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Title: Poems of Progress
Author: Wilcox, Ella Wheeler
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Poems of Progress" ***

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PASTELS***


Transcribed from the 1913 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org



                            POEMS OF PROGRESS
                                   AND
                           NEW THOUGHT PASTELS


                                    BY

                           ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]

                          GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.

                12 AND 13 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN

                                  LONDON

                                   1913

                         [_All rights reserved_]

                                * * * * *

ANY edition of my poems published in England by any firm except Messrs.
Gay and Hancock is pirated and not authentic.

                                                      ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

_April_ 12, 1910.



PREFACE
LOVE’S LANGUAGE


   When silence flees before the voice of Love,
   Of what expression does that god approve?
   Is dulcet song or flowing verse his choice,
   Or stately prose, made regal by his voice?
   Speaks Love in couplets, or in epics grand?
   And is Love humble, or does he command?

   There is no language that Love does not speak:
   To-day commanding and to-morrow meek,
   One hour laconic and the next verbose,
   With hope triumphant and with doubt morose,
   His varying moods all forms of speech employ.
   To give expression to his painful joy,

   To voice the phases of his joyful pain,
   He rings the changes on the poet’s strain.
   Yet not in epic, epigram or verse
   Can Love the passion of his heart rehearse.
   All speech, all language, is inadequate,
   There are no words with Love commensurate.



CONTENTS

                                                    PAGE
Preface                                                v
The Land Between                                       1
Love’s Mirage                                          3
The Need of the World                                  4
The Gulf Stream                                        7
Remembered                                             8
Helen of Troy                                          9
Lais when Young                                       11
Lais when Old                                         12
Existence                                             13
Holiday Songs                                         15
Astrolabius                                           18
Completion                                            21
Sleep’s Treachery                                     24
Art versus Cupid                                      25
The Revolt of Vashti                                  33
The Choosing of Esther                                37
Honeymoon Scene                                       42
The Cost                                              49
The Voice                                             52
God’s Answer                                          55
The Edict of the Sex                                  56
The World-child                                       59
The Heights                                           61
On seeing ‘The House of Julia’ at Herculaneum         63
A Prayer                                              64
What is Right Living?                                 66
Justice                                               67
Time’s Gaze                                           68
The Worker and the Work                               70
Art thou Alive?                                       72
To-day                                                74
The Ladder                                            76
Who is a Christian?                                   78
The Goal                                              80
The Spur                                              82
Awakened!                                             84
Shadows                                               86
The New Commandment                                   88
Summer Dreams                                         90
The Breaking of Chains                                92
December                                              94
‘The Way’                                             96
The Leader to be                                      98
The Greater Love                                     100
Thank God for Life                                   102
Time Enough                                          104
New Year’s Day                                       106
Life is a Privilege                                  108
In an Old Art Gallery                                110
True Brotherhood                                     111
The Decadent                                         112
Lord, speak again                                    113
My Heaven                                            116
Life                                                 118
God’s Kin                                            120
Conquest                                             121
The Statue                                           122
Sirius                                               124
At Fontainebleau                                     128
The Masquerade                                       129
Sympathy                                             131
Intermediary                                         133
Life’s Car                                           135
Opportunity                                          135
The Age of Motored Things                            136
New Year                                             136
Disarmament                                          140
The Call                                             141
A Little Song                                        142
                  NEW THOUGHT PASTELS
A Dialogue                                           145
The Weed                                             147
Strength                                             148
Affirm                                               149
The Chosen                                           150
The Nameless                                         152
The Word                                             153
Assistance                                           155
‘Credulity’                                          156
Consciousness                                        157
The Structure                                        158
Our Souls                                            159
The Law                                              160
Knowledge                                            161
Give                                                 163
Perfection                                           164
Fear                                                 165
The Way                                              166
Understood                                           167
His Mansion                                          168
Effect                                               169
Three Things                                         170
Obstacles                                            171
Prayer                                               172
Climbing                                             173
‘There is no Death, There are no Dead’               174
Realisation                                          176



THE LAND BETWEEN


   Between the little Here and larger Yonder,
      There is a realm (or so one day I read)
   Where faithful spirits love-enchained may wander,
      Till some remembering soul from earth has fled.
   Then, reunited, they go forth afar,
   From sphere to sphere, where wondrous angels are.

   Not many spirits in that realm are waiting;
      Not many pause upon its shores to rest;
   For only love, intense and unabating,
      Can hold them from the longer, higher quest.
   And after grief has wept itself to sleep,
   Few hearts on earth their vital memories keep.

   Should I pass on, across the mystic border,
      Let thy love link me to that pallid land;
   I would not seek the heavens of finer order
      Until thy barque had left this coarser strand.
   How desolate such journeyings would be,
   Though straight to Him, were they not shared by thee.

   Wert thou first called (dear God, how could I bear it?)
      I should enchain thee with my love, I know.
   Not great enough am I to free thy spirit
      From all these tender ties, and bid thee go.
   Nor would a soul, unselfish as thine own,
   Forget so soon, and speed to heaven alone.

   On earth we find no joy in ways diverging;
      How could we find it in the worlds unseen?
   I know old memories from my bosom surging,
      Would keep thee waiting in that Land Between,
   Until together, side by side, we trod
   A path of stars, in our great search for God.



LOVE’S MIRAGE


   Midway upon the route, he paused athirst
      And suddenly across the wastes of heat,
      He saw cool waters gleaming, and a sweet
   Green oasis upon his vision burst.
   A tender dream, long in his bosom nursed,
      Spread love’s illusive verdure for his feet;
      The barren sands changed into golden wheat;
   The way grew glad that late had seemed accursed.

   She shone, the woman wonder, on his soul;
      The garden spot, for which men toil and wait;
         The house of rest, that is each heart’s demand;
   But when, at last, he reached the gleaming goal,
      He found, oh, cruel irony of fate,
         But desert sun upon the desert sand.



THE NEED OF THE WORLD


   I know the need of the world,
      Though it would not have me know.
   It would hide its sorrow deep,
      Where only God may go.
   Yet its secret it can not keep;
   It tells it awake, or asleep,
   It tells it to all who will heed,
   And he who runs may read.
      The need of the world I know.

   I know the need of the world,
      When it boasts of its wealth the loudest,
   When it flaunts it in all men’s eyes,
      When its mien is the gayest and proudest.
   Oh! ever it lies—it lies,
   For the sound of its laughter dies
   In a sob and a smothered moan,
   And it weeps when it sits alone.
      The need of the world I know.

   I know the need of the world.
      When the earth shakes under the tread
   Of men who march to the fight,
      When rivers with blood are red
   And there is no law but might,
   And the wrong way seems the right;
   When he who slaughters the most
   Is all men’s pride and boast.
      The need of the world I know.

   I know the need of the world.
      When it babbles of gold and fame,
   It is only to lead us astray
      From the thing that it dare not name,
   For this is the sad world’s way.
   Oh! poor blind world grown grey
   With the need of a thing so near,
   With the want of a thing so dear.
      The need of the world I know.

   The need of the world is love.
      Deep under the pride of power,
   Down under its lust of greed,
      For the joys that last but an hour,
   There lies forever its need.
   For love is the law and the creed
   And love is the unnamed goal
   Of life, from man to the mole.
      Love is the need of the world.



THE GULF STREAM


   Skilled mariner, and counted sane and wise,
      That was a curious thing which chanced to me,
         So good a sailor on so fair a sea.
   With favouring winds and blue unshadowed skies,
   Led by the faithful beacon of Love’s eyes,
      Past reef and shoal, my life-boat bounded free
      And fearless of all changes that might be
   Under calm waves, where many a sunk rock lies.

   A golden dawn; yet suddenly my barque
      Strained at the sails, as in a cyclone’s blast;
         And battled with an unseen current’s force,
   For we had entered when the night was dark
      That old tempestuous Gulf Stream of the Past.
         But for love’s eyes, I had not kept the course.



REMEMBERED


   His art was loving; Eres set his sign
      Upon that youthful forehead, and he drew
         The hearts of women, as the sun draws dew.
   Love feeds love’s thirst as wine feeds love of wine;
   Nor is there any potion from the vine
      Which makes men drunken like the subtle brew
      Of kisses crushed by kisses; and he grew
   Inebriated with that draught divine.

   Yet in his sober moments, when the sun
      Of radiant summer paled to lonely fall,
         And passion’s sea had grown an ebbing tide,
   From out the many, Memory singled one
      Full cup that seemed the sweetest of them all—
         _The warm red mouth that mocked him and denied_.



HELEN OF TROY


ON THE ISLE OF CRANAE


   The world an abject vassal to her charms,
   And kings competing for a single smile,
   Yet love she knew not, till upon this isle
   She gave surrender to abducting arms.
   Not Theseus, who plucked her lips’ first kiss,
      Not Menelaus, lawful mate and spouse,
      Such answering passion in her heart could rouse,
   Or wake such tumult in her soul as this.
   Let come what will, let Greece and Asia meet,
      Let heroes die and kingdoms run with gore;
      Let devastation spread from shore to shore—
   Resplendent Helen finds her bondage sweet.
   The whole world fights her battles, while she lies
   Sunned in the fervour of young Paris’ eyes.



ON THE ISLE OF RHODES


   The battles ended, ardent Paris dead,
      Of faithful Menelaus long bereft,
      Time is the only suitor who is left:
   Helen survives, with youth and beauty fled.
   By hate remembered, but by love forgot,
      Dethroned and driven from her high estate,
      Unhappy Helen feels the lash of Fate
   And knows at last an unloved woman’s lot.
   The Grecian marvel, and the Trojan joy,
      The world’s fair wonder, from her palace flies
      The furies follow, and great Helen dies,
   A death of horror, for the pride of Troy.

                                  * * * * *

   Yet Time, like Menelaus, all forgives.
   Helen, immortal in her beauty, lives.



LAIS WHEN YOUNG


   Lais when young, and all her charms in flower,
      Lais, whose beauty was the fateful light
         That led great ships to anchor in the night
   And bring their priceless cargoes to her bower,
   Lais yet found her cup of sweet turned sour.
      Great Plato’s pupil, from his lofty height,
      Zenocrates, unmoved, had seen the white
   Sweet wonder of her, and defied her power.

   She snared the world in nets of subtle wiles:
      The proud, the famed, all clamoured at her gate;
         Dictators plead, inside her portico;
   Wisdom sought madness, in her favouring smiles;
      Now was she made the laughing-stock of fate:
         One loosed her clinging arms, and bade her go.



LAIS WHEN OLD


   Lais, when old and all her beauty gone,
   Lais, the erstwhile courted pleasure queen,
   Walked homeless through Corinth.
      One mocked her mien—
   One tossed her coins; she took them and passed on.
   Down by the harbour sloped a terraced lawn,
      Where fountains played; she paused to view the scene.
      A marble palace stood in bowers of green
   ’Twas here of old she revelled till the dawn.

   Through yonder portico her lovers came—
      Hero and statesman, athlete, merchant, sage;
         They flung the whole world’s treasures at her feet
   To buy her favour and exalt her shame.

                                  * * * * *

   She spat upon her dole of coins in rage
      And faded like a phantom down the street.



EXISTENCE


   You are here, and you are wanted,
      Though a waif upon life’s stair;
   Though the sunlit hours are haunted
      With the shadowy shapes of care.
   Still the Great One, the All-Seeing
   Called your spirit into being—
   Gave you strength for any fate.
   Since your life by Him was needed,
   All your ways by Him are heeded—
      You can trust and you can wait.

   You can wait to know the meaning
      Of the troubles sent your soul;
   Of the chasms intervening
      ’Twixt your purpose and your goal;
   Of the sorrows and the trials,
   Of the silence and denials,
      Ofttimes answering to your pleas;
   Of the stinted sweets of pleasure,
   And of pain’s too generous measure—
      You can wait the _why_ of these.

   Forth from planet unto planet,
      You have gone, and you will go.
   Space is vast, but we must span it;
      For life’s purpose is _to know_.
   Earth retains you but a minute,
   Make the best of what lies in it;
      Light the pathway where you are.
   There is nothing worth the doing
   That will leave regret or rueing,
      As you speed from star to star.

   You are part of the Beginning,
      You are parcel of To-day.
   When He set His world to spinning
      You were flung upon your way.
   When the system falls to pieces,
   When this pulsing epoch ceases,
      When the _is_ becomes the _was_,
   You will live, for you will enter
   In the great Creative Centre,
      In the All-Enduring Cause.



HOLIDAY SONGS


I


   Sailing away on a summer sea,
      Out of the bleak March weather;
   Drifting away for a loaf and play,
      Just you and I together;
   And it’s good-bye worry and good-bye hurry
   And never a care have we;
   With the sea below and the sun above
   And nothing to do but dream and love,
      Sailing away together.

   Sailing away from the grim old town
      And tasks the town calls duty;
   Sailing away from walls of grey
      To a land of bloom and beauty,
   And it’s good-bye to letters from our lessers and our betters,
   To the cold world’s smile or its frown.
   We sail away on a sunny track
   To find the summer and bring it back
      And love is our only duty.



II


   Afloat on a sea of passion
      Without a compass or chart,
   But the glow of your eye shows the sun is high,
      By the sextant of my heart.
   I know we are nearing the tropics
      By the languor that round us lies,
   And the smile on your mouth says the course is south
      And the port is Paradise.

   We have left grey skies behind us,
      We sail under skies of blue;
   You are off with me on lovers’ sea,
      And I am away with you.
   We have not a single sorrow,
      And I have but one fear—
   That my lips may miss one offered kiss
      From the mouth that is smiling near.

