Part 17

A new conversion, say you?—call it so. The truth converts one oft, if he be true. The true man loves his own, and fights for it; And, since his own is little and God’s is large, He often fights to fall. Yet ranks on high Now throng with heroes, whose too slender blades Were wielded but for slender causes once; Nor sheathed, ere flying shatter’d from their grasp, Till truth they fought had proven too strong for them. Then, when they knew themselves, and knew the truth, And knew its mercy too, they loved the truth, And came to be its champions, evermore. So now with me: rebellious though I was, Rebellion wrought my rescue. Truth triumphant Enlisted duty for a loyalty That made all life seem lordlike. Work began. Thank God, we all have heads above our hearts; And, if we let them reason with us well, They rule us for our best.

LXV.

What Elbert wish’d, When first I cross’d the sea, was more than wrought. I brought back not alone what books could give, But in myself a sense of others’ wants,— For in my heart a wondrous wealth of love; Ay, wealth it was; though, like the ore in mines, It only proved that that which lived had died. What though my life, complete with her alone, Seem’d always rent? a weight of broken quartz That only gleam’d where it had fractur’d been? That weight was wealth that sparkled back to greet Each glance of sunshine. Thus I found that love At times may prove a treasure even dead, If dead enough in spirits yet alive. Mine, thwarted so, had made me more the man That Elbert wish’d,—a man for all mankind;— No special pleader for a special class Whose grasping greed crowds out the general good;— But one who pleads for all fair rights for all. Nor would I bide content with utter’d words. Too often, these, when widest welcomed, wake But echoes brief as breath from which they spring. I craved the mission less of roaring waves Than of the rare wrought shells that, evermore, When storms are gone, suggest their living presence.

LXVI.

Anon it happen’d that through others’ hands My tales, pour’d forth to voice my loneliness In echoing talk and song, were framed in plays, And then were phrased in music; and, in time, Arose like sighings of a human wind Above a human sea, while, all about, There swept, like surgings of a rhythmic surf, The shifting scenes and singers of the stage. And, chief of all the singers in those throngs, Who best of all could body forth the truth That most of all had seem’d to be inspired By Edith’s influence, while in all I thought Her love had ever lured expression on, Was her own self.

LXVII.

But love outstrips my tale. Erelong, from shores where surged that surf of song, Like gems the ocean casts upon its coast, About me lay a growing store of wealth. And then, with broaden’d means, led on to push Toward broaden’d purposes, I spoke and wrote; And found, anon, while aiding here and there Where aid was rare, wide opening to my view, A worthiest mission in this new reform That seeks to make the server and the served Walk hand in hand, while wage gives way to share, And, furthering all men to their furthest due, Thus lifts the low and lost.

LXVIII.

At last, one day, There came a letter from our bureau’s head, With it, another, sent him, so he wrote, “By some enthusiast, a character— A woman, and a woman too of mind; And yet, withal, who had been strangely led, Through doubtful ways, he thought, toward doubtful ends, Till doubts had wrought reaction,—as when clouds That course on clouds, at last, bring lightnings forth That clear them off. And now her vision, clear’d, Had found within her soul a wish to work,— In new ways truly for a cause like ours,— For us and with us. But I held her note, She dwelt near by me: could I visit her? And give my judgment then?”

LXIX.

This note, so sent, Was—would you guess it?—Edith’s. What she wrote, Weighs love against all liking to this hour. All thrill’d with hope, yet trembling for my fate, I spell’d out all her tale:—“Her sire—his aims— And her fulfilment of them—her success— Earth seem’d a kingdom prostrate at her feet, And she, a queen; alas, but, like a queen, Was doom’d to hold a throne where rivals came, To spy her weakness out, and wrest away A power that could be kept by power alone.— How sad for woman when her hopes were based On practice that must all her heart conceal, That must be conquering ever or be crush’d! At first her love for art had kept her up,— And for success, and for a sister dear, Who shared her earnings, who, while cheer’d the crowds, At last, had died, and left her all alone. And, after that, her soul had loathed applause, Had found her nature so belied, misjudged, Her life the embodiment of hollow sound, And all surroundings echoing back but sound, Chill admiration in the place of love, Her friends but flatterers, and herself unknown.

