Bees in Amber: A Little Book of Thoughtful Verse
Chapter 1
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
BEES IN AMBER
A LITTLE BOOK OF THOUGHTFUL VERSE
BY JOHN OXENHAM
1913
TO THOSE I HOLD DEAREST
THIS OF MY BEST.
CONTENTS
CREDO
NEW YEