,)
They shall tempt him, then shall bind him; they shall
blight, and they shall burn,
Down to offspring
and descendants yet unborn.
It can never end through preaching; it can never end through laws;
This
social sore, no punishment can heal.
It must be the mother’s
teaching of the purpose, and the cause,
And God’s
glory, lying under sex appeal.
She must feel no fear to name it to the children it has brought;
She
must speak of it as sacred, and sublime;
She must beautify, not
shame it, by her speech and by her thought;
Till
they listen, and respect it, for all time.
From the heart they rested under ere they saw the light of day,
Must
the daughters and the sons be taught this truth;
Till they think
of it with wonder, as a holy thing alway;
While
love’s wisdom guides them safely through their youth.
Oh, the world has made its devil, and the Mothers let it grow;
And
the Man has dragged their thoughts down to the earth.
There will
be no Social Evil, when each waking mind shall know
All
the grandeur and the beauty hid in birth.
When each Mother sets the fashion to win confidence, and trust,
And
to teach the mighty lesson, Self-Control,
We can lift the great
Sex passion from the darkness and the dust,
And
enshrine it on the altar of the soul.
THE FORECAST
It may be that I dreamed a dream; it may be that I saw
The
forecast of a time to come by some supernal law.
I seemed to dwell in this same world, and in this modern time;
Yet
nowhere was there sight or sound of poverty or crime.
All strife
had ceased; men were disarmed; and quiet Peace had made
A thousand
avenues for toil, in place of War’s grim trade.
From east
to west, from north to south where highways smooth and broad
Tied
State to State, the waste lands bloomed, like garden spots of God.
There
were no beggars in the streets; there were no unemployed,
For each
man owned his plot of ground, and laboured and enjoyed.
Sweet children
grew like garden flowers; all strong and fair to see;
And when
I marvelled at the sight, thus spake a Voice to me:
‘All
Motherhood is now an art; the greatest art on earth;
And nowhere
is there known the crime of one unwelcome birth
From rights of
parentage the sick and sinful are debarred;
For Matron Science
keeps our house, and at the door stands guard.
We know the cure
for darkness lies in letting in the light;
And Prisons are replaced
by Schools, where wrong views change to right.
The wisdom, knowledge,
study, thought, once bent on beast and sod,
We give now to the
human race, the highest work of God;
And, as the gardener chooses
seed, so we select with care;
And as our Man Plant grows, we give
him soil and sun and air.
There are no slums; no need of alms;
all men are opulent,
For Mother Earth belongs to them, as was the
First Intent.’
It may be that I dreamed a dream; it may be that I saw
The
forecast of a time to come by some supernal law.
LITTLE GIRLS
Whether you frolic with comrade boys,
Or sit at your studies,
or play with toys,
Whatever your station, or place, or sphere,
For
just one purpose God sent you here;
And always and ever, you are
to me -
Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.
So would I guard you from all mean things;
From the dwarfing
of wealth, and from poverty’s stings.
And from silly mothers
of fuss and show,
And from dissolute fathers whose aims are low,
I
would take you, and shield you, and set you free,
Dear little Mothers,
of Men to be.
And then were the wish of my heart fulfilled,
Around about you,
the world should build
A wall of Wisdom, with Truth for its Tower,
Where
mind and body would wax in power,
Till the tender twig was a splendid
tree -
Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.
It is only a dream; but the world grows wise,
And a mighty truth
in the dream seed lies
That shall gladden the earth, in its time
and place.
WE MUST BETTER THE MOTHERS TO BETTER THE RACE.
A
dream? nay, a vision, which all must see,
Dear little Mothers,
of Men to be.
SCIENCE
Alone I climb the steep ascending path
Which leads to knowledge.
In the babbling throngs
That hurry after, shouting to the world
Small
fragments of large truths, there is not one
Who comprehends my
purpose, or who sees
The ultimate great goal. Why, even she,
My
heaven intended Spouse, my other self,
Religion, turns her beauteous
face on me
With hatred in the eyes, where love should dwell.
While
those who call me Master blindly run,
Wounding the ear of Faith
with blasphemies,
And making useless slaughter in my name.
Mine is the difficult slow task to blaze
A road of Facts, through
labyrinths of dreams
To tear down Maybe and establish IS:
And
substitute I Know for I Believe.