   There is no land of winter;
      There is no world of care;
   There is bloom and mirth all over the earth,
      And love, love everywhere.
   Our boat is the barque of Pleasure,
      And whatever port we sight
   The touch of your hand will make the land
      The Harbour of Pure Delight.



ASTROLABIUS
(THE CHILD OF ABELARD AND HELOISE)


I


   I wrenched from a passing comet in its flight,
      By that great force of two mad hearts aflame,
      A soul incarnate, back to earth you came,
   To glow like star-dust for a little night.
   Deep shadows hide you wholly from our sight;
      The centuries leave nothing but your name,
      Tinged with the lustre of a splendid shame,
   That blazed oblivion with rebellious light.

   The mighty passion that became your cause,
      Still burns its lengthening path across the years;
      We feel its raptures, and we see its tears
   And ponder on its retributive laws.
      Time keeps that deathless story ever new;
      Yet finds no answer, when we ask of you.



II


   At Argenteuil, I saw the lonely cell
      Where Heloise dreamed through her broken rest,
      That baby lips pulled at her undried breast.
   It needed but my woman’s heart to tell
   Of those long vigils and the tears that fell
      When aching arms reached out in fruitless quest,
      As after flight, wings brood an empty nest.
   (So well I know that sorrow, ah, so well.)

   Across the centuries there comes no sound
      Of that vast anguish; not one sigh or word
      Or echo of the mother loss has stirred,
   The sea of silence, lasting and profound.
      Yet to each heart, that once has felt this grief,
      Sad Memory restores Time’s missing leaf.



III


   But what of you?  Who took the mother’s place
      When sweet expanding love its object sought?
      Was there a voice to tell her tragic lot,
   And did you ever look upon her face?
   Was yours a cloistered seeking after grace?
      Or in the flame of adolescent thought
      Were Abelard’s departed passions caught
   To burn again in you and leave their trace?

   Conceived in nature’s bold primordial way
      (As in their revolutions, suns create),
      You came to earth, a soul immaculate,
   Baptized in fire, with some great part to play.
      What was that part, and wherefore hid from us,
      Immortal mystery, Astrolabius!



COMPLETION


   When I shall meet God’s generous dispensers
      Of all the riches in the heavenly store,
   Those lesser gods, who act as Recompensers
      For loneliness and loss upon this shore,
   Methinks abashed, and somewhat hesitating,
      My soul its wish and longing will declare.
   Lest they reply: ‘Here are no bounties waiting:
      We gave on earth, your portion and your share.’

   Then shall I answer: ‘Yea, I do remember
      The many blessings to my life allowed;
   My June was always longer than December,
      My sun was always stronger than my cloud,
   My joy was ever deeper than my sorrow,
      My gain was ever greater than my loss,
   My yesterday seemed less than my to-morrow,
      The crown looked always larger than the cross.

   ‘I have known love, in all its radiant splendour,
      It shone upon my pathway to the end.
   I trod no road that did not bloom with tender
      And fragrant blossoms, planted by some friend.
   And those material things we call successes,
      In modest measure, crowned my earthly lot.
   Yet was there one sweet happiness that blesses
      The life of woman, which to me came not.

   ‘I knew the hope of motherhood; a season
      I felt a fluttering heart beat ’neath my own;
   A little cry—then silence.  For that reason
      I dare, to you, my only wish make known.
   The babe who grew to angelhood in heaven,
      I never watched unfold from child to man.
   And so I ask, that unto me be given
      That motherhood, which was God’s primal plan.

   ‘All womankind He meant to share its glories;
      He meant us all to nurse our babes to rest.
   To croon them songs, to tell them sleepy stories,
      Else why the wonder of a woman’s breast?
   He must provide for all earth’s cheated mothers
      In His vast heavens of shining sphere on sphere,
   And with my son, there must be many others—
      My spirit children who will claim me here.

   ‘Fair creatures by my loving thoughts created—
      Too finely fashioned for a mortal birth—
   Between the borders of two worlds they waited
      Until they saw my spirit leave the earth.
   In God’s great nursery they must be waiting
      To welcome me with many an infant wile.
   Now let me go and satisfy this longing
      To mother children for a little while.’



SLEEP’S TREACHERY


   As the grey twilight, tiptoed down the deep
      And shadowy valley, to the day’s dark end,
      She whom I thought my ever-faithful friend,
   Fair-browed, calm-eyed and mother-bosomed Sleep,
   Met me with smiles.  ‘Poor longing heart, I keep
      Sweet joy for you,’ she murmured.  ‘I will send
      One whom you love, with your own soul to blend
   In visions, as the night hours onward creep.’

   I trusted her; and watched by starry beams,
      I slumbered soundly, free from all alarms.
         Then not my love, but one long banished came,
   Led by false Sleep, down secret stairs of dreams
      And clasped me, unresisting in fond arms.
         Oh, treacherous sleep—to sell me to such shame!



ART _VERSUS_ CUPID


[_A room in a private house_.  _A maiden sitting before a fire
meditating_.]

                                  MAIDEN

   Now have I fully fixed upon my part.
   Good-bye to dreams; for me a life of art!
   Beloved art!  Oh, realm serene and fair,
   Above the mean and sordid world of care,
   Above earth’s small ambitions and desires!
   Art! art! the very word my soul inspires!
   From foolish memories it sets me free.
   Not what has been, but that which is to be
   Absorbs me now.  Adieu to vain regret!
   The bow is tensely drawn—the target set.

                                                  [_A knock at the door_.]

                              MAID (_aside_)

   The night is dark and chill; the hour is late.

                                (_Aloud_)

   Who knocks upon my door?

                            _A Voice Outside_

   ’Tis I, your fate!

                                   MAID

   Thou dost deceive, not me, but thine own self.
   My fate is not a wandering, vagrant elf.
   My fate is here, within this throbbing heart
   That beats alone for glory, and for art.

                                 _Voice_

                        [_Another knock at door_.]

   Pray, let me in; I am so faint and cold.

[_Door is pushed ajar_.  _Enter_ CUPID, _who approaches the fire with
outstretched hands_.]

                           MAID (_indignantly_)

   Methinks thou art not faint, however cold,
   But rather too courageous, and most bold;
   Surprisingly ill-mannered, sir, and rude,
   Without an invitation to intrude
   Into my very presence.

                       CUPID (_warming his hands_)

      But, you see,
   Girls never mind a little chap like me.
   They’re always watching for me on the sly,
   And hoping I will call.

                            MAID (_haughtily_)

      Indeed, not I!
   My heart has listened to a sweeter voice,
   A clarion call that gives command—not choice.
   And I have answered to that call, ‘I come’;
   To other voices shall my ears be dumb.
   To art alone I consecrate my life—
   Art is my spouse, and I his willing wife.

                 CUPID (_slowly_, _gazing in the grate_)

   Art is a sultan, and you must divide
   His love with many another ill-fed bride.
   Now I know one who worships you alone.

                           MAID (_impatiently_)

   I will not listen! for the dice is thrown
   And art has won me.  On my brow some day
   Shall rest the laurel wreath—

         CUPID (_sitting down and looking at_ MAID _critically_)

      Just let me say
   I think sweet orange blossoms under lace
   Are better suited to your type of face.

                      MAID (_ignoring interruption_)

   I yet shall stand before an audience
   That listens as one mind, absorbed, intense,
   And with my genius I shall rouse its cheers,
   Still it to silence, soften it to tears,
   Or wake its laughter.  Oh, the play! the play!
   The play’s the thing!  My boy, _the play_!!

                  CUPID (_suddenly clapping his hands_)

      Oh, say!
   I know a splendid role for you to take,
   And one that always keeps the house awake—
   And calls for pretty dressing.  Oh, it’s great!

                            MAID (_excitedly_)

   Well, well, what is it?  Wherefore make me wait?

                CUPID (_tapping his brow_, _thoughtfully_)

   How is it those lines run—oh, now I know;
   You make a stately entrance—measured—slow—
   To stirring music, then you kneel and say
   Something about—to honour and obey—
   For better and for worse—till death do part.

                             MAID (_angrily_)

   Be still, you foolish boy; that is not _art_.

                           CUPID (_seriously_)

   She needs great skill who takes the role of wife
   In God’s stupendous drama human life.

                    MAID (_suddenly becoming serious_)

   So I once thought!  Oh, once my very soul
   Was filled and thrilled with dreaming of that role.
   Life seemed so wonderful; it held for me
   No purpose, no ambition, but to be
   Loving and loved.  My highest thought of fame
   Was some day bearing my dear lover’s name.
   Alone, I ofttimes uttered it aloud,
   Or wrote it down, half timid, and all proud
   To see myself lost utterly in him:
   As some small star might joy in growing dim
   When sinking in the sun; or as the dew,
   Forgetting the brief little life it knew
   In space, might on the ocean’s bosom fall
   And ask for nothing—only to give all.

                             CUPID (_aside_)

   Now, _that’s_ the talk—it’s music to my ear
   After that stuff on ‘art’ and a ‘career.’
   I hope she’ll keep it up.

                    MAIDEN (_continuing her reverie_)

      Again my dream
   Shaped into changing pictures.  I would seem
   To see myself in beautiful array
   Move down the aisle upon my wedding day;
   And then I saw the modest living-room
   With lighted lamp, and fragrant plants in bloom,
   And books and sewing scattered all about,
   And just we two alone.

                         CUPID (_in glee aside_)

      There’s not a doubt
   I’ll land her yet!

                                  MAIDEN

      My dream kaleidoscope
   Changed still again, and framed love’s dearest hope—
   The trinity of home; and life was good
   And all its deepest meaning understood.

[_Sits lost in a dream_.  _Behind scenes a voice sings a lullaby_,
‘_Beautiful Land of Nod_.’  CUPID _in ecstasy tiptoes about and clasps
his hands in delight_.]

   Another scene! a matron in her prime,
   I saw myself glide peacefully with time
   Into the quiet middle years, content
   With simple joys the dear home circle lent.
   My sons and daughters made my diadem;
   I saw my happy youth renewed in them.
   The pain of growing old lost all its sting,
   For Love stood near—in Winter, as in Spring.

[CUPID _tiptoes to door and makes a signal_.  MAIDEN _starts up
dramatically_.]

   ’Twas but a dream!  I woke all suddenly.
   The world had changed!  And now life means to me
   My art—the stage—excitement and the crowd—
   The glare of many foot-lights—and the loud
   Applause of men, as I cry in rage,
   ‘Give me the dagger!’ or creep down the stage
   In that sleep-walking scene.  Oh, art like mine
   Will send the chills down every listener’s spine!
   And when I choose, salt tears shall freely flow
   As in the moonlight I cry, ‘Romeo!  Romeo!
   Oh, wherefore art thou, Romeo?’
            Ay, ’tis done
   My dream of home life.

                                  CUPID

            It is but begun.

                                  MAIDEN

   The heart but once can dream a dream so fair,
   And so henceforth love thoughts I do forswear;
   Since faith in love has crumbled to the dust,
   In fame alone, I put my hope and trust.

[CUPID _at the door beckons excitedly_.  _Enter lover with outstretched
arms_.]

                                  CUPID

   Here’s one who will explain yourself to you
   And make that old sweet dream of love come true.
   Fix up your foolish quarrel; time is brief—
   So waste no more of it in doubt or grief.

[_The lovers meet and embrace_.]

                           CUPID (_in doorway_)

   Warm lip to lip, and heart to beating heart,
   The cast is made—My Lady has her part.

                                 CURTAIN



THE REVOLT OF VASHTI
(FROM THE DRAMA OF MIZPAH)


                                AHASUERAS

   Is this the way to greet thy loving spouse,
   But now returned from scenes of blood and strife?
   I pray thee raise thy veil and let me gaze
   Upon that beauty which hath greater power
   To conquer me than all the arts of war!

                                  VASHTI

   My beauty!  Ay, my _beauty_!  I do hold,
   In thy regard, no more an honoured place
   Than yonder marble pillar, or the gold
   And jewelled wine-cup which thy lips caress.
   Thou wouldst degrade me in the people’s sight!

                                AHASUERAS

   Degrade thee, Vashti?  Rather do I seek
   To show my people who are gathered here
   How, as the consort of so fair a queen,
   I feel more pride than as the mighty king:
   For there be many rulers on the earth,
   But only _one_ such queen.  Come, raise thy veil!

                                  VASHTI

   Ay! only _one_ such queen!  A queen is one
   Who shares her husband’s greatness and his throne.
   I am no more than yonder dancing girl
   Who struts and smirks before a royal court!
   But I will loose my veil and loose my tongue!
   Now listen, sire—my master and my king;
   And let thy princes and the court give ear!
   ’Tis time all heard how Vashti feels her shame.

                                AHASUERAS

   Shame is no word to couple with thy name!
   Shame and a spotless woman may not meet,
   Even in a sentence.  Choose another word.

                                  VASHTI

   Ay, _shame_, my lord—there is no synonym
   That can give voice to my ignoble state.
   To be a thing for eyes to gaze upon,
   Yet held an outcast from thy heart and mind;
   To hear my beauty praised but not my worth;
   To come and go at Pleasure’s beck and call,
   While barred from Wisdom’s conclaves!  Think ye _that_
   A noble calling for a noble dame?
   Why, any concubine amongst thy train
   Could play my royal part as well as I—
   Were she as fair!

                                AHASUERAS

         Queen Vashti, art thou _mad_?
   I would behead another did he dare
   To so besmirch thee with comparison.

