path: root/6025-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 6025 ***

Transcribed from the 1912 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org

                          [Picture: Book cover]





                              THE ENGLISHMAN
                             AND OTHER POEMS


                                    BY

                           ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]

                          GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.
                12 AND 13 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
                                  LONDON
                                   1912

                         [_All rights reserved_]




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_!




CONTENTS

                                                PAGE
The Englishman                                     1
Canada                                             3
The Call                                           5
Coronation Poem and Prayer                         7
Two Voices                                        11
A Ballade of the Unborn Dead                      14
The Truth Teller                                  17
Just You                                          19
Reflection                                        20
Songs of Love and the Sea                         21
Acquaintance                                      25
In India’s Dreamy Land                            26
Rangoon                                           27
Thoughts on leaving Japan                         28
On seeing the Diabutsu—at Kamakura, Japan         30
The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart               31
East and West                                     33
The Squanderer                                    34
Compensations                                     35
Song of the Rail                                  38
Always at Sea                                     40
The Suitors                                       42
The Jealous Gods                                  44
God Rules Alway                                   45
The Cure                                          49
The Forecast                                      52
Little Girls                                      55
Science                                           57
The Earth                                         60
The Muse and the Poet                             63
The Spinster                                      67
Brotherhood                                       71
The Tavern of Last Times                          73
The Two Ages                                      74
If I Were                                         77
Warned                                            78
Forward                                           80
In England                                        81
Karma                                             83
The Gossips                                       85
Together                                          89
Petition                                          91
A Waft of Perfume                                 92
The Plough                                        94
Go Plant a Tree                                   96
Pain’s Purpose                                    98
Memory’s Mansion                                  99
Old Rhythm and Rhyme                             101
All in a Coach and Four                          103
Songs of a Country Home                          105
Worthy the name of “Sir Knight”                  108




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


I


   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 lower 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.’

                                * * * * *

                                * * * * *

         Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty
                    at the Edinburgh University Press.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 6025 ***