“With this, her world had grown so hard, so parch’d, Without one source affording sympathy— She took no credit to herself for aught; The weakest sigh that could have heaved a breast, A dying breast, had crack’d so dry a crust— She rose, one morn, and swore to free her soul, Let pent-up love in softening currents flow Till something human, ay, and heavenly, too, Were nurtured by the wish from which it sprang.

“She could not work now for herself alone; For she had learn’d that all life’s purposes Are held like lenses that a soul may use To gather in heaven’s light and flash it round Upon its world illumin’d; or, not so,— If turn’d on self,—to but inflame and dim Its own self-centered vision. So she now One only purpose knew,—to pledge her gifts To those who most might need them; and she came, With all she was or hoped she yet might be, Her gifts of nature and her skill in art, To work for us, whose aims were plann’d so well, To further all men to their furthest goals, And lift the low and lost.”

LXX.

And then I rode, As fast as trains could take me; and I wrote, Like one intoxicated, from the inn: “The bureau’s agent here abides your wish”; And, signing not my name, awaited thus The welcome sure to seem more sweet than life. It came. I went.

“You?” Edith cried, “and whence?” “From whence?” I said. “Each slightest spark of good Flies upward, and the heaven returns it where It fires the most?—and where were tinder found Like my heart?” “Why is this?” I heard; “My note— Did it miscarry?—Would you thwart me now— Or, though my gifts could aid them, do they wish No help from me?—My heart was fix’d on it.”

“On my cause,” breathed I. “Did you never think That work with them would make you work with me?”

“Why think of that?” she ask’d.—“Enough to know I sought my own work here.”

“Why, Edith, friend,” I answer’d—“Why could not your work be mine? What parts us now? What though, like mine, your soul Had come to look down life’s long dreary vista, And watch yourself alone. Why bide alone? I, I, at least, through all these years have seen— Not you yourself, for that too dear had been!— But I have seen a vision, seeming you Within the far horizon of my hopes, The sweet mirage before me. Now, at last, I know those misty outlines veil’d the truth; It must have meant that you would yet be found— That we should meet. Heaven surely meant it so.”

LXXI.

Her mien had chang’d; and yet she ask’d again, “But how with Grace? I thought”— “Alas,” I said, “With your dear spirit thron’d above my love, What were I but a traitor, wedding Grace? This heart was yours, your dwelling-place alone. Nay, now I do not come to give it you: It only opens to an owner old. How sacredly I guarded it for you!— A holy place, though there, above the shrine, The niche was empty. Ah, has earth seem’d rude? Some reason was there; surely some there was. We war with Providence, who war with life. We seek to mould our own existence out; But life, best made, is mainly for us made. Each passing circumstance, a tool of heaven, Grates by to smooth some edge of character, And model manhood into better shape. Has nought been wrought with you? Ah, idol mine, You living image of all hope, would God, Love’s niche were fill’d, love’s altar stood complete!”

LXXII.

Then Edith lean’d her face against her hand, And slowly came the words that seem’d so dear: “It may be, Norman, may—I know—I feel— It must be earth, so roughly handling one, Should round experience for some wise design. Yet this—it cannot be—how can it?—nay— For me you come—and you? your voice I hear? No echo void, oft, oft so sweet in dreams?— Nor now to wake me?—Nay I trust. You may— ’Twill stray no more—take back your wanderer.”

“My wanderer!” I answer’d, when I could; “Ah Edith, you but wander’d as the lamb; My spotless, worldling-mediator, you!— It wander’d?—yes; it cross’d a threshold chill; A proud cathedral enter’d; there found one Too pleased with what he had, to gaze outside. To him those arches low seem’d high as heaven; And all the sweet and sunny air without, When strain’d through stain’d and smoke-wreathed window-panes, Gleam’d lurid as were hell. This man spied you: He saw you shun him—leave him. He pursued— Out, past the doorway—and he found God’s world So much more broad than walls named after Him!”