                         VASHTI (_to the court_)

   Gaze now your fill!  Behold Queen Vashti’s eyes!
   How large they gleam beneath her inch of brow!
   How like a great white star, her splendid face
   Shines through the midnight forest of her hair!
   And see the crushed pomegranate of her mouth!
   Observe her arms, her throat, her gleaming breasts,
   Whereon the royal jewels rise and fall!—
   And note the crescent curving of her hips,
   And lovely limbs suggested ’neath her robes!
   Gaze, gaze, I say, for these have made her queen!
   She hath no mind, no heart, no dignity,
   Worth royal recognition and regard;
   But her fair body approbation meets
   And whets the sated appetite of kings!
   Now ye have seen what she was bid to show.
   The queen hath played her part and begs to go.

                                AHASUERAS

   Ay, Vashti, go and never more return!
   Not only hast thou wronged thine own true lord,
   And mocked and shamed me in the people’s eyes,
   But thou hast wronged all princes and all men
   By thy pernicious and rebellious ways.
   Queens act and subjects imitate.  So let
   Queen Vashti weigh her conduct and her words,
   Or be no more called ‘queen!’

                                  VASHTI

   I was a princess ere I was a queen,
   And worthy of a better fate than this!
   There lies the crown that made me queen in name!
   Here stands the woman—wife in name alone!
   Now, no more queen—nor wife—but woman still—
   Ay, and a woman strong enough to be
   Her own avenger.



THE CHOOSING OF ESTHER
(FROM THE DRAMA OF MIZPAH)


                                AHASUERAS

   Tell me thy name!

                                  ESTHER

   My name, great sire, is Esther.

                                AHASUERAS

   So thou art Esther?  Esther! ’tis a name
   Breathed into sound as softly as a sigh.
   A woman’s name should melt upon the lips
   Like Love’s first kisses, and thy countenance
   Is fit companion for so sweet a name!

                                  ESTHER

   Thou art most kind.  I would my name and face
   Were mine own making and not accident.
   Then I might feel elated at thy praise,
   Where now I feel confusion.

                                AHASUERAS

         Thou hast wit
   As well as beauty, Esther.  Both are gems
   That do embellish woman in man’s sight.
   Yet they are gems of second magnitude!
   Dost _thou_ possess the one great perfect gem—
   The matchless jewel of the world called _love_?

                                  ESTHER

   Sire, in the heart of every woman dwells
   That wondrous perfect gem!

                                AHASUERAS

         Then, Esther, speak!
   And tell me what is _love_!  I fain would know
   Thy definition of that much-mouthed word,
   By woman most employed—least understood.

                                  ESTHER

   What can a humble Jewish maiden know
   That would instruct a warrior and a king?
   I have but dreamed of love as maidens will
   While thou hast known its fulness.  All the world
   Loves Great Ahasueras!

                                AHASUERAS

         All the world
   _Fears great_ Ahasueras!  Kings, my child,
   Are rarely loved as anything but kings.
   Love, as I see it in the court and camp,
   Means seeking royal favour.  I would know
   How love is fashioned in a maiden’s dreams.

                                  ESTHER

   Sire, love seeks nothing that kings can bestow.
   Love is the king of all kings here below;
   Love makes the monarch but a bashful boy,
   Love makes the peasant monarch in his joy;
   Love seeks not place, all places are the same,
   When lighted by the radiance of love’s flame.
   Who deems proud love could fawn to power and splendour
   Hath known not love, but some base-born pretender.

                                AHASUERAS

   If this be love, I would know more of it.
   Speak on, fair Esther!  What is love beside?

                                  ESTHER

   Love is in all things, all things are in love.
   Love is the earth, the sea, the skies above;
   Love is the bird, the blossom, and the wind;
   Love hath a million eyes, yet love is blind;
   Love is a tempest, awful in its might;
   Love is the silence of a moon-lit night;
   Love is the aim of every human soul;
   And he who hath not loved hath missed life’s goal!

                                AHASUERAS

   But tell me of thyself, of thine own dreams!
   How wouldst thou love, and how be loved again?

                                  ESTHER

   Who most doth love thinks least of love’s return;
   She is content to feel the passion burn
   In her own bosom, and its sacred fire
   Consumes each selfish purpose and desire.
   ’Tis in the giving, love’s best rapture lies,
   Not in the counting of the things it buys.

                                AHASUERAS

   Yet, is there not vast anguish and despair
   In love that finds no answering word or smile?

                                  ESTHER

   So radiant is love, it lends a glow
   To each dark sorrow and to every woe.
   To love completely is to part with pain,
   Nor is there mortal who can love in vain.
   Love is its own reward, it pays full measure,
   And in love’s sharpest grief lies subtlest pleasure.

                                AHASUERAS

   Methinks, a mighty warrior, lord or king
   Must in thy fancy play the lover’s part;
   None else could wake such reverential thought.

                                  ESTHER

   When woman loves one born of lowly state,
   Her thought gives crown and sceptre to her mate;
   Yet be he king, or chief of some great clan,
   She loves him but as woman loves a man.
   Monarch or peasant, ’tis the same, I wis
   When once she gives him love’s surrendering kiss.



HONEYMOON SCENE
(FROM THE DRAMA OF MIZPAH)


                                AHASUERAS

   What were thy thoughts, sweet Esther?  Something passed
   Across thy face, that for a moment veiled
   Thy soul from mine, and left me desolate.
   Thy thoughts were not of me?

                                  ESTHER

         Ay, _all_ of thee!
   I wondered, if in truth, thou wert content
   With me—thy choice.  Was there no other one
   Of all who passed before thee at thy court
   Whose memory pursues thee with regret?

                                AHASUERAS

   I do confess I much regret that day
   And wish I could relive it.

                                  ESTHER

         Oh!  My lord!

                                AHASUERAS

   Yea!  I regret those hours I wasted on
   The poor procession that preceded thee.
   Hadst thou come first, then all the added wealth

      Of one long day of loving thee were mine—
   A boundless fortune squandered.  Though I live
   To three score years and ten, as I do hope,
   In wedded love beside thee, that one day
   Was filched from me and cannot be restored.

                                  ESTHER

   And then to think how frightened and abashed
   I hung outside thy gates from early morn,
   Not daring to go in and meet thine eyes,
   Till pitying twilight clothed me in her veil,
   And evening walked beside me to thy door.

                                AHASUERAS

   So it was thou, fair thief, who stole that day,
   And made me poorer, by—how many hours?

                                  ESTHER

   Full eight, I think.  They seemed a hundred then,
   And now time flies a hundred times too fast.

                                AHASUERAS

   Then eight more kisses do I claim from thee,
   This very hour—first tithes of many due.
   I shall exact these payments as I will,
   And if they be not ready on demand,
   I’ll lock thee in the prison of my arms,
   Like this—and take them so—and so—and so!

                                  ESTHER

   But kings must think of other things than love
   And live for other aims than happiness.
   I would not drag thee from thy altitude
   Of mighty ruler and great conqueror
   To chain thee by my side.

                                AHASUERAS

         Such slavery
   Would please me better than to conquer earth
   Without thee, Esther.  I have stood on heights
   And heard the cheers of multitudes below;
   Have known the loneliness of being great.
   Now, let me live and love thee, like a man,
   Forgetting I am king—
   I am content.

                                  ESTHER

   Content is not the pathway to great deeds.
   As man, I hold thee higher than all kings;
   As king, thou must stand higher than all men
   In other eyes.  Let no one say of me:
   ‘She spoiled his greatness by her littleness;
   She made a languorous lover of a king,
   And silenced war-cries on commanding lips—
   With honeyed kisses; made her woman’s arms
   Preferred to armour, and her couch to tents,
   Until the kingdom, with no guiding hand,
   Plunged down to ruin.’

                                AHASUERAS

         Thou wouldst have me go—
   So soon thy heart hath wearied?

                                  ESTHER

   My heart is bursting with its love for thee!
   Canst thou not feel its fervour?  But great men
   Need wiser guidance than a woman’s heart.
   My pride in thee is equal to my love,
   And I would have thee greater than thou art—
   Ay, greater than all other men on earth—
   Though forced long years to feed my hungry heart
   On food of memories and wine of tears,
   Wert thou but winning glory and renown.

                                AHASUERAS

   Thou art most noble, Esther; thou art fit
   To be the consort of a king of kings.
   But I have chewed upon ambition’s husks
   And starved for love through all my manhood’s years;
   And now the mighty gods have seen it fit
   To spread love’s banquet and to name thee host,
   May I not feast my fill?  O Esther, take
   The tempting nectar of those lips away
   And give me wine to rouse the brute in me,
   To make me thirst for blood instead of love!
   Wine!  Wine!  I say!

                                  ESTHER

         Ahasueras, wait!
   Methinks good music is wine turned to sound.
   Here comes thy minstrel with an offering
   Pressed from the ripened fruit of my fond heart.
   Mine own the words and mine the melody
   And may it linger longer in thine ear
   Than on thy lip would stay the taste of wine.
   Sing on!

                                 MINSTREL

   When from the field returning,
   Love is a warrior’s yearning,
   Love in his heart is burning,
      Love is his dream.
   Talk not to him of glory,
   Speak not of faces gory,
   Sing of love’s tender story,
      Make it thy theme.
   Sing of his lady’s tresses,
   Sing of the smile that blesses,
   Sing of the sweet caresses,
      And yet again
   Sing of fair children’s faces,
   Sing of the dear home graces,
   Sing till the vacant places,
      Ring with thy strain.
   Yet as the days go speeding,
   Shall he arise unheeding
   Love songs or words of pleading,
      Strong in his might!
   Helmet and armour wearing,
   Hies he to deeds of daring,
   Forth to the battle faring,
      Back to the fight.
   Sing now of ranks contending,
   Sing of loud voices blending,
   Sing of great warriors sending
      Death to their foes!
   Sing of war missiles humming,
   Strike into martial drumming,
   Sing of great victory coming,
      As forth he goes.
   Back to the battle faring,
   Back into deeds of daring,
      Back to the fight.

                                AHASUERAS

   No less a lover but a greater man,
   A better warrior and a nobler king,
   I will be from this hour for thy dear sake.



THE COST


   God finished woman in the twilight hour
   And said, ‘To-morrow thou shalt find thy place:
   Man’s complement, the mother of the race—
      With love the motive power—
      The one compelling power.’

   All night she dreamed and wondered.  With the light
   Her lover came—and then she understood
   The purpose of her being.  Life was good
      And all the world seemed right—
      And nothing was, but right.

   She had no wish for any wider sway:
   By all the questions of the world unvexed,
   Supremely loving and superbly sexed,
      She passed upon her way—
      Her feminine fair way.

   But God neglected, when He fashioned man,
   To fuse the molten splendour of his mind
   With that sixth sense He gave to womankind.
      And so He marred His plan—
      Ay, marred His own great plan.

   She asked so little, and so much she gave,
   That man grew selfish: and she soon became,
   To God’s great sorrow and the whole world’s shame,
      Man’s sweet and patient slave—
      His uncomplaining slave.

   Yet in the nights (oh! nights so dark and long)
   She clasped her little children to her breast
   And wept.  And in her anguish of unrest
      She thought upon her wrong;
      She knew how great her wrong.

   And one sad hour, she said unto her heart,
   ‘Since thou art cause of all my bitter pain,
   I bid thee abdicate the throne: let brain
      Rule now, and do his part—
      His masterful, strong part.’

   She wept no more.  By new ambition stirred
   Her ways led out, to regions strange and vast.
   Men stood aside and watched, dismayed, aghast,
      And all the world demurred—
      Misjudged her, and demurred.

   Still on and up, from sphere to widening sphere,
   Till thorny paths bloomed with the rose of fame.
   Who once demurred, now followed with acclaim:
      The hiss died in the cheer—
      The loud applauding cheer.

   She stood triumphant in that radiant hour,
   Man’s mental equal, and competitor.
   But ah! the cost! from out the heart of her
      Had gone love’s motive power—
      Love’s all-compelling power.



THE VOICE


   I dreamed a Voice, of one God-authorised,
   Cried loudly thro’ the world, ‘Disarm!  Disarm!’
   And there was consternation in the camps;
   And men who strutted under braid and lace
   Beat on their medalled breasts, and wailed, ‘Undone!’
   The word was echoed from a thousand hills,
   And shop and mill, and factory and forge,
   Where throve the awful industries of death,
   Hushed into silence.  Scrawled upon the doors,
   The passer read, ‘Peace bids her children starve.’
   But foolish women clasped their little sons
   And wept for joy, not reasoning like men.

   Again the Voice commanded: ‘Now go forth
   And build a world for Progress and for Peace.
   This work has waited since the earth was shaped;
   But men were fighting, and they could not toil.
   The needs of life outnumber needs of death.
   Leave death with God.  Go forth, I say, and build.’

   And then a sudden, comprehensive joy
   Shone in the eyes of men; and one who thought
   Only of conquests and of victories
   Woke from his gloomy reverie and cried,
   ‘Ay, come and build!  I challenge all to try.
   And I will make a world more beautiful
   Than Eden was before the serpent came.’
   And like a running flame on western wilds,
   Ambition spread from mind to listening mind,
   And lo! the looms were busy once again,
   And all the earth resounded with men’s toil.

   Vast palaces of Science graced the world;
   Their banquet tables spread with feasts of truth
   For all who hungered.  Music kissed the air,
   Once rent with boom of cannons.  Statues gleamed
   From wooded ways, where ambushed armies hid
   In times of old.  The sea and air were gay
   With shining sails that soared from land to land.
   A universal language of the world
   Made nations kin, and poverty was known

   But as a word marked ‘obsolete,’ like war.
   The arts were kindled with celestial fire;
   New poets sang so Homer’s fame grew dim;
   And brush and chisel gave the wondering race
   Sublimer treasures than old Greece displayed.
   Men differed still; fierce argument arose,
   For men are human in this human sphere;
   But unarmed Arbitration stood between
   And Reason settled in a hundred hours
   What War disputed for a hundred years.