I follow closely where the Seers
have led:
But that intangible dim path of theirs,
Which may
be trodden but by other Seers,
I seek to render solid for the feet
Of
all mankind. With reverent hands I lift
The mask from Mystery:
and show the face
Of Reason, smiling bravely on the world.
The
visions of the prophets, one by one,
Grew visible beneath my tireless
touch:
And the white secrets of elusive stars
I tell aloud,
to listening multitudes.
To fit the better world my toil ensures,
Time will impregnate
with a better race
The Future’s womb: and when the hour is
ripe,
To ready eyes of men, the alien spheres
Shall seem as
friendly neighbours: and my skill
Shall make their music audible
to ears
Which will be tuned to those high harmonies.
Mine is the work to fashion, step by step,
The shining Way that
leads from man to God.
Though I demolish obstacles of creeds
And
blast tradition, from the face of earth,
My hand shall open wide
the door of Truth,
Whose other name is Faith: and at the end
Of
this most holy labour, I shall turn
To see Religion, with enlightened
eyes,
Seeking the welcome of my outstretched arms.
While all
the world stands hushed and awed before
The proven splendour of
the Fact Supreme.
THE EARTH
To build a house, with love for architect,
Ranks first and foremost
in the joys of life.
And in a tiny cabin, shaped for two,
The
space for happiness is just as great
As in a palace. What
a world were this
If each soul born received a plot of ground;
A
little plot, whereon a home might rise,
And beauteous green things
grow!
We
give the dead,
The idle vagrant dead, the Potter’s Field;
Yet
to the living not one inch of soil.
Nay, we take from them soil,
and sun, and air,
To fashion slums and hell-holes for the race.
And
to our poor we say, ‘Go starve and die
As beggars die; so
gain your heritage.’
II
That was a most uncanny dream; I thought the wraiths of those
Long
buried in the Potter’s Field, in shredded shrouds arose;
They
said, ‘Against the will of God
We have
usurped the fertile sod,
Now will we make it
yield.’
Oh! but it was a gruesome sight, to see those phantoms toil;
Each
to his own small garden bent; each spaded up the soil;
(I
never knew Ghosts laboured so.)
Each scattered
seed, and watched, till lo!
The Graves were opulent.
Then all among the fragrant greens, the silent, spectral train
Walked,
as if breathing in the breath of plant, and flower, and grain.
(I
never knew Ghosts loved such things;
Perchance
it brought back early springs
Before they thought
of death.)
‘The mothers’ milk for living babes; the earth for living
hosts;
The clean flame for the un-souled dead.’ (Oh,
strange the words of Ghosts.)
‘If we had
owned this little spot
In life, we need not lie
and rot
Here in a pauper’s bed.’
THE MUSE AND THE POET
The Muse said, Let us sing a little song
Wherein
no hint of wrong,
No echo of the great world need, or pain,
Shall
mar the strain.
Lock fast the swinging portal of thy heart;
Keep
sympathy apart.
Sing of the sunset, of the dawn, the sea;
Of
any thing or nothing, so there be
No purpose to thy art.
Yea,
let us make, art for Art’s sake.
And sing no more unto the
hearts of men,
But for the critic’s pen.
With
songs that are but words, sweet sounding words,
Like
joyous jargon of the birds.
Tune now thy lyre, O Poet, and sing
on.
Sing of
THE DAWN
The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams
Of
her belovèd Darkness, rose in fear,
Feeling
the presence of another near.
Outside her curtained casement shone
the gleams
Of burning orbs;
and modestly she hid
Her brow and bosom with
her dusky hair.
When lo! the bold intruder lurking
there
Leaped through the fragile
lattice, all unbid,
And half unveiled her. Then the swooning
Night
Fell pale and dead, while yet her soul was white
Before
that lawless Ravisher, the Light.
The Muse said, Poet, nay; thou host not caught
My meaning.
For there lurks a thought
Back of thy song.
In
art, all thought is wrong.
Re-string thy lyre; and let the
echoes bound
To nothing but sweet sound.
Strike
now the chords
And sing of
WORDS
One day sweet Ladye Language gave to me
A little golden key.
I
sat me down beside her jewel box
And turned its
locks.
And oh, the wealth that lay there in my sight.
Great
solitaires of words, so bright, so bright;
Words
that no use can commonize; like God,
And Truth, and Love; and words
of sapphire blue;
And amber words; with sunshine dripping through;
And
words of that strange hue
A pearl reveals upon
a wanton’s hand.
Again the Muse:
Thou
dost not understand;
A thought within thy song is lingering yet.
Sing
but of words; all else forget, forget.
Nor let
thy words convey one thought to men.
Try once
again.
Down through the dusk and dew there fell a word;
Down
through the dew and dusk.
And all the garments of the air it stirred
Smelled
sweet as musk;
And all the little waves of air it kissed
Turned
cold and amethyst.
There in the dew and dusk a heart it found;
There
in the dusk and dew
The sodden silence changed to fragrant sound;
And
all the world seemed new.
Upon the path that little word had trod,
There
shone the smile of God.
The Muse said, Drop thy lyre.
I
tire, I tire.
THE SPINSTER
I
Here are the orchard trees all large with fruit;
And yonder
fields are golden with young grain.
In little journeys, branchward
from the nest,
A mother bird, with sweet insistent cries,
Urges
her young to use their untried wings.
A purring Tabby, stretched
upon the sward,
Shuts and expands her velvet paws in joy,
While
sturdy kittens nuzzle at her breast.
O mighty Maker of the Universe,
Am I not part and parcel of
Thy World,
And one with Nature? Wherefore, then, in me
Must
this great reproductive impulse lie
Hidden, ashamed, unnourished,
and denied,
Until it starves to slow and tortuous death?
I
knew the hope of spring-time; like the tree
Now ripe with fruit,
I budded, and then bloomed;
We laughed together through the young
May morns;
We dreamed together through the summer moons;
Till
all Thy purposes within the tree
Were to fruition brought.
Lord, Thou hast heard
The Woman in me crying for the Man;
The
Mother in me crying for the Child;
And made no answer. Am
I less to Thee
Than lover forms of Nature, or in truth
Dost
Thou hold Somewhere in another Realm
Full compensation and large
recompense
For lonely virtue forced by fate to live
A life
unnatural, in a natural world?
II
Thou who hast made for such sure purposes
The mightiest and
the meanest thing that is -
Planned out the lives of insects of
the air
With fine precision and consummate care,
Thou who
hast taught the bee the secret power
Of carrying on love’s
laws ’twixt flower and flower,
Why didst Thou shape this
mortal frame of mine,
If Heavenly joys alone were Thy design?
Wherefore
the wonder of my woman’s breast,
By lips of lover and of
babe unpressed,
If spirit children only shall reply
Unto my
ever urgent mother cry?
Why should the rose be guided to its own,
And
my love-craving heart beat on alone?
III
Yet do I understand; for Thou hast made
Something more subtle
than this heart of me;
A finer part of me
To be obeyed.
Albeit I am a sister to the earth,
This nature self is not the
whole of me;
The deathless soul of me
Has nobler birth.
The primal woman hungers for the man;
My better self demands
the mate of me;
The spirit fate of me,
Part of Thy plan.
Nature is instinct with the mother-need;
So is my heart; but
ah, the child of me
Should, undefiled of me,
Spring from love’s
seed.
And if, in barren chastity, I must
Know but in dreams that perfect
choice of me,
Still will the voice of me
Proclaim God just.
BROTHERHOOD
When in the even ways of life
The old world
jogs along,
Our little coloured flags we flaunt:
Our little
separate selves we vaunt:
Each pipes his native
song.
And jealousy and greed and pride
Join
their ungodly hands,
And this round lovely world divide
Into
opposing lands.
But let some crucial hour of pain
Sound from
the tower of time,
Then consciousness of brotherhood
Wakes
in each heart the latent good,
And men become
sublime.
As swarming insects of the night,
Fly
when the sun bursts in,
Self fades, before love’s radiant
light,
And all the world is kin.
God, what a place this earth would be
If that
uplifting thought,
Born of some vast world accident,
Into
our daily lives were blent,
And in each action
wrought.
But while we let the old sins flock
Back
to our hearts again,
In flame, and flood, and earthquake shock,
Thy
voice must speak to men.
‘THE TAVERN OF LAST TIMES’
(AT BOX HILL, SURREY)
A modern hour from London (as we spin
Into a silver thread the
miles of space
Between us and our goal), there is a place
Apart
from city traffic, dust, and din,
Green with great trees, where
hides a quiet Inn.
Here Nelson last looked on the lovely face
Which
made his world; and by its magic grace
Trailed rosy clouds across
each early sin.