LXXIII.

“And Norman,” said she, “think you, evermore, Recalling you, the worldling could forget How walls exclusive could exclude not love? Or, love rejecting, gain from all the world, Though brimm’d with but applause, one draft so sweet?— But then earth held such promise yet, so lured; How could I know that merely sighs there were Could thrill me more than all its thunders could? Ah, did I love you then, so loves he heaven Who has not courage yet to leave the world. I might have left it never; but, you know, That sister mine—At last, life meant but this,— To envy that cold tomb, all night, all day, That held her only.—Norman, pardon me: Such woe, such loneliness,—ah, strange was it That oft then I recall’d your form, your words? And when I render’d forth upon the stage Scenes you had visioned, phrases you had fram’d, That then I came to do as you would do, And think as you would think?—or that my tongue Should linger o’er your language, as o’er sweets Re-tasted still again?—or that, anon, Those accents ardent with your own dear aims, Should fire mine own to ardor?—or that then My soul should flash forth light that flamed within, And tracing far the rays that sped from it, Should find here”—

“One to help you, friend?” I asked— “Then let us both thank heaven that made us weak. So may a mortal pair bide, each to each, Both priest and partner; like the church, their home; For what are churches here but chosen courts Of One pure Spirit, moving all to love? And, think you, writ or vestment, art or arch, Can image Him, or His domain unbound? Nay, trust my word, we worship Him the best, When two or three together, loving truth And one another, thus repeat, once more, An incarnation, imitating Christ”

LXXIV.

“I catch it, Norman,” cried she, “the ideal! Henceforth our aim be this,—the art of life. I saw it not before: the stage of spirit So much more broad is than the stage of sense! Comes on the soul now, actor, all divine, At play no longer; nay, but shadowing forth A love complete that personates a God! And what love is complete that walks alone?”

“None,” answer’d I. “In true love, hand in hand, Each leads his like. For this the whole world waits. It waits for love,—why say not love like ours? When souls touch souls, they touch the springs of life; For them the veils of sense are drawn aside, Are burn’d away in radiance divine, The while their spirit’s contact starts afresh The electric flash that scores new glory here, And lights the lines of being back to God. Then, with their whole existences renew’d, Far up these lines, the souls that thus commune, Discern anon that sacred home on high, Where boundless rest is blest by boundless love And dreams the dreams of bounty absolute.— They find that home, whence issue floods of light, Which, flowing forth from white mysterious heights, Flame down and flash and burst anon in sparks That star the dark through all life’s firmament;— They find that home, whence whirl the cycles wide Where all the wastes of nature fuse and form, And all the things that thought can touch take shape, Until the restless wheels of matter, roll’d Through roadways worn to waste by speeding years, At last in fatal friction fire themselves, And light returns to light from whence it sprang. Through all, where souls commune with central love, They stay secure, awaiting birth or death; The Spring that starts the blossom blown to fall, Or Fall that drops the seed that springs afresh. They watch nor fear whatever change evolve,— The splendor grand of epochs borne to waste, The ruin wild of times that end in law, The monarch mail’d whose lustre dims his folk, The people’s guns whose echoes hush their king. What though dark clouds loom up and storms descend? True faith would not bemoan the forms they wreck; For forms if true are formulas of love That still is ardent to consume them all. Though lightnings thunder till they crack the sky, What unroofs rage leaves heaven to dome our peace. The more convulsion shakes and fire consumes, The more of love and light may both set free; The earlier may they end these earthly days That fret our lives with flickerings vague below Of steadfast light in endless day above; The earlier may the power of hate give way, And good awake, and every path be bright, While hope of glory gilds the gloom on high. We too—come, Edith. Christ will go with us; And by and by the glory so shall flame Heaven cannot hold the halo!—Edith, come; We join the plans above.”

LXXV.

But hold—I rave— I know, I know—no matter, so would you.— But find your soul’s ideal, and you would find, If common-sense be reason, you would rave, Till you forgot that common-sense could be— Though I forget it not. My tale is told. Why talk I more? I know one household now All radiant through its mistress! Where she dwells A sweet content pervades the very air, And genial sympathy smiles on to make Each whole long year one summer of delight.