   Oh, that a Voice, of one God-authorised
   Might cry to all mankind, Disarm!  Disarm!



GOD’S ANSWER


   Once in a time of trouble and of care
   I dreamed I talked with God about my pain;
   With sleepland courage, daring to complain
   Of what I deemed ungracious and unfair.
   ‘Lord, I have grovelled on my knees in prayer
      Hour after hour,’ I cried; ‘yet all in vain;
      No hand leads up to heights I would attain,
   No path is shown me out of my despair.’

   Then answered God: ‘Three things I gave to thee—
      Clear brain, brave will, and strength of mind and heart,
         All implements divine, to shape the way.
   Why shift the burden of thy toil on Me?
      Till to the utmost he has done his part
         With all his might, let no man _dare_ to pray.’



THE EDICT OF THE SEX


   Two thousand years had passed since Christ was born,
   When suddenly there rose a mighty host
   Of women, sweeping to a central goal
   As many rivers sweep on to the sea.
   They came from mountains, valleys, and from coasts,
   And from all lands, all nations, and all ranks,
   Speaking all languages, but thinking one.
   And that one language—Peace.

         ‘Listen,’ they said,
   And straightway was there silence on the earth,
   For men were dumb with wonder and surprise.
   ‘Listen, O mighty masters of the world,
   And hear the edict of all womankind:
   Since Christ His new commandment gave to men,
   _Love one another_, full two thousand years
   Have passed away, yet earth is red with blood.
   The strong male rulers of the world proclaim
   Their weakness, when we ask that war shall cease.
   Now will the poor weak women of the world
   Proclaim their strength, and say that war shall end.
   Hear, then, our edict: Never from this day
   Will any woman on the crust of earth
   Mother a warrior.  We have sworn the oath
   And will go barren to the waiting tomb
   Rather than breed strong sons at war’s behest,
   Or bring fair daughters into life, to bear
   The pains of travail, for no end but war.
   Ay! let the race die out for lack of babes
   Better a dying race than endless wars!
   Better a silent world than noise of guns
   And clash of armies.

         ‘Long we asked for peace,
   And oft you promised—but to fight again.
   At last you told us, war must ever be
   While men existed, laughing at our plea
   For the disarmament of all mankind.
   Then in our hearts flamed such a mad desire
   For peace on earth, as lights the world at times
   With some great conflagration; and it spread
   From distant land to land, from sea to sea,
   Until all women thought as with one mind
   And spoke as with one voice; and now behold!
   The great Crusading Syndicate of Peace,
   Filling all space with one supreme resolve.
   Give us, O men, your word that war shall end:
   Disarm the world, and we will give you sons—
   Sons to construct, and daughters to adorn
   A beautiful new earth, where there shall be
   Fewer and finer people, opulence
   And opportunity and peace for all.
   Until you promise peace no shrill birth-cry
   Shall sound again upon the aging earth.
   We wait your answer.’

         And the world was still
   While men considered.



THE WORLD-CHILD


   At times I am the mother of the world;
   And mine seem all its sorrows, and its fears.
   That rose, which in each mother-heart is curled,
      The rose of pity, opens with my tears,
   And, waking in the night, I lie and hark
      To the lone sobbing, and the wild alarms,
   Of my World-child, a wailing in the dark:
      The child I fain would shelter in my arms.
   I call to it (as from another room
      A mother calls, what time she cannot go):
   ‘Sleep well, dear world; Love hides behind this gloom.
      There is no need for wakefulness or woe,
   The long, long night is almost past and gone,
   The day is near.’  And yet the world weeps on.

   Again I follow it, throughout the day.
      With anxious eyes I see it trip and fall,
   And hurt itself in many a foolish way:
      Childlike, unheeding warning word or call.
   I see it grasp, and grasping, break the toys
      It cried to own, then toss them on the floor
   And, breathless, hurry after fancied joys
      That cease to please, when added to its store.
   I see the lacerations on its hands,
      Made by forbidden tools; but when it weeps,
   I also weep, as one who understands;
      And having been a child, the memory keeps.
   Ah, my poor world, however wrong thy part,
   Still is there pity in my mother-heart.



THE HEIGHTS


   I cried, ‘Dear Angel, lead me to the heights,
      And spur me to the top.’
      The Angel answered, ‘Stop
   And set thy house in order; make it fair
   For absent ones who may be speeding there.
      Then will we talk of heights.’

   I put my house in order.  ‘Now lead on!’
      The Angel said, ‘Not yet;
      Thy garden is beset
   By thorns and tares; go weed it, so all those
   Who come to gaze may find the unvexed rose;
      Then will we journey on.’

   I weeded well my garden.  ‘All is done.’
      The Angel shook his head.
      ‘A beggar stands,’ he said,
   ‘Outside thy gates; till thou hast given heed
   And soothed his sorrow, and supplied his need,
      Say not that all is done.’

   The beggar left me singing.  ‘Now at last—
      At last the path is clear.’
      ‘Nay, there is one draws near
   Who seeks, like thee, the difficult highway.
   He lacks thy courage; cheer him through the day
      Then will we cry, “At last!”’

   I helped my weaker brother.  ‘Now the heights;
      Oh, Guide me, Angel, guide!’
      The Presence at my side,
   With radiant face, said, ‘Look, where are we now?’
   And lo! we stood upon the mountain’s brow—
      The heights, the shining heights!



ON SEEING ‘THE HOUSE OF JULIA’ AT HERCULANEUM


   Not great Vesuvius, in all his ire,
   Nor all the centuries, could hide your shame.
   There is the little window where you came,
   With eyes that woke the demon of desire,
   And lips like rose leaves, fashioned out of fire;
      And from the lava leaps the molten flame
      Of your old sins.  The walls cry out your name—
   Your face seems rising from the funeral pyre.

   There must have dwelt, within your fated town,
      Full many a virtuous dame, and noble wife
         Who made your beauty seem as star to sun;
   How strange the centuries have handed down
      Your name, fair Julia, of immoral life,
         And left the others to oblivion.



A PRAYER


   Master of sweet and loving lore,
      Give us the open mind
   To know religion means no more,
      No less, than being kind.

   Give us the comprehensive sight
      That sees another’s need;
   And let our aim to set things right
      Prove God inspired our creed.

   Give us the soul to know our kin
      That dwell in flock and herd,
   The voice to fight man’s shameful sin
      Against the beast and bird.

   Give us a heart with love so fraught
      For all created things,
   That even our unspoken thought
      Bears healing on its wings.

   Give us religion that will cope
      With life’s colossal woes,
   And turn a radiant face of hope
      On troops of pigmy foes.

   Give us the mastery of our fate
      In thoughts so warm and white,
   They stamp upon the brows of hate
      Love’s glorious seal of light.

   Give us the strong, courageous faith
      That makes of pain a friend,
   And calls the secret word of death
      ‘Beginning,’ and not ‘end.’



WHAT IS RIGHT LIVING?


   What is right living?  Just to do your best
   When worst seems easier.  To bear the ills
   Of daily life with patient cheerfulness
   Nor waste dear time recounting them.
         To talk
   Of hopeful things when doubt is in the air.
   To count your blessings often, giving thanks,
   And to accept your sorrows silently,
   Nor question why you suffer.  To accept
   The whole of life as one perfected plan,
   And welcome each event as part of it.
   To work, and love your work; to trust, to pray
   For larger usefulness and clearer sight.
   This is right living, pleasing in God’s eyes,
   Though you be heathen, heretic or Jew.



JUSTICE


   However inexplicable may seem
      Event and circumstance upon this earth,
   Though favours fall on those whom none esteem,
      And insult and indifference greet worth;
   Though poverty repays the life of toil,
      And riches spring where idle feet have trod,
   And storms lay waste the patiently tilled soil—
      Yet Justice sways the universe of God.

   As undisturbed the stately stars remain
      Beyond the glare of day’s obscuring light,
   So Justice dwells, though mortal eyes in vain
      Seek it persistently by reason’s sight.
   But when, once freed, the illumined soul looks out.
   Its cry will be, ‘O God, how could I doubt!’



TIME’S GAZE


   Time looked me in the eyes while passing by
   The milestone of the year.  That piercing gaze
   Was both an accusation and reproach.
   No speech was needed.  In a sorrowing look
   More meaning lies than in complaining words,
   And silence hurts as keenly as reproof.

   Oh, opulent, kind giver of rich hours,
   How have I used thy benefits!  As babes
   Unstring a necklace, laughing at the sound
   Of priceless jewels dropping one by one,
   So have I laughed while precious moments rolled
   Into the hidden corners of the past.
   And I have let large opportunities
   For high endeavour move unheeded by,
   While little joys and cares absorbed my strength.

   And yet, dear Time, set to my credit this:
   _Not one white hour have I made black with hate_,
   _Nor wished one living creature aught but good_.

   Be patient with me.  Though the sun slants west,
   The day has not yet finished, and I feel
   Necessity for action and resolve
   Bear in upon my consciousness.  I know
   The earth’s eternal need of earnest souls,
   And the great hunger of the world for Love.
   I know the goal to high achievement lies
   Through the dull pathway of self-conquest first;
   And on the stairs of little duties done
   We climb to joys that stand thy test.  O Time,
   Be patient with me, and another day,
   Perchance, in passing by, thine eyes may smile.



THE WORKER AND THE WORK


   In what I do I note the marring flaw,
   The imperfections of the work I see;
   Nor am I one who rather _do_ than _be_,
   Since its reversal is Creation’s law.

   Nay, since there lies a better and a worse,
   A lesser and a larger, in men’s view,
   I would be better than the thing I do,
   As God is greater than His universe.

   He shaped Himself before He shaped one world:
   A million eons, toiling day and night,
   He built Himself to majesty and might,
   Before the planets into space were hurled.

   And when Creation’s early work was done,
   What crude beginnings out of chaos came—
   A formless nebula, a wavering flame,
   An errant comet, a voracious sun.

   And, still unable to perfect His plan,
   What awful creatures at His touch found birth—
   Those protoplasmic monsters of the earth,
   That owned the world before He fashioned Man.

   And now, behold the poor unfinished state
   Of this, His latest masterpiece!  Then why,
   Seeing the flaws in my own work, should I
   Be troubled that no voice proclaims it great?

   Before me lie the cycling rounds of years;
   With this small earth will die the thing I do:
   The thing I am, goes journeying onward through
   A million lives, upon a million spheres.

   My work I build, as best I can and may,
   Knowing all mortal effort ends in dust.
   I build myself, not as I may, but must,
   Knowing, or good, or ill, that self must stay.

   Along the ages, out, and on, afar,
   Its journey leads, and must perforce be made.
   Likewise its choice, with things of shame and shade,
   Or up the path of light, from star to star.

   When all these solar systems shall disperse,
   Perchance this labour, and this self-control,
   May find reward; and my completed soul
   Will fling in space, a little universe.



ART THOU ALIVE?


   Art thou alive?  Nay, not too soon reply,
   Tho’ hand, and foot, and lip, and ear, and eye,
   Respond, and do thy bidding yet may be
   Grim death has done his direst work with thee.
   Life, as God gives it, is a thing apart
   From active body and from beating heart.
   It is the vital spark, the unseen fire,
   That moves the mind to reason and aspire;
   It is the force that bids emotion roll,
   In mighty billows from the surging soul.

   It is the light that grows from hour to hour,
   And floods the brain with consciousness of power;
   It is the spirit dominating all,
   And reaching God with its imperious call,
   Until the shining glory of His face
   Illuminates each sorrowful, dark place;

   It is the truth that sets the bondsman free,
   Knowing he will be what he wills to be.
   With its unburied dead the earth is sad.
   Art thou alive? proclaim it and be glad.
   Perchance the dead may hear thee and arise,
   Knowing they live, and _here_ is Paradise.



TO-DAY


   I love this age of energy and force,
      Expectantly I greet each pregnant hour;
   Emerging from the all-creative source,
      Supreme with promise, imminent with power.
   The strident whistle and the clanging bell,
      The noise of gongs, the rush of motored things
   Are but the prophet voices which foretell
      A time when thought may use unfettered wings.

   Too long the drudgery of earth has been
      A barrier ’twixt man and his own mind.
   Remove the stone, and lo! the Christ within;
      For He is there, and who so seeks shall find.
   The Great Inventor is the Modern Priest.
      He paves the pathway to a higher goal.
   Once from the grind of endless toil released
      Man will explore the kingdom of his soul.

   And all this restless rush, this strain and strife,
      This noise and glare is but the fanfarade
   That ushers in the more majestic life
      Where faith shall walk with science, unafraid.
   I feel the strong vibrations of the earth,
      I sense the coming of an hour sublime,
   And bless the star that watched above my birth
      And let me live in this important time.



THE LADDER


   Unto each mortal who comes to earth
   A ladder is given by God, at birth,
   And up this ladder the soul must go,
   Step by step, from the valley below;
   Step by step, to the centre of space,
   On this ladder of lives, to the Starting Place.

   In time departed (which yet endures)
   I shaped my ladder, and you shaped yours.
   Whatever they are—they are what we made:
   A ladder of light, or a ladder of shade,
   A ladder of love, or a hateful thing,
   A ladder of strength, or a wavering string.
   A ladder of gold, or a ladder of straw,
   Each is the ladder of righteous law.