And, leaning lawnward, is the room where Keats
Wrote
the last one of those immortal songs
(Called by the critics of
his day ‘mere rhymes’).
A lark, high in the boxwood
bough repeats
Those lyric strains, to idle passing throngs,
There
by the little Tavern-of-Last-Times.
THE TWO AGES
On a great cathedral window I have seen
A Summer sunset swoon
and sink away,
Lost in the splendours of immortal art.
Angels
and saints and all the heavenly hosts,
With smiles undimmed by
half a thousand years,
From wall and niche have met my lifted gale.
Sculpture
and carving and illumined page,
And the fair, lofty dreams of architects,
That
speak of beauty to the centuries -
All these have fed me with divine
repasts.
Yet in my mouth is left a bitter taste,
The taste
of blood that stained that age of art.
Those glorious windows shine upon the black
And hideous structure
of the guillotine;
Beside the haloed countenance of saints
There
hangs the multiple and knotted lash.
The Christ of love, benign
and beautiful,
Looks at the torture-rack, by hate conceived
And
bigotry sustained. The prison cell,
With blood-stained walls,
where starving men went mad,
Lies under turrets matchless in their
grace.
God, what an age! How was it that You let
Colossal genius
and colossal crime
Walk for a hundred years across the earth,
Like
giant twins? How was it then that men,
Conceiving such vast
beauty for the world,
And such large hopes of heaven, could entertain
Such
hellish projects for their human kin?
How could the hand that,
with consummate skill
And loving patience, limned the luminous
page,
Drop pen and brush, and seize the branding-rod,
To scourge
a brother for his differing faith?
Not great this age in beauty or in art;
Nothing is wrought to-day
that shall endure
For earth’s adornment, through long centuries;
Not
ours the fervid worship of a God
That wastes its splendid opulence
on glass,
Leaving but hate for hungry human hearts.
Yet great
this age; its mighty work is man
Knowing himself the universal
life.
And great our faith, which shows itself in works
For
human freedom and for racial good.
The true religion lies in being
kind.
No age is greater than its faith is broad.
Through liberty
and love men climb to God.
IF I WERE
If I were a raindrop, and you were a leaf,
I
would burst from the cloud above you,
And lie on your breast in
a rapture of rest,
And love you, love you, love
you.
If I were a brown bee, and you were a rose,
I
would fly to you, love, nor miss you;
I would sip and sip from
your nectared lip,
And kiss you, kiss you, kiss
you.
If I were a doe, dear, and you were a brook,
Ah,
what would I do then, think you?
I would kneel by the bank, in
the grasses dank,
And drink you, drink you, drink
you.
WARNED
They stood at the garden gate.
By the lifting
of a lid
She might have read her fate
In
a little thing he did.
He plucked a beautiful flower;
Tore it away
from its place
On the side of the blooming bower;
And
held it against his face.
Drank in its beauty and bloom,
In the midst
of his idle talk;
Then cast it down to the gloom
And
dust of the garden walk.
Ay, trod it under his foot,
As it lay in his
pathway there;
Then spurned it away with his boot,
Because
it bad ceased to be fair.
Ah! the maiden might have read
The doom of
her young life then;
But she looked in his eyes instead,
And
thought him the king of men.
She looked in his eyes and blushed,
She hid
in his strong arms’ fold;
And the tale of the flower, crushed
And
spurned, was once more told.
FORWARD
Let me look always forward. Never back.
Was I not formed
for progress? Otherwise
With onward pointing feet and searching
eyes
Would God have set me squarely on the track
Up which
we all must labour with life’s pack?
Yonder the goal of all
this travel lies.
What matters it, if yesterday the skies
With
light were golden, or with clouds were black?
I would not lose
to-morrow’s glow of dawn
By peering backward after sun’s
long set.
New hope is fairer than an old regret;
Let me pursue
my journey and press on -
Nor tearful eyed, stand ever in one spot,
A
briny statue like the wife of Lot.
IN ENGLAND
In England there are wrongs, no doubt,
Which should be righted;
so men say,
Who seek to weed earth’s garden out
And
give the roses right of way.
Yes, right of way to fruit and rose,
Where
now but poison ivy grows.
In England there is wide unrest
They tell me, who should know.
And yet
I saw but hedges gaily dressed,
And eyes, where love
and kindness met.
Yes, love and kindness, met and made
Soft
sunshine, even in the shade.