PATRIOTIC.

AMERICA, OUR HOME.

Sung, to music composed by the author, at the anniversary of the battle of Concord, at Concord, Mass., 1898.

This land of ours, we love it. ’Tis Freedom’s own, where reign No tyrants throned above it O’er serfs that wear their chain; Where birth and wealth to worth give way, And none in camp or court have sway, Except as all ordain.

CHORUS:

O Land that leaves the true man free For all the soul would do or be, Thank Heaven for life that gave us thee, America, our home!

Kind homes are ours that wake us To life whose morn is bright. Free schools are ours that make us Believe in truth and right. Our churches all are churches taught That conscience guides the wisest thought, And love wins more than might. CHORUS: O Land that leaves, etc.

We love the rule that trains us To duty, self-control’d, And honor’d toil that gains us What order helps us hold; Where never, save for threaten’d right, Our starry flags, like stars at night, O’er war’s dark storms unfold. CHORUS: O Land that leaves, etc.

We love the life that bears us Toward all that seers can see, And, led by hope, prepares us The whole world’s hope to be, When, in the day that war shall cease, Our GOLDEN RULE shall keep the peace, And all mankind be free. CHORUS: O Land that leaves, etc.

HAIL THE FLAG.

Sung, to the music of “Marching through Georgia,” at the anniversary of the National Society of the Children of the American Revolution, held in Columbia Theatre, Washington, D. C., Feb. 22, 1899.

Hail, all hail, the flag above us. Oh, how oft, to right Wrong that war alone could end, that flag has led the fight, Streaming on with fire and shot till, through the smoke, the light Burst on the victory of freedom!

CHORUS:

Hurrah! Hurrah! beneath the flag to be! Hurrah! Hurrah! its loyal wards are we! Where the STARS AND STRIPES are flying over land or sea, Under the flag there is freedom.

Hail, all hail, the flag above us. Peace is in each hue; Storms are signal’d not by stars, or skies red, white, or blue; Peace is in it e’en in war, for, when the war is through, That which has won then is freedom. CHORUS: Hurrah! Hurrah! etc.

Hail, all hail, the flag above us. In its blue more bright Shine the stars to guide our way than in the dome of night; Higher aims the hope that sees them, for their spotless white Symbols the pure light of freedom. CHORUS: Hurrah! Hurrah! etc.

Hail, all hail, the flag above us. Nature never knew, In the dawn’s red ladder-bars where daylight climbs to view, Stripes that brought as fair a day as these anon shall do, When all the world turns to freedom. CHORUS: Hurrah! Hurrah! etc.

EXPANSION.

Not mountain chains, nor streams that cleave the plains, Nor the wide ocean that around them rolls Can bound the realm of Freedom’s loyal souls Who serve the Spirit that above it reigns. Not the mean few who snatch for selfish gains Through pathways opening toward the noblest goals Can shake Heaven’s children’s faith that Heaven controls That life the most which Earth the least enchains. O ye who see but lust for wealth or rule Where love would end one more wrong’d people’s thrall, As your sires ended yours, how blind are ye! Who says there is no God is no more fool Than he who hears not God’s voice in each call To loose man’s bonds and let the oppress’d go free.

A PRAYER FOR PEACE AND GOOD WILL.

Creative Spirit, Source of Life, And Father whom we trust, Keep us and keep our state from strife Through deeds to all men just. Teach us that each, though poor or base, Is yet a child of Thine, And born, whate’er his rank or race, Or wheresoe’er his dwelling-place, To destiny divine.

Let not one nation’s pride of might On other nations prey With brute-like hosts that boast a right To plunder and to slay. If one land’s war-lord claim his own To be Thy Spirit’s call, Teach men that no God so made known, No God of but one land alone, Was ever God of all.

Grant all, oh Lord, through lives of love, A glory to attain As far as heaven’s could be above What earthly battles gain. Grant all, wherever patriots view Their country’s flag unfurled, The right to think that service due God’s country calls for patriots too Whose country is the world.

END

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