   We flung them away at the call of death,
   We took them again with the next life breath.
   For a keeper stands by the great birth gates;
   As each soul passes, its ladder waits.
   Though mine be narrow, and yours be broad,
   On my ladder alone can I climb to God.
   On your ladder alone can your feet ascend,
   For none may borrow, and none may lend.

   If toil and trouble and pain are found,
   Twisted and corded, to form each round,
   If rusted iron or mouldering wood
   Is the fragile frame, you must make it good.
   You must build it over and fashion it strong,
   Though the task be hard as your life is long;
   For up this ladder the pathway leads
   To earthly pleasures and spirit needs;
   And all that may come in another way
   Shall be but illusion, and will not stay.

   In useless effort, then, waste no time;
   Rebuild your ladder, and climb and climb.



WHO IS A CHRISTIAN?


   Who is a Christian in this Christian land
   Of many churches and of lofty spires?
   Not he who sits in soft upholstered pews
   Bought by the profits of unholy greed,
   And looks devotion, while he thinks of gain.
   Not he who sends petitions from the lips
   That lie to-morrow in the street and mart.
   Not he who fattens on another’s toil,
   And flings his unearned riches to the poor,
   Or aids the heathen with a lessened wage,
   And builds cathedrals with an increased rent.

   Christ, with Thy great, sweet, simple creed of love,
   How must Thou weary of Earth’s ‘Christian’ clans,
   Who preach salvation through Thy saving blood
   While planning slaughter of their fellow men.
   Who is a Christian?  It is one whose life
   Is built on love, on kindness and on faith;
   Who holds his brother as his other self;
   Who toils for justice, equity and PEACE,
   And hides no aim or purpose in his heart
   That will not chord with universal good.

   Though he be pagan, heretic or Jew,
   That man is Christian and beloved of Christ.



THE GOAL


   All your wonderful inventions,
      All your houses vast and tall,
   All your great gun-fronted vessels,
      Every fort and every wall,
   With the passing of the ages,
      They shall pass and they shall fall.

   As you sit among the idols
      That your avarice gave birth,
   As you count the hoarded treasures
      That you think of priceless worth,
   Time is digging tombs to hide them
      In the bosom of the earth.

   There shall come a great convulsion
      Or a rushing tidal wave,
   Or a sound of mighty thunders
      From a subterranean cave,
   And a boasting world’s possessions
      Shall be buried in one grave.

   From the Centuries of Silence
      We are bringing back again
   Buried vase and bust and column
      And the gods they worshipped then,
   In the strange unmentioned cities
      Built by prehistoric men.

   Did they steal, and lie, and slaughter?
      Did they steep their souls in shame?
   Did they sell eternal virtues
      Just to win a passing fame?
   Did they give the gold of honour
      For the tinsel of a name?

   We are hurrying all together
      Toward the silence and the night;
   There is nothing worth the seeking
      But the sun-kissed moral height—
   There is nothing worth the doing
      But the doing of the _right_.



THE SPUR


   I asked the rock beside the road what joy existence lent.
   It answered, ‘For a million years my heart has been content.’

   I asked the truffle-seeking swine, as rooting by he went,
   ‘What is the keynote of your life?’  He grunted out, ‘Content.’

   I asked a slave, who toiled and sung, just what his singing meant.
   He plodded on his changeless way, and said, ‘I am content.’

   I asked a plutocrat of greed, on what his thoughts were bent.
   He chinked the silver in his purse, and said, ‘I am content.’

   I asked the mighty forest tree from whence its force was sent.
   Its thousand branches spoke as one, and said, ‘From discontent.’

   I asked the message speeding on, by what great law was rent
   God’s secret from the waves of space.  It said, ‘From discontent.’

   I asked the marble, where the works of God and man were blent,
   What brought the statue from the block.  It answered, ‘Discontent.’

   I asked an Angel, looking down on earth with gaze intent,
   How man should rise to larger growth.  Quoth he, ‘Through discontent.’



AWAKENED!


   Slowly the People waken; they have been,
   Like weary soldiers, sleeping in their tents,
   While traitors tiptoed through the silent camp
   Intent on plunder.  Suddenly a sound—
   A careless movement of too bold a thief—
   Starts one dull sleeper; then another stirs,
   A third cries out a warning, and at last
   The people are awake!  Oh, when as one
   The many rise, united and alert,
   With Justice for their motto, they reflect
   The mighty force of God’s Omnipotence.
   And nothing stands before them.  Lusty Greed,
   Tyrannical Corruption long in power,
   And smirking Cant (whose right hand robs and slays
   So that the left may dower Church and School),
   Monopoly, whose mandate took from Toil
   The Mother Earth, that Idleness might loll
   And breed the Monster of Colossal Wealth—
   All these must fall before the gathering Force
   Of public indignation.  That old strife
   Which marks the progress of each century,
   The war of Right with Might, is on once more,
   And shame to him who does not take his stand.

   This is the weightiest moment of all time,
   And on the issues of the present hour
   A nation’s honour and a country’s peace,
   A People’s future, ay, a World’s, depends.

   Until the vital questions of the day
   Are solved and settled, and the spendthrift thieves
   Who rob the coffers of the saving poor
   Are led from fashion’s feasts to prison fare,
   And taught the saving grace of honest work—
   Till Labour claims the privilege of toil
   And toil the proceeds of its labour shares—
   Let no man sleep, let no man dare to sleep!



SHADOWS


   I am sorry in the gladness
      Of the joys that crown my days,
   For the souls that sit in sadness
      Or walk uninviting ways.

   On the radiance of my labour
      That a loving fate bestowed,
   Falls the shadow of my neighbour,
      Crushed beneath a thankless load.

   As the canticle of pleasure
      From my lovelit altar rolls,
   There is one discordant measure,
      As I think of homeless souls.

   And I know that grim old story,
      Preached from pulpits, is not so,
   For no God could sit in glory
      And see sinners writhe below.

   In that great eternal Centre
      Where all human life has birth,
   Boundless love and pity enter
      And flow downward to the earth.

   And all souls in sin or sorrow
      Are but passing through the night,
   And I know on some to-morrow
      God will love them into light.



THE NEW COMMANDMENT


    ‘_Let go the Cross_’—GERTRUDE RUNSHON.

   I heard a strange voice in the distance calling
   As from a star an echo might be falling.

   It spoke four syllables, concise and brief,
   Charged with a God-sent message of relief:

   _Let go the cross_!  Oh, you who cling to sorrow,
   Hark to the new command and comfort borrow.

   Even as the Master left His cross below
   And rose to Paradise, let go, let go.

   Forget your wrongs, your troubles and your losses,
   For with the tools of thought we build our crosses.

   Forget your griefs, all grudges and all fear
   And enter Paradise—its gates are near.

   Heaven is a realm by loving souls created,
   And hell was fashioned by the hearts that hated.

   Love, hope and trust; believe all joys are yours,
   Life pays the soul whose confidence endures,

   The blows of adverse fate, by larger pleasures,
   As after storms the soil yields fuller measures.

   Let go the cross; roll self—the stone—away
   And dwell with Love in Paradise to-day.



SUMMER DREAMS


   When the Summer sun is shining,
      And the green things push and grow,
   Oft my heart runs over measure,
   With its flowing fount of pleasure,
      As I feel the sea winds blow;
      Ah, then life is good, I know.

   And I think of sweet birds building,
      And of children fair and free;
   And of glowing sun-kissed meadows,
   And of tender twilight shadows,
      And of boats upon the sea.
      Oh, then life seems good to me!

   Then unbidden and unwanted,
      Come the darker, sadder sights;
   City shop and stifling alley,
   Where misfortune’s children rally;
      And the hot crime-breeding nights,
      And the dearth of God’s delights.

   And I think of narrow prisons
      Where unhappy songbirds dwell,
   And of cruel pens and cages
   Where some captured wild thing rages
      Like a madman in his cell,
      In the Zoo, the wild beasts’ hell.

   And I long to lift the burden
      Of man’s selfishness and sin;
   And to open wide earth’s treasures
   Of God’s storehouse, full of pleasures,
      For my dumb and human kin,
      And to ask the whole world in.



THE BREAKING OF CHAINS


   Between the ringing of bells and the musical clang of chimes
   I hear a sound like the breaking of chains, all through these
   Christmas times.
   For the thought of the world is waking out of a slumber deep and long,
   And the race is beginning to understand how Right can master Wrong.

   And the eyes of the world are opening wide, and great are the truths
   they see;
   And the heart of the world is singing a song, and its burden is ‘Be
   free!’
   Now the thought of the world and the wish of the world and the song of
   the world will make
   A force so strong that the fetters forged for a million years must
   break.

   Fetters of superstitious fear have bound the race to creeds
   That hindered the upward march of man to the larger faith he needs.
   Fetters of greed and pride have made the race bow down to kings;
   But the pompous creed and the costly throne must yield to simpler
   things.

   The thought of the world has climbed above old paths for centuries
   trod;
   And cloth and crown no longer mean the ‘vested power of God.’
   The race no longer bends beneath the weight of Adam’s sin,
   But stands erect and knows itself the Maker’s first of kin.

   And the need of the world and the wish of the world and the song of
   the world I hear,
   All through the clanging and clashing of bells, this Christmas time o’
   the year;
   And I hear a sound like the breaking of chains, and it seems to say to
   me,
   In the voice of One who spoke of old, ‘The Truth shall make men free.’



DECEMBER


   Upon December’s windy portico
   The Old Year stood, and looked out where the sun
   Went wading down the West, through drifting clouds.
   ‘I, too, shall sink full soon to rest,’ he sighed,
   ‘And follow where my children’s feet have trod;
   Brave January, beauteous May and June,
   My lovely daughters, and my valiant sons,
   All, all save one, have left me for that bourne
   Men call the Past.  It seems but yesterday
   I saw fair August, laughing with the Sea,
   Snaring the Earth with her seductive wiles,
   And making conquest, even of the Sun.
   Yet has she gone, and left me here to mourn.’
   Then spake December, from an open door:
   ‘Father, the night grows cold; come in and rest.
   Sit with me here beside this glowing grate;
   I have not left thee; thou art not alone;
   My house is thine; all warm with love and light,
   And bright with holly and with cedar sweet.
   My stalwart arm is thine to lean upon;
   The feast is spread, I only wait for thee;
   God smiles upon thy dead, smile thou on me.’
   Then through the open door the Old Year passed
   And darkness settled on the outer world.



‘THE WAY’


   However certain of the way thou art,
   Take not the self-appointed leader’s part.
   Follow no man, and by no man be led,
   And no man lead.  _Awake_, and go ahead.
   Thy path, though leading straight unto the goal
   Might prove confusing to another soul.
   The goal is central; but from east, and west,
   And north, and south, we set out on the quest;
   From lofty mountains, and from valleys low:—
   How could all find one common way to go?

   Lord Buddha to the wilderness was brought.
   Lord Jesus to the Cross.  And yet, think not
   By solitude, or cross, thou canst achieve,
   Lest in thine own true Self thou dost believe.
   Know thou art One, with life’s Almighty Source,
   Then are thy feet set on the certain Course.

   Nor does it matter if thou feast, or fast,
   Or what thy creed—or where thy lot is cast;
   In halls of pleasure or in crowded mart,
   In city streets, or from all men apart—
   Thy path leads to the Light; and peace and power
   Shall be thy portion, growing hour by hour.
   Follow no man, and by no man be led.
   And no man lead.  But _know_ and go ahead.



THE LEADER TO BE


   What shall the leader be in that great day
   When we who sleep and dream that we are slaves
   Shall wake and know that Liberty is ours?
   Mark well that word—not yours, not mine, but ours.
   For through the mingling of the separate streams
   Of individual protest and desire,
   In one united sea of purpose, lies
   The course to Freedom.

            When Progression takes
   Her undisputed right of way, and sinks
   The old traditions and conventions where
   They may not rise, what shall the leader be?

   No mighty warrior skilled in crafts of war,
   Sowing earth’s fertile furrows with dead men
   And staining crimson God’s cerulean sea,
   To prove his prowess to a shuddering world.

   Nor yet a monarch with a silly crown
   Perched on an empty head, an in-bred heir
   To senseless titles and anemic blood.

   No ruler, purchased by the perjured votes
   Of striving demagogues whose god is gold.
   Not one of these shall lead to Liberty.
   The weakness of the world cries out for strength.
   The sorrow of the world cries out for hope.
   Its suffering cries for kindness.

            He who leads
   Must then be strong and hopeful as the dawn
   That rises unafraid and full of joy
   Above the blackness of the darkest night.
   He must be kind to every living thing;
   Kind as the Krishna, Buddha and the Christ,
   And full of love for all created life.
   Oh, not in war shall his great prowess lie,
   Nor shall he find his pleasure in the chase.
   Too great for slaughter, friend of man and beast,
   Touching the borders of the Unseen Realms
   And bringing down to earth their mystic fires
   To light our troubled pathways, wise and kind
   And human to the core, so shall he be,
   The coming leader of the coming time.



THE GREATER LOVE


   Hear thou my prayer, great God of opulence;
   Give me no blessings, save as recompense
   For blessings which I lovingly bestow
   On needy stranger or on suffering foe.
   If Wealth, by chance, should on my path appear,
   Let Wisdom and Benevolence stand near,
   And Charity within my portal wait,
   To guard me from acquaintance intimate.

   Yet in this intricate great art of living
   Guide me away from misdirected giving,
   And show me how to spur the laggard soul
   To strive alone once more to gain the goal.

   Repay my worldly efforts to attain
   Only as I develop heart and brain;
   Nor brand me with the ‘Dollar Sign’ above
   A bosom void of sympathy and love.