In England there are haunting things
Which follow one to other
lands;
Like some pervading scent that clings
To laces, touched
by vanished hands.
Yes, touched by vanished hands, that gave
A
fragrance which defies the grave.
In England, centuries of art
Give common things a mellow tone,
And
wake old memories in the heart
Of other lives the soul has known.
Yes,
other lives in some past age
Start forth from canvas, or from page.
In England there are simple joys
The modern world has left all
sweet;
In London’s heart are nooks, where noise
Has
entered but with slippered feet;
Yes, entered softly.
Friend,
believe,
To part from England is to grieve.
KARMA
I
We cannot choose our sorrows. One there was
Who, reverent
of soul, and strong with trust,
Cried, ‘God, though Thou
shouldst bow me to the dust,
Yet will I praise thy everlasting
laws.
Beggared, my faith would never halt or pause,
But sing
Thy glory, feasting on a crust.
Only one boon, one precious boon
I must
Demand of Thee, O opulent great Cause.
Let Love stay
with me, constant to the end,
Though fame pass by and poverty pursue.’
With
freighted hold her life ship onward sailed;
The world gave wealth,
and pleasure, and a friend,
Unmarred by envy, and whose heart was
true.
But ere the sun reached midday, Love had failed.
II
Then from the depths, in bitterness she cried,
‘Hell is
on earth, and heaven is but a dream;
And human life a troubled
aimless stream;
And God is nowhere. Would God so deride
A
loving creature’s faith?’ A voice replied,
‘The
stream flows onward to the Source Supreme,
Where things that ARE
replace the things that SEEM,
And where the deeds of all past lives
abide.
Once at thy door Love languished and was spurned.
Who
sorrow plants, must garner sorrow’s sheaf.
No prayers can
change the seedling in the sod.
By thine own heart Love’s
anguish must be learned.
Pass on, and know, as one made wise by
grief,
That in thyself dwells heaven and hell and God.’
THE GOSSIPS
A rose in my garden, the sweetest and fairest,
Was
hanging her head through the long golden hours;
And early one morning
I saw her tears falling,
And heard a low gossiping
talk in the bowers.
The yellow Nasturtium, a spinster all faded,
Was
telling a Lily what ailed the poor Rose:
‘That wild, roving
Bee, who was hanging about her
Has jilted her
squarely, as every one knows.
‘I knew when he came, with his singing and sighing,
His
airs and his speeches, so fine and so sweet,
Just how it would
end; but no one would believe me,
For all were
quite ready to fall at his feet.’
‘Indeed, you are wrong,’ said the Lilybelle proudly,
‘I
cared nothing for him. He called on me once
And would have
come often, no doubt, if I’d asked him.
But
though he was handsome, I thought him a dunce.’
‘Now, now, that’s not true,’ cried the tall Oleander.
‘He
has travelled and seen every flower that grows;
And one who has
supped in the garden of princes,
We all might
have known would not wed with the Rose.’
‘But wasn’t she proud when he showed her attention?
And
she let him caress her,’ said sly Mignonette.
‘And
I used to see it and blush for her folly.
The
silly thing thinks he will come to her yet.’
‘I thought he was splendid,’ said pretty, pert Larkspur.
‘So
dark and so grand, with that gay cloak of gold;
But he tried once
to kiss me, the impudent fellow,
And I got offended;
I thought him too bold.’
‘Oh, fie!’ laughed the Almond. ‘That does
for a story.
Though I hang down my head, yet
I see all that goes;
And I saw you reach out, trying hard to detain
him,
But he just tapped your cheek and flew by
to the Rose.
‘He cared nothing for her, he only was flirting
To
while away time, as every one knew;
So I turned a cold shoulder
to all his advances,
Because I was certain his
heart was untrue.’
‘The Rose it served right for her folly in trusting
An
oily-tongued stranger,’ quoth proud Columbine.
‘I knew
what he was, and thought once I would warn her.
But,
of course, the affair was no business of mine.’
‘Oh, well,’ cried the Peony, shrugging her shoulders,
‘I
saw all along that the Bee was a flirt;
But the Rose has been always
so praised and so petted,
I thought a good lesson
would do her no hurt.’
Just then came a sound of a love-song sung sweetly;
I
saw my proud Rose lifting up her bowed head;
And the talk of the
gossips was hushed in a moment,
And the whole
garden listened to hear what was said.
And the dark, handsome Bee, with his cloak o’er his shoulder,
Came
swift through the sunlight and kissed the sad Rose,
And whispered:
‘My darling, I’ve roved the world over,
And
you are the loveliest blossom that grows.’
TOGETHER
We two in the fever and fervour and glow
Of
life’s high tide have rejoiced together;
We have looked out
over the glittering snow,
And known we were dwelling
in Summer weather,
For the seasons are made by the heart I hold,
And
not by outdoor heat or cold.
We two, in the shadows of pain and woe,
Have
journeyed together in dim, dark places,
Where black-robed Sorrow
walked to and fro,
And Fear and Trouble, with
phantom faces,
Peered out upon us and froze our blood,
Though
June’s fair roses were all in bud.
We two have measured all depths, all heights,
We
have bathed in tears, we have sunned in laughter!
We have known
all sorrows and delights -
They never could keep
us apart hereafter.
Whether your spirit went high or low,
My
own would follow, and find you, I know.
If they took my soul into Paradise,
And told
me I must be content without you,
I would weary them so with my
lonesome cries,
And the ceaseless questions I
asked about you,
They would open the gates and set me free,
Or
else they would find you and bring you to me.
PETITION
God, may Thy loving Spirit work,
In heart of Russian, and of
Turk,
Until throughout each clime and land,
Armenian and Jew
may stand,
And claim the right of every soul
To seek by its
own path, the goal.
Parts of the Universal Force,
Rills from
the same eternal Source
Back to that Source, all races go.
God,
help Thy world to see it so.
A WAFT OF PERFUME
A waft of perfume from a bit of lace
Moved
lightly by a passing woman’s hand;
And on the common street,
a sensuous grace
Shone suddenly from some lost
time and land.
Tall structures changed to dome and parapet;
The
stern-faced Church an oracle became;
In sheltered alcoves marble
busts were set;
And on the wall frail Lais wrote
her name.
Phryne before her judges stood at bay,
Fearing
the rigour of Athenian laws;
Till Hyperides tore her cloak away,
And
bade her splendid beauty plead its cause.
Great Alexander walking in the dusk,
Dreamed
of the hour when Greek with Greek should meet;
From Thais’
window attar breathed, and musk:
His footsteps
went no farther down the street.
Faint and more faint the pungent perfume grew;
Of
wall and parapet remained no trace.
Temple and statue vanished
from the view:
The city street again was commonplace.
THE PLOUGH
If you listen you will hear, from east to west,
Growing sounds
of discontent and deep unrest.
It is just the progress-driven plough
of God,
Tearing up the well-worn custom-bounded sod;
Shaping
out each old tradition-trodden track
Into furrows, fertile furrows,
rich and black.
Oh, what harvests they will yield
When they
widen to a field.
They will widen, they will broaden, day by day,
As the Progress-driven
plough keeps on its way.
It will riddle all the ancient roads that
lead
Into palaces of selfishness and greed;
It will tear away
the almshouse and the slum
That the little homes and garden plots
may come.
Yes, the gardens green and sweet
Shall replace the
stony street.
Let the wise man hear the menace that is blent
In this ever-growing
sound of discontent.
Let him hear the rising clamour of the race
That
the few shall yield the many larger space.
For the crucial hour
is coming when the soil
Must be given to, or taken back by Toil
Oh,
that mighty plough of God;
Hear it breaking through the sod!
GO PLANT A TREE
God, what a joy it is to plant a tree,
And from the sallow earth
to watch it rise,
Lifting its emerald branches to the skies
In
silent adoration; and to see
Its strength and glory waxing with
each spring.
Yes, ’tis a goodly, and a gladsome thing
To
plant a tree.
Nature has many marvels; but a tree
Seems more than marvellous.
It is divine.
So generous, so tender, so benign.
Not garrulous
like the rivers; and yet free
In pleasant converse with the winds
and birds;
Oh! privilege beyond explaining words,
To plant
a tree.
Rocks are majestic; but, unlike a tree,
They stand aloof, and
silent. In the roar
Of ocean billows breaking on the shore
There
sounds the voice of turmoil. But a tree
Speaks ever of companionship
and rest.
Yea, of all righteous acts, this, this is best,
To
plant a tree.
There is an oak (oh! how I love that tree)
Which has been thriving
for a hundred years;
Each day I send my blessing through the spheres
To
one who gave this triple boon to me,
Of growing beauty, singing
birds, and shade.