   If on the carrying winds my name be blown
   To any land or time beyond my own,
   Let it not be as one who gained the day
   By crowding others from the chosen way;
   Rather as one who missed the highest place
   Pausing to cheer spent runners in the race.
   To do—to have—is lesser than to BE:
   The greater boon I ask, dear God, from Thee.



THANK GOD FOR LIFE


   Thank God for life, in such an age as this,
      Rich with the promises of better things.
   Thank God for being part of this great nation’s heart,
      Whose strong pulsations are not ruled by kings.

   Our thanks for fearless and protesting speech
      When cloven hoofs show ’neath the robes of state.
   For us no servile song of ‘Kings can do no wrong.’
      Not royal birth, but worth, makes rulers great.

   Thank God for peace within our border lands,
      And for the love of peace within each soul.
   Who thinks on peace has wrought, mosaic-squares of thought
      In the foundation of our future goal.

   Our thanks for love, and knowledge of love’s laws.
      Love is a greater power than vested might.
   Love is the central source of all enduring force.
      Love is the law that sets the whole world right.

   Our thanks for that increasing torch of light
      The tireless hand of science holds abroad.
   And may its growing blaze shine on all hidden ways
      Till man beholds the silhouette of God.



TIME ENOUGH


   I know it is early morning,
      And hope is calling aloud,
   And your heart is afire with Youth’s desire
      To hurry along with the crowd.
   But linger a bit by the roadside,
      And lend a hand by the way,
   ’Tis a curious fact that a generous act
   Brings leisure and luck to a day.

   I know it is only the noontime—
      There is chance enough to be kind;
   But the hours run fast when noon has passed,
      And the shadows are close behind.
   So think while the light is shining,
      And act ere the set of the sun,
   For the sorriest woe that a soul can know
      Is to think what it might have done.

   I know it is almost evening,
      But the twilight hour is long.
   If you listen and heed each cry of need
      You can right full many a wrong.
   For when we have finished the journey
      We will all look back and say:
   ‘On life’s long mile there was nothing worth while
      But the good we did by the way.’



NEW YEAR’S DAY


   When with clanging and with ringing
      Comes the year’s initial day,
   I can feel the rhythmic swinging
      Of the world upon its way;
   And though Right still wears a fetter,
      And though Justice still is blind,
   Time’s beyond is always better
      Than the paths he leaves behind.

   In our eons of existence,
      As we circle through the night,
   We annihilate the distance
      ’Twixt the darkness and the light.
   From beginnings crude and lowly,
      Round and round our souls have trod
   Through the circles, winding slowly
      Up to knowledge and to God.

   With each century departed
      Some old evil found a tomb,
   Some old truth was newly started
      In propitious soil to bloom.
   With each epoch some condition
      That has handicapped the race
   (Worn-out creed or superstition)
      Unto knowledge yields its place.

   Though in folly and in blindness
      And in sorrow still we grope,
   Yet in man’s increasing kindness
      Lies the world’s stupendous hope;
   For our darkest hour of errors
      Is as radiant as the dawn,
   Set beside the awful terrors
      Of the ages that have gone.

   And above the sad world’s sobbing,
      And the strife of clan with clan,
   I can hear the mighty throbbing
      Of the heart of God in man;
   And a voice chants through the chiming
      Of the bells, and seems to say,
   We are climbing, we are climbing,
      As we circle on our way.



LIFE IS A PRIVILEGE


   Life is a privilege.  Its youthful days
   Shine with the radiance of continuous Mays.
   To live, to breathe, to wonder and desire,
   To feed with dreams the heart’s perpetual fire;
   To thrill with virtuous passions and to glow
   With great ambitions—in one hour to know
   The depths and heights of feeling—God! in truth
   How beautiful, how beautiful is youth!

   Life is a privilege.  Like some rare rose
   The mysteries of the human mind unclose.
   What marvels lie in earth and air and sea,
   What stores of knowledge wait our opening key,
   What sunny roads of happiness lead out
   Beyond the realms of indolence and doubt,
   And what large pleasures smile upon and bless
   The busy avenues of usefulness.

   Life is a privilege.  Though noontide fades
   And shadows fall along the winding glades;
   Though joy-blooms wither in the autumn air,
   Yet the sweet scent of sympathy is there.
   Pale sorrow leads us closer to our kind,
   And in the serious hours of life we find
   Depths in the soul of men which lend new worth
   And majesty to this brief span of earth.

   Life is a privilege.  If some sad fate
   Sends us alone to seek the exit gate;
   If men forsake us as the shadows fall,
   Still does the supreme privilege of all
   Come in that reaching upward of the soul
   To find the welcoming presence at the goal,
   And in the knowledge that our feet have trod
   Paths that lead from and must lead back to God.



IN AN OLD ART GALLERY


   Before the statue of a giant Hun,
   There stood a dwarf, misshapen and uncouth.
   His lifted eyes seemed asking: ‘Why, in sooth,
   Was I not fashioned like this mighty one?
   Would God show favour to an older son
      Like earthly kings, and beggar without ruth
      Another, who sinned only by his youth?
   Why should two lives in such divergence run?’

   Strange, as he gazed, that from a vanished past
      No memories revived of war and strife,
         Of misused prowess, and of broken law.
   That old Hun’s spirit, in the dwarf re-cast,
      Lived out the sequence of an earthly life.
         _It was the statue of himself he saw_!



TRUE BROTHERHOOD


   God, what a world, if men in street and mart
   Felt that same kinship of the human heart
   Which makes them, in the face of flame and flood,
   Rise to the meaning of true Brotherhood!



THE DECADENT


   Among the virile hosts he passed along,
   Conspicuous for an undetermined grace
   Of sexless beauty.  In his form and face
   God’s mighty purpose somehow had gone wrong.
   Then on his loom, he wove a careful song,
      Of sensuous threads; a wordy web of lace
      Wherein the primal passions of the race
   And his own sins made wonder for the throng.

   A little pen prick opened up a vein,
      And gave the finished mesh a crimson blot—
         The last consummate touch of studied art.
   But those who knew strong passion and keen pain,
      Looked through and through the pattern and found not
         One single great emotion of the heart.



LORD, SPEAK AGAIN


   When God had formed the Universe, He thought
   Of all the marvels therein to be wrought
   And to His aid then Motherhood was brought.

   ‘My lesser self, the feminine of Me,
   She will go forth throughout all time,’ quoth He,
   ‘And make My world what I would have it be.

   ‘For I am weary, having laboured so,
   And for a cycle of repose would go
   Into that silence which but God may know.

   ‘Therefore I leave the rounding of My plan
   To Motherhood; and that which I began
   Let woman finish in perfecting man.

   ‘She is the soil: the human Mother Earth:
   She is the sun, that calls the seed to earth.
   She is the gardener, who knows its worth.

   ‘From Me, all seed, of any kind must spring.
   Divine the growth such seed and soil will bring.
   For all is Me, and I am everything.’

   Thus having spoken to Himself aloud,
   His glorious face upon His breast He bowed,
   And sought repose behind a wall of cloud.

   Come forth, O God! though great Thy thought and good,
   In shaping woman for true Motherhood,
   Lord, speak again; she has not understood.

   The centuries pass: the cycles roll along—
   The earth is peopled with a mighty throng,
   Yet men are fighting and the world goes wrong.

   Lord, speak again, ere yet it be too late,
   Unloved, unwanted souls come through earth’s gate:
   The unborn child is given a dower of hate.

   Thy world progresses in all ways save one.
   In Motherhood, for which it was begun,
   Lord, Lord, behold how little has been done!

   Children are spawned like fishes in the sand.
   With ignorance and crime they fill the land.
   Lord, speak again, till mothers understand.

   It is not all of Motherhood to know
   Conception pleasure or deliverance woe.
   Who plants the seed should help the shoot to grow.

   Better a barren soil than weed and tare,
   Or sickly plants that die for want of care
   In poisonous jungles, void of sun and air.

   True Motherhood is not alone to breed
   The human race; it is to know and heed
   Its holiest purpose and its highest need.

   Lord, speak again, so woman shall be stirred
   With the full meaning of that mighty word
   True Motherhood.  She has not rightly heard.



MY HEAVEN


   Unhoused in deserts of accepted thought,
      And lost in jungles of confusing creeds,
      My soul strayed, homeless, finding its own needs
   Unsatisfied with what tradition taught.

   The pros and cons, the little ifs and ands,
      The but and maybe, and the this and that,
      On which the churches thicken and grow fat,
   I found but structures built on shifting sands.

   And all their heavens were strange and far away,
      And all their hells were made of human hate;
      And since for death I did not care to wait,
   A heaven I fashioned for myself one day.

   Of happy thoughts I built it stone by stone,
      With joy of life I draped each spacious room,
      With love’s great light I drove away all gloom,
   And in the centre I made God a throne.

   And this dear heaven I set within my heart,
      And carried it about with me alway,
      And then the changing dogmas of the day
   Seemed alien to my thoughts and held no part.

   Now as I take my heaven from place to place
      I find new rooms by love’s revealing light,
      And death will give me but a larger sight
   To see my palace spreading into space.



LIFE


   On a bleak, bald hill with a dull world under,
      The dreary world of the Commonplace,
   I have stood when the whole world seemed a blunder
      Of dotard Time, in an aimless race.
   With worry about me and want before me—
      Yet deep in my soul was a rapture spring
   That made me cry to the grey sky o’er me:
      ‘Oh, I know this life is a goodly thing!’

   I have given sweet years to a thankless duty
      While cold and starving, though clothed and fed,
   For a young heart’s hunger for joy and beauty
      Is harder to bear than the need of bread.
   I have watched the wane of a sodden season,
      Which let hope wither, and made care thrive,
   And through it all, without earthly reason,
      I have thrilled with the glory of being alive.

   And now I stand by the great sea’s splendour,
      Where love and beauty feed heart and eye.
   The brilliant light of the sun grows tender
      As it slants to the shore of the by and by.
   I prize each hour as a golden treasure—
      A pearl Time drops from a broken string:
   And all my ways are the ways of pleasure,
      And I know this life is a goodly thing.

   And I know, too, that not in the seeing,
      Or having, or doing the things we would,
   Lies that deep rapture that comes from being
      _At one with the Purpose which made all good_.
   And not from Pleasure the heart may borrow
      That rare contentment for which we strive,
   Unless through trouble, and want, and sorrow
      It has thrilled with the glory of being alive.



GOD’S KIN


   There is no summit you may not attain,
      No purpose which you may not yet achieve,
      If you will wait serenely and believe
   Each seeming loss is but a step toward gain.

   Between the mountain-tops lie vale and plain;
      Let nothing make you question, doubt or grieve;
      Give only good, and good alone receive;
   And as you welcome joy, so welcome pain.

   That which you most desire awaits your word;
      Throw wide the door and bid it enter in.
   Speak, and the strong vibrations shall be stirred;
      Speak, and above earth’s loud, unmeaning din
   Your silent declarations shall be heard.
      All things are possible to God’s own kin.



CONQUEST


   Talk not of strength, until your heart has known
   And fought with weakness through long hours alone.

   Talk not of virtue, till your conquering soul
   Has met temptation and gained full control.

   Boast not of garments, all unscorched by sin,
   Till you have passed, unscathed, through fires within.

   Oh, poor that pride the unscarred soldier shows,
   Who safe in camp, has never faced his foes.



THE STATUE


   A granite rock in the mountain side
   Gazed on the world and was satisfied.
   It watched the centuries come and go.
   It welcomed the sunlight, yet loved the snow.
   It grieved when the forest was forced to fall,
   Yet joyed when steeples rose, white and tall,
   In the valley below it, and thrilled to hear
   The voice of the great town roaring near.

   When the mountain stream from its idle play
   Was caught by the mill wheel and borne away
   And trained to labour, the grey rock mused
   ‘Trees and verdure and stream are used
   By Man the Master; but I remain
   Friend of the mountain, and star, and plain,
   Unchanged forever by God’s decree,
   While passing centuries bow to me.’

   Then all unwarned, with a mighty shock
   Out of the mountain was wrenched the rock.
   Bruised and battered and broken in heart,
   It was carried away to the common mart,
   Wrecked and ruined in piece and pride.
   ‘Oh, God is cruel,’ the granite cried,
   ‘Comrade of mountains, of stars the friend,
   By all deserted, how sad my end.’

   A dreaming sculptor in passing by
   Gazed at the granite with thoughtful eye.
   Then stirred with a purpose supremely grand
   He bade his dream in the rock expand.
   And lo! from the broken and shapeless mass
   That grieved and doubted, it came to pass
   That a glorious statue of priceless worth
   And infinite beauty, adorned the earth.



SIRIUS


    ‘_Since Sinus crossed the Milky Way_, _sixty thousand years have
    gone_.’—GARRETT P. SERVISS.

   Since Sirius crossed the Milky Way
      Full sixty thousand years have gone,
   Yet hour by hour, and day by day,
      This tireless star speeds on and on.

   Methinks he must be moved to mirth
      By that droll tale of Genesis,
   Which says creation had its birth
      For such a puny world as this.

   To hear how One who fashioned all
      Those Solar Systems, tier on tiers,
   Expressed in little Adam’s fall
      The purpose of a million spheres.

   And, witness of the endless plan,
      To splendid wrath he must be wrought
   By pigmy creeds presumptuous man
      Sends forth as God’s primeval thought.

   Perchance from half a hundred stars
      He hears as many curious things;
   From Venus, Jupiter and Mars,
      And Saturn with the beauteous rings,

   There may be students of the Cause
      Who send their revelations out,
   And formulate their codes of laws,
      With heavens for faith and hells for doubt.