Wouldst thou win laurels that shall never fade?
Go
plant a tree.
PAIN’S PURPOSE
How blind is he who prays that God will send
All pain from earth.
Pain has its use and place;
Its ministry of holiness and grace.
The
darker tones upon the canvas blend
With light and colour; and their
shadows lend
The painting half its dignity. Efface
The
sombre background, and you lose all trace
Of that perfection which
is true art’s trend.
Life is an artist seeking to reveal
God’s majesty and
beauty in each soul.
If from the palette mortal man could steal
The
precious pigment, pain, why then the scroll
Would glare with colours
meaningless and bright,
Or show an empty canvas, blurred with light.
MEMORY’S MANSION
In Memory’s Mansion are wonderful rooms,
And
I wander about them at will;
And I pause at the casements, where
boxes of blooms
Are sending sweet scents o’er
the sill.
I lean from a window that looks on a lawn:
From
a turret that looks on the wave.
But I draw down the shade, when
I see on some glade,
A stone standing guard,
by a grave.
To Memory’s attic I clambered one day,
When
the roof was resounding with rain.
And there, among relics long
hidden away,
I rummaged with heart-ache and pain.
A
hope long surrendered and covered with dust,
A
pastime, out-grown, and forgot,
And a fragment of love, all corroded
with rust,
Were lying heaped up in one spot.
And there on the floor of that garret was tossed
A
friendship too fragile to last,
With pieces of dearly bought pleasures,
that cost
Vast fortunes of pain in the past.
A
fabric of passion, once ardent and bright,
As
tropical sunsets in spring,
Was spread out before me - a terrible
sight -
A moth-eaten rag of a thing.
Then down the steep stairway I hurriedly went,
And
into fair chambers below.
But the mansion seemed filled with the
old attic scent,
Wherever my footsteps would
go.
Though in Memory’s House I still wander full oft,
No
more to the garret I climb;
And I leave all the rubbish heaped
there in the loft
To the hands of the Housekeeper,
Time.
OLD RHYTHM AND RHYME
They tell me new methods now govern the Muses,
The
modes of expression have changed with the times;
That low is the
rank of the poet who uses
The old-fashioned verse
with intentional rhymes.
And quite out of date, too, is rhythmical
metre;
The critics declare it an insult to art.
But
oh! the sweet swing of it, oh! the clear ring of it,
Oh
the great pulse of it, right from the heart,
Art
or no art.
I sat by the side of that old poet, Ocean,
And
counted the billows that broke on the rocks;
The tide lilted in
with a rhythmical motion;
The sea-gulls dipped
downward in time-keeping flocks.
I watched while a giant wave gathered
its forces,
And then on the gray granite precipice
burst;
And I knew as I counted, while other waves mounted,
I
knew the tenth billow would rhyme with the first.
Below in the village a church bell was chiming,
And
back in the woodland a little bird sang;
And, doubt it who will,
yet those two sounds were rhyming,
As out o’er
the hill-tops they echoed and rang.
The Wind and the Trees fell to talking together;
And
nothing they said was didactic or terse;
But everything spoken
was told in unbroken
And beautiful rhyming and
rhythmical verse.
So rhythm I hail it, though critics assail it,
And
hold melting rhymes as an insult to art,
For oh! the sweet swing
of it, oh! the dear ring of it,
Oh! the strong
pulse of it, right from the heart,
Art
or no art.
ALL IN A COACH AND FOUR
The quality folk went riding by,
All in a coach and four,
And
pretty Annette, in a calico gown
(Bringing her marketing things
from town),
Stopped short with her Sunday store,
And wondered
if ever it should betide
That she in a long plumed hat would ride
Away
in a coach and four.
A lord there was, oh a lonely soul,
There in the coach and four.
His
years were young but his heart was old,
And he hated his coaches
and hated his gold
(Those things which we all adore).
And
he thought how sweet it would be to trudge
Along with the fair
little country drudge,
And away from his coach
and four.
So back he rode the very next day
All in his coach and four,
And
he went each day whether dry or wet,
Until he married the sweet
Annette
(In spite of her lack of lore).
But they didn’t
trudge off on foot together,
For he bought her a hat with a long,
long feather,
And they rode in the coach and
four.
Now a thing like this could happen we know,
All in a coach and
four;
But the fact of it is, ’twixt me and you,
There
isn’t a word of the story true
(Pardon I do implore).
It
is only a foolish and fanciful song
That came to me as I rode along,
All
in a coach and four.
SONGS OF A COUNTRY HOME
I
Who has not felt his heart leap up, and glow
What time the Tulips
first begin to blow,
Has one sweet joy still left for him to know.
It is like early love’s imagining,
That fragile pleasure
which the Tulips bring,
When suddenly we see them, in the Spring.
Not all the garden’s later royal train,
Not great triumphant
Roses, when they reign,
Can bring that delicate delight again.
II
One of the sweetest hours is this;
(Of all I think we like it
best);
A little restful oasis,
Between the breakfast and the
post.
Just south of coffee and of toast,
Just north of daily
task and duty;
Just west of dreams, this island gleams,
A
fertile spot of peace and beauty.
We wander out across the lawn;
We idle by a bush in bloom;
The
household pets come following on;
Or if the day is one of gloom,
We
loiter in a pleasant room,
Or from a casement lean and chatter.
Then
comes the mail, like sudden hail,
And off we scatter.
III
When Roses die, in languid August days,
We leave the garden
to its fallen ways,
And seek the shelter of wide porticoes,
Where
Honeysuckle in defiance blows
Undaunted by the sun’s too
ardent rays.
The matron Summer turns a wistful gaze
Across green valleys,
back to tender Mays;
And something of her large contentment goes,
When
Roses die;
Yet all her subtle fascination stays
To lure us
into idle, sweet delays.
The lowered awning by the hammock shows
Inviting
nooks for dreaming and repose;
Oh, restful are the pleasures of
those days
When Roses die.
IV
The summer folk, fled back to town;
The green woods changed
to red and brown;
A sound upon the frosty air
Of windows closing
everywhere.
And then the log, lapped by a blaze -
Oh! what is better than
these days;
With books and friends and love a-near;
Go on,
gay world, but leave me here.
WORTHY THE NAME OF ‘SIR KNIGHT’
Sir Knight of the world’s oldest order,
Sir
Knight of the Army of God,
You have crossed the strange mystical
border,
The ground-floor of truth you have trod;
You
stand on the typical threshold
Which leads to
the temple above;
Where you come as a stone, and a Christ-chosen
one,
In the Kingdom of Friendship and Love.
As you stand in this new realm of beauty,
Where
each man you meet is your friend,
Think not that your promise of
duty
In hall, or asylum, shall end.
Outside,
in the great world of pleasure.
Beyond in the
clamour of trade,
In the battle of life and its coarse daily strife,
Remember
the vows you have made.
Your service, majestic and solemn,
Your symbols,
suggestive and sweet,
Your uniform phalanx in column
On
gala-days marching the street;
Your sword and your plume and your
helmet,
Your ‘secrets’ hid from the
world’s sight;
These things are the small, lesser parts of
the all
Which are needed to form the true Knight.
The martyrs who perished rejoicing,
In Templary’s
glorious laws,
Who died ’midst the faggots while voicing
The
glory and worth of their cause -
They honoured the title of ‘Templar’
No
more than the Knight of to-day,
Who mars not the name with one
blemish of shame,
But carries it clean through
life’s fray.
To live for a cause; to endeavour
To make
your deeds grace it; to try
And uphold its precepts for ever,
Is
harder by far than to die.
For the battle of life is unending,
The
enemy, Self, never tires,
And the true Knight must slay that sly
foe every day,
Ere he reaches the heights he
desires.
Sir Knight, have you pondered the meaning
Of
all you have heard and been told?
Have you strengthened your heart
for its weaning
From vices and faults loved of
old?
Will you honour, in hours of temptation,
Your
promises noble and grand?
Will your spirit be strong to do battle
with wrong,
‘And, having done all, to stand’?
Will you ever be true to a brother
In actions
as well as in creed?
Will you stand by his side as no other
Could
stand, in the hour of his need?
Will you boldly defend him from
peril,
And lift from him poverty’s curse
-
Will the promise of old, which you willingly made,
Reach
down from your lips to your purse?
The world’s battle-field is before you:
Let
Wisdom walk close by your side,
Let Faith spread her snowy wings
o’er you,
Let Truth be your comrade and
guide;
Let Fortitude, Justice, and Mercy
Direct
all your conduct aright,
And let each word and act tell to men
the proud fact,
You are worthy the name of ‘Sir
Knight.’
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