   On planets old ere form or place
      Was lent to earth, may dwell—who knows—
   A God-like and perfected race
      That hails great Sirius as he goes.

   In zones that circle moon and sun,
      ’Twixt world and world, he may see souls
   Whose span of earthly life is done,
      Still journeying up to higher goals.

   And on dead planets grey and cold
      Grim spectral souls, that harboured hate
   Life after life, he may behold
      Descending to a darker fate.

   And on his grand majestic course
      He may have caught one glorious sight
   Of that vast shining central Source
      From which proceeds all Life, all Light.

   Since Sirius crossed the Milky Way
      Full sixty thousand years have gone,
   No mortal man may bid him stay,
      No mortal man may speed him on.

   No mortal mind may comprehend
      What is beyond, what was before;
   To God be glory without end,
      Let man be humble and adore.



AT FONTAINEBLEAU


   At Fontainebleau, I saw a little bed
   Fashioned of polished wood, with gold ornate,
   Ambition, hope, and sorrow, ay, and hate
   Once battled there, above a childish head,
   And there in vain, grief wept, and memory plead
      It was so small! but Ah, dear God, how great
      The part it played in one sad woman’s fate.
   How wide the gloom, that narrow object shed.

   The symbol of an over-reaching aim,
      The emblem of a devastated joy,
         It spoke of glory, and a blasted home:
   Of fleeting honours, and disordered fame,
      And the lone passing of a fragile boy.

                                  * * * * *

   It was the cradle of the King of Rome.



THE MASQUERADE


   Look in the eyes of trouble with a smile,
      Extend your hand and do not be afraid.
      ’Tis but a friend who comes to masquerade.
   And test your faith and courage for awhile.

   Fly, and he follows fast with threat and jeer.
      Shrink, and he deals hard blow on stinging blow,
      But bid him welcome as a friend, and lo!
   The jest is off—the masque will disappear.



SYMPATHY


   Is the way hard and thorny, oh, my brother?
      Do tempests beat, and adverse wild winds blow?
   And are you spent, and broken, at each nightfall,
      Yet with each morn you rise and onward go?
   Brother, I know, I know!
   I, too, have journeyed so.

   Is your heart mad with longing, oh, my sister?
      Are all great passions in your breast aglow?
   Does the white wonder of your own soul blind you,
      And are you torn with rapture and with woe?
   Sister, I know, I know!
   I, too, have suffered so.

   Is the road filled with snare and quicksand, pilgrim?
      Do pitfalls lie where roses seem to grow?
   And have you sometimes stumbled in the darkness,
      And are you bruised and scarred by many a blow?
   Pilgrim, I know, I know!
   I, too, have stumbled so.

   Do you send out rebellious cry and question,
      As mocking hours pass silently and slow,
   Does your insistent ‘wherefore’ bring no answer,
      While stars wax pale with watching, and droop low?
   I, too, have questioned so,
   But now _I know_, _I know_!
   To toil, to strive, to err, to cry, to grow,
   _To love through_ all—this is the way to _know_.



INTERMEDIARY


   When from the prison of its body free,
   My soul shall soar, before it goes to Thee,
   Thou great Creator, give it power to know
   The language of all sad, dumb things below.
   And let me dwell a season still on earth
   Before I rise to some diviner birth:
   Invisible to men, yet seen and heard,
   And understood by sorrowing beast and bird—
   Invisible to men, yet always near,
   To whisper counsel in the human ear:
   And with a spell to stay the hunter’s hand
   And stir his heart to know and understand;
   To plant within the dull or thoughtless mind
   The great religious impulse to be kind.

   Before I prune my spirit wings and rise
   To seek my loved ones in their paradise,
   Yea! even before I hasten on to see
   That lost child’s face, so like a dream to me,
   I would be given this intermediate role,
   And carry comfort to each poor, dumb soul:
   And bridge man’s gulf of cruelty and sin
   By understanding of his lower kin.
   ’Twixt weary driver and the straining steed
   On wings of mercy would my spirit speed.
   And each should know, before his journey’s end,
   That in the other dwelt a loving friend.
   From zoo and jungle, and from cage and stall,
   I would translate each inarticulate call,
   Each pleading look, each frenzied act and cry,
   And tell the story to each passer-by;
   And of a spirit’s privilege possessed,
   Pursue indifference to its couch of rest,
   And whisper in its ear until in awe
   It woke and knew God’s all-embracing law
   Of Universal Life—the One in All.

                                  * * * * *

   Lord, let this mission to my lot befall.



LIFE’S CAR


         ‘Hurry up!’
   No lingering by old doors of doubt—
      No loitering by the way,
   No waiting a To-morrow car,
      When you can board To-day.
   Success is somewhere down the track;
      Before the chance is gone
   Accelerate your laggard pace,
      Swing on, I say, swing on—
         Hurry up!

         ‘Step lively!’
   Belated souls are following fast,
      They shout and signal, ‘Wait.’
   Conductor Time brooks no delay,
      He rings the bell of Fate.
   But you can give the man behind,
      With one hand on the bar,
   A final chance to brook defeat,
      And board the moving car.
         Step lively!

         ‘Move up!’
   Make way for others as you sit
      Or stand.  This crowded earth
   Has room for every journeying soul
      En route to higher birth.
   Ay, room and comfort, if no one
      Took double share or space,
   Nor let his greed and selfishness
      Absorb another’s place.
         Move up!

         ‘Hold fast!’
   The jolting switch of obstacles
      With jarring rails is near.
   Stand firm of foot, be strong of grip,
      Brace well and have no fear.
   The Maker of the Car of Life
      Foresaw that curve—Despair,
   And hung the straps of faith, and hope
      So you might grasp them there.
         Hold fast!



OPPORTUNITY


   Send forth your heart’s desire, and work and wait;
   The opportunities of life are brought
   To our own doors, not by capricious fate,
   But by the strong compelling force of thought.



THE AGE OF MOTORED THINGS


   The wonderful age of the world I sing—
   The age of battery, coil and spring,
   Of steam, and storage, and motored thing.

   Though faith may slumber and art seem dead,
   And all that is spoken has once been said,
   And all that is written were best unread;

   Though hearts are iron and thoughts are steel,
   And all that has value is mercantile,
   Yet marvellous truths shall the age reveal.

   Ay, greater the marvels this age shall find
   Than all the centuries left behind,
   When faith was a bigot and art was blind.

   Oh, sorry the search of the world for gods,
   Through faith that slaughters and art that lauds,
   While reason sits on its throne and nods.

   But out of the leisure that men will know,
   When the cruel things of the sad earth go,
   A Faith that is Knowledge shall rise and grow.

   In the throb and whir of each new machine
   Thinner is growing the veil between
   The visible earth and the worlds unseen.

   The True Religion shall leisure bring;
   And Art shall awaken and Love shall sing:
   Oh, ho! for the age of the motored thing!



NEW YEAR


MORTAL:

      ‘The night is cold, the hour is late, the world is bleak and drear;
      Who is it knocking at my door?’

THE NEW YEAR:

      ‘I am Good Cheer.’

MORTAL:

      ‘Your voice is strange; I know you not; in shadows dark I grope.
      What seek you here?’

THE NEW YEAR:

      ‘Friend, let me in; my name is Hope.’

MORTAL:

      ‘And mine is Failure; you but mock the life you seek to bless.
      Pass on.’

THE NEW YEAR:

      ‘Nay, open wide the door; I am Success.’

MORTAL:

      ‘But I am ill and spent with pain; too late has come your wealth.
      I cannot use it.’

THE NEW YEAR:

      ‘Listen, friend; I am Good Health.’

MORTAL:

      ‘Now, wide I fling my door.  Come in, and your fair statements
   prove.’

THE NEW YEAR:

      ‘But you must open, too, your heart, for I am Love.’



DISARMAMENT


   We have outgrown the helmet and cuirass,
   The spear, the arrow, and the javelin.
   These crude inventions of a cruder age,
   When men killed men to show their love of God,
   And he who slaughtered most was greatest king.
   We have outgrown the need of war!
         Should men
   Unite in this one thought, all war would end.

   Disarm the world; and let all Nations meet
   Like Men, not monsters, when disputes arise.
   When crossed opinions tangle into snarls,
   Let Courts untie them, and not armies cut.
   When State discussions breed dissensions, let
   Union and Arbitration supersede
   The hell-created implements of War.
   Disarm the world! and bid destructive thought
   Slip like a serpent from the mortal mind
   Down through the marshes of oblivion.  Soon
   A race of gods shall rise!  Disarm!  Disarm!



THE CALL


   All wantonly in hours of joy,
   I made a song of pain.
   Soon Grief drew near, and paused to hear,
   And sang the sad refrain,
   Again and yet again.

   Then recklessly in my despair,
   I sang of hope one day.
   And Joy turned back upon life’s track,
   And smiled, and came my way,
   And sat her down to stay.



A LITTLE SONG


   Oh, a great world, a fair world, a true world I find it;
   A sun that never forgets to rise,
   On the darkest night, a star in the skies,
   And a God of love behind it.

   Oh, a good life, a sweet life, a large life I take it,
   Is what He offers to you, and me;
   A chance to do, and a chance to be,
   Whatever we chose to make it.

   Oh, a far way, a high way, a sure way He leads us;
   And if the journey at times seems long,
   We must trudge ahead, with a trustful song,
   And know at the end He needs us.



                           NEW THOUGHT PASTELS


A DIALOGUE


                                   MORTAL

   The world is full of selfishness and greed.
   Lord, I would lave its sin.

                                   SPIRIT

   Yea, mortal, earth of thy good help has need.
   Go cleanse _thyself_ within.

                                   MORTAL

   Mine ear is hurt by harsh and evil speech.
   I would reform men’s ways.

                                   SPIRIT

   There is but one convincing way to teach.
   Speak _thou_ but words of praise.

                                   MORTAL

   On every hand is wretchedness and grief,
   Despondency and fear.
   Lord, I would give my fellow men relief.

                                   SPIRIT

   Be, then, all hope, all cheer.

                                   MORTAL

   Lord, I look outward and grow sick at heart,
   Such need of change I see.

                                   SPIRIT

   Mortal, look _in_.  Do thy allotted part,
   And leave the rest to ME.



THE WEED


   A weed is but an unloved flower!
      Go dig, and prune, and guide, and wait,
      Until it learns its high estate,
   And glorifies some bower.
      A weed is but an unloved flower!

   All sin is virtue unevolved,
      Release the angel from the clod—
      Go love thy brother up to God.
   Behold each problem solved.
      All sin is virtue unevolved.



STRENGTH


   Who is the strong?  Not he who puts to test
   His sinews with the strong and proves the best;
   But he who dwells where weaklings congregate,
   And never lets his splendid strength abate.

   Who is the good?  Not he who walks each day
   With moral men along the high, clean way;
   But he who jostles gilded sin and shame,
   Yet will not sell his honour or his name.

   Who is the wise?  Not he who from the start
   With Wisdom’s followers has taken part;
   But he who looks in Folly’s tempting eyes,
   And turns away, perceiving her disguise.

   Who is serene?  Not he who flees his kind,
   Some mountain fastness, or some cave to find;
   But he who in the city’s noisiest scene,
   Keeps calm within—he only is serene.



AFFIRM


   Body and mind, and spirit, all combine
   To make the Creature, human and divine.

   Of this great trinity no part deny.
   Affirm, affirm, the Great Eternal I.

   Affirm the body, beautiful and whole,
   The earth-expression of immortal soul.

   Affirm the mind, the messenger of the hour,
   To speed between thee and the source of power.

   Affirm the spirit, the Eternal I—
   Of this great trinity no part deny.



THE CHOSEN


   They stood before the Angel at the gate;
      The Angel asked: ‘Why should you enter in?’
   One said: ‘On earth my place was high and great;’
      And one: ‘I warned my fellow-men from sin;’
   Another: ‘I was teacher of the faith;
   I scorned my life and lived in love with death.’

   And one stood silent.  ‘Speak!’ the Angel said;
      ‘What earthly deed has sent you here to-day?’
   ‘Alas!  I did but follow where they led,’
      He answered sadly: ‘I had lost my way—
   So new the country, and so strange my flight;
   I only sought for guidance and for light.’

   ‘You have no passport?’  ‘None,’ the answer came.
      ‘I loved the earth, tho’ lowly was my lot.
   I strove to keep my record free from blame,
      And make a heaven about my humble spot.
   A narrow life; I see it now, too late;
   So, Angel, drive me from the heavenly gate.’

   The Angel swung the portal wide and free,
      And took the sorrowing stranger by the hand.
   ‘Nay, you alone,’ he said, ‘shall come with me,
      Of all this waiting and insistent band.
   Of what God gave, you built your paradise;
   Behold your mansion waiting in the skies.’



THE NAMELESS


   Unnumbered gods may unremembered die;
   A thousand creeds may perish and pass by;
   Yet do I lift mine eyes to ONE on high.

   Unnamed be HE from whom creation came;
   There is no word whereby to speak His name
   But petty men have mouthed it into shame.

   I lift mine eyes, and with a river’s force
   My love’s full tide goes sweeping on its course
   To that supreme and all-embracing Source.

   Then back through all those thirsting channels roll
   The mighty billows of the Over Soul.
   And I am He, the portion and the Whole.

   As little streams before the flood-tide flee,
   As rivers vanish to become the sea,
   The I exists no more, for I AM HE.



THE WORD


   Oh, a word is a gem, or a stone, or a song,
      Or a flame, or a two-edged sword;
   Or a rose in bloom, or a sweet perfume,
      Or a drop of gall, is a word.

   You may choose your word like a connoisseur,
      And polish it up with art,
   But the word that sways, and stirs, and stays,
      Is the word that comes from the heart.

   You may work on your word a thousand weeks,
      But it will not glow like one
   That all unsought, leaps forth white hot,
      When the fountains of feeling run.

   You may hammer away on the anvil of thought,
      And fashion your word with care,
   But unless you are stirred to the depths, that word
      Shall die on the empty air.

   For the word that comes from the brain alone,
      Alone to the brain will speed;
   But the word that sways, and stirs, and stays,
      Oh! that is the word men heed.



ASSISTANCE


   Lean on no mortal, Love, and serve;
   (For service is love’s complement)
   But it was never God’s intent,
   Your spirit from its path should swerve,
   To gain another’s point of view.
   As well might Jupiter, or Mars
   Go seeking help from other stars,
   Instead of sweeping ON, as you.
   Look to the Great Eternal Cause
   And not to any man, for light.
   Look in; and learn the wrong, and right,
   From your own soul’s unwritten laws.
   And when you question, or demur,
   Let Love be your Interpreter.



‘CREDULITY’


   If fallacies come knocking at my door,
   I’d rather feed, and shelter full a score,
   Than hide behind the black portcullis, doubt,
   And run the risk of barring one Truth out.

   And if pretension for a time deceive,
   And prove me one too ready to believe,
   Far less my shame, than if by stubborn act,
   I brand as lie, some great colossal Fact.

   On my soul’s door, the latch-string hangs outside;
   Within, the lighted candle.  Let me guide
   Some errant follies, on their wandering way,
   Rather, than Wisdom give no welcoming ray.



CONSCIOUSNESS


   God, what a glory, is this consciousness,
   Of life on life, that comes to those who seek!
   Nor would I, if I might, to others speak,
   The fulness of that knowledge.  It can bless,
   Only the eager souls, that willing, press
   Along the mountain passes, to the peak.
   Not to the dull, the doubting, or the weak,
   Will Truth explain, or Mystery confess.

   Not to the curious or impatient soul
   That in the start, demands the end be shown,
   And at each step, stops waiting for a sign;
   But to the tireless toiler toward the goal,
   Shall the great miracles of God be known
   And life revealed, immortal and divine.



THE STRUCTURE


   Upon the wreckage of thy yesterday
   Design the structure of to-morrow.  Lay
   Strong corner stones of purpose, and prepare
   Great blocks of wisdom, cut from past despair.
   Shape mighty pillars of resolve, to set
   Deep in the tear-wet mortar of regret.
   Work on with patience.  Though thy toil be slow,
   Yet day by day the edifice shall grow.
   Believe in God—in thine own self believe.
   All that thou hast desired thou shalt achieve.



OUR SOULS


   Our souls should be vessels receiving
   The waters of love for relieving
         The sorrows of men.

   For here lies the pleasure of living:
   In taking God’s bounties, and giving
         The gifts back again.



THE LAW


   When the great universe was wrought
   To might and majesty from naught,
   The all creative force was—
            _Thought_.

   That force is thine.  Though desolate
   The way may seem, command thy fate.
   Send forth thy thought—
            Create—_Create_!



KNOWLEDGE


   Would you believe in Presences Unseen—
      In life beyond this earthly life?
   BE STILL: Be stiller yet; and listen.  Set the screen
      Of silence at the portal of your will.
   Relax, and let the world go by unheard.
   And seal your lips with some all-sacred word.

   Breathe ‘God,’ in any tongue—it means the same;
      LOVE ABSOLUTE: Think, feel, absorb the thought;
   Shut out all else; until a subtle flame
      (A spark from God’s creative centre caught)
   Shall permeate your being, and shall glow,
   Increasing in its splendour, till, YOU KNOW.

   Not in a moment, or an hour, or day
      The knowledge comes; the power is far too great,
   To win in any desultory way.
      No soul is worthy till it learns to wait.
   Day after day be patient, then, oh, soul;
   Month after month—till, lo! the goal! the goal!



GIVE


   Give, and thou shalt receive.  Give thoughts of cheer,
      Of courage and success, to friend and stranger.
   And from a thousand sources, far and near,
      Strength will be sent thee in thy hour of danger.

   Give words of comfort, of defence, and hope,
      To mortals crushed by sorrow and by error.
   And though thy feet through shadowy paths may grope,
      Thou shalt not walk in loneliness or terror.

   Give of thy gold, though small thy portion be.
      Gold rusts and shrivels in the hand that keeps it.
   It grows in one that opens wide and free.
      Who sows his harvest is the one who reaps it.

   Give of thy love, nor wait to know the worth
      Of what thou lovest; and ask no returning.
   And wheresoe’er thy pathway leads on earth,
      There thou shalt find the lamp of love-light burning.



PERFECTION


   The leaf that ripens only in the sun
   Is dull and shrivelled ere its race is run.
   The leaf that makes a carnival of death
   Must tremble first before the north wind’s breath.

   The life that neither grief nor burden knows
   Is dwarfed in sympathy before its close.
   The life that grows majestic with the years
   Must taste the bitter tonic found in tears.



FEAR


   Fear is the twin of Faith’s sworn foe, Distrust.
   If one breaks in your heart the other must.

   Fear is the open enemy of Good.
   It means the God in man misunderstood.

   Who walks with Fear adown life’s road will meet
   His boon companions, Failure and Defeat.

   But look the bully boldly in the eyes,
   With mien undaunted, and he turns and flies.



THE WAY


   Between the finite and the infinite
   The missing link of Love has left a void.
   Supply the link, and earth with Heaven will join
   In one continued chain of endless life.

   Hell is wherever Love is not, and Heaven
   Is Love’s location.  No dogmatic creed,
   No austere faith based on ignoble fear
   Can lead thee into realms of joy and peace.
   Unless the humblest creatures on the earth
   Are bettered by thy loving sympathy
   Think not to find a Paradise beyond.

   There is no sudden entrance into Heaven.
   Slow is the ascent by the path of Love.



UNDERSTOOD


   I value more than I despise
      My tendency to sin,
   Because it helps me sympathise
      With all my tempted kin.

   He who has nothing in his soul
      That links him to the sod,
   Knows not that joy of self-control
      Which lifts him up to God.

   And I am glad my heart can say,
      When others trip and fall
   (Although I safely passed that way),
      ‘I understand it all.’



HIS MANSION


   There was a thought he hid from all men’s eyes,
   And by his prudent life and deeds of worth
   He left a goodly record upon earth
   As one both pure and wise.

   But when he reached a dark unsightly door
   Beyond the grave, there stood his secret thought.
   It was the mansion he had built and brought
   To dwell in, on that shore.



EFFECT


   An unkind tale was whispered in his ear.
      He paused to hear.
   His thoughts were food that helped a falsehood thrive,
      And keep alive.

   Years dawned and died.  One day by venom’s tongue
      His name was stung.
   He cried aloud, nor dreamed the lie was spawn
      Of thoughts long gone.

   Each mental wave we send out from the mind,
      Or base, or kind,
   Completes its circuit, then with added force
      Seeks its own source.



THREE THINGS


   Know this, ye restless denizens of earth,
   Know this, ye seekers after joy and mirth,
   Three things there are, eternal in their worth.

   Love, that outreaches to the humblest things;
   Work that is glad, in what it does and brings;
   And faith that soars upon unwearied wings.

   Divine the Powers that on this trio wait.
   Supreme their conquest, over Time and Fate.
   Love, Work, and Faith—these three alone are great.



OBSTACLES


    ‘The slothful man saith, There is a lion in the way; a lion is in the
    street.’—PROVERBS xxvi. 13.

   There are no lions in the street;
      No lions in the way.
   Go seek the goal, thou slothful soul,
      Awake, awake, I say.

   Thou dost but dream of obstacles;
      In God’s great lexicon,
   That word illstarred, no page has marred;
      Press on, I say, press on.

   Nothing can keep thee from thine own
      But thine own slothful mind.
   To one who knocks, each door unlocks;
      And he who seeks, shall find.



PRAYER


   Lean on thyself until thy strength is tried;
   Then ask God’s help; it will not be denied.

   Use thine own sight to see the way to go;
   When darkness falls ask God the path to show.

   Think for thyself and reason out thy plan;
   God has His work and thou hast thine, oh, man.

   Exert thy will and use it for control;
   God gave thee jurisdiction of thy soul.

   All thine immortal powers bring into play;
   Think, act, strive, reason, then look up and pray.



CLIMBING


   Who climbs the mountain does not always climb.
   The winding road slants downward many a time;
   Yet each descent is higher than the last.
   Has thy path fallen?  That will soon be past.
   Beyond the curve the way leads up and on.
   Think not thy goal forever lost or gone.
   Keep moving forward; if thine aim is right
   Thou canst not miss the shining mountain height.
   Who would attain to summits still and fair,
   Must nerve himself through valleys of despair.



‘THERE IS NO DEATH, THERE ARE NO DEAD’


             (_Suggested by the book of Mr. Ed. C. Randall_.)

   ‘There is no death, there are no dead.’
      From zone to zone, from sphere to sphere,
      The souls of all who pass from here
   By hosts of living thoughts are led;
   And dark or bright, those souls must tread
      The paths they fashioned year on year.
      For hells are built of hate or fear,
   And heavens of love our lives have shed.

   Across unatlassed worlds of space,
      And through God’s mighty universe,
      With thoughts that bless or thoughts that curse,
   Each journeys to his rightful place.
      Oh, greater truth no man has said,
      ‘There is no death, there are no dead.’

   It lifts the mourner from the sod,
      And bids him cast away the reed
      Of some uncomforting poor creed,
   And walk with Knowledge for a rod.
   It bids the doubter seek the broad
      Vast fields, where living facts will feed
      All those whose patience proves their need
   Of these immortal truths of God.

   It brings before the eyes of faith
      Those realms of radiance, tier on tier,
      Where our beloved ‘dead’ appear,
   More beautiful because of ‘death.’
      It speaks to grief: ‘Be comforted;
      There is no death, there are no dead.’



REALISATION


   Hers was a lonely, shadowed lot;
   Or so the unperceiving thought,
   Who looked no deeper than her face,
   Devoid of chiselled lines of grace—
   No farther than her humble grate,
   And wondered how she bore her fate.

   Yet she was neither lone nor sad;
   So much of love her spirit had,
   She found an ever-flowing spring
   Of happiness in everything.

   So near to her was Nature’s heart
   It seemed a very living part
   Of her own self; and bud and blade,
   And heat and cold, and sun and shade,
   And dawn and sunset, Spring and Fall,
   Held raptures for her, one and all.

   The year’s four changing seasons brought
   To her own door what thousands sought
   In wandering ways and did not find—
   Diversion and content of mind.

   She loved the tasks that filled each day—
   Such menial duties; but her way
   Of looking at them lent a grace
   To things the world deemed commonplace.

   Obscure and without place or name,
   She gloried in another’s fame.
   Poor, plain and humble in her dress,
   She thrilled when beauty and success
   And wealth passed by, on pleasure bent;
   They made earth seem so opulent.
   Yet none of quicker sympathy,
   When need or sorrow came, than she.
   And so she lived, and so she died.

   She woke as from a dream.  How wide
   And wonderful the avenue
   That stretched to her astonished view!
   And up the green ascending lawn
   A palace caught the rays of dawn.

   Then suddenly the silence stirred
   With one clear keynote of a bird;
   A thousand answered, till ere long
   The air was quivering bits of song.
   She rose and wandered forth in awe,
   Amazed and moved by all she saw,
   For, like so many souls who go
   Away from earth, she did not know
   The cord was severed.

            Down the street,
   With eager arms stretched forth to greet,
   Came one she loved and mourned in youth;
   Her mother followed; then the truth
   Broke on her, golden wave on wave,
   Of knowledge infinite.  The grave,
   The body and the earthly sphere
   Were gone!  Immortal life was here!
   They led her through the Palace halls;
   From gleaming mirrors on the walls
   She saw herself, with radiant mien,
   And robed in splendour like a queen,
   While glory round about her shone.
   ‘All this,’ Love murmured, ‘is your own.’

   And when she gazed with wondering eye,
   And questioned whence and where and why,
   Love answered thus: ‘All Heaven is made
   By thoughts on earth; your walls were laid,
   Year after year, of purest gold;
   The beauty of your mind behold
   In this fair palace; ay, and more
   Waits farther on, so vast your store.
   I was not worthy when I died
   To take my place here at your side;
   I toiled through long and weary years
   From lower planes to these high spheres;
   And through the love you sent from earth
   I have attained a second birth.
   Oft when my erring soul would tire
   I felt the strength of your desire;
   I heard you breathe my name in prayer,
   And courage conquered weak despair.
   Ah! earth needs heaven, but heaven indeed
   Of earth has just as great a need.’

   Across the terrace with a bound
   There sped a lambkin and a hound
   (Dumb comrades of the old earth land)
   And fondled her caressing hand.

   ‘YOU LOVED THEM INTO PARADISE’
   Was answered to her questioning eyes;
   ‘You taught them love; love has no end!
   Nor does love’s life on form depend.
   If there be mortal without love,
   He wakes to no new life above.
   If love in humbler things exist,
   It must through other realms persist
   Until all love rays merge in HIM.
   Hark!  Hear the heavenly Cherubim!’

   Then hushed and awed, with joy so vast
   It knew no future and no past,
   She stood amidst the radiant throng
   That came to swell love’s welcoming song—
   This humble soul from earth’s far coast
   The centre of the heavenly host.

   On earth they see her grave and say:
   ‘She lies there till the judgment day;’
   Nor dream, so limited their thought,
   What miracles by love are wrought.

                                * * * * *

                                * * * * *

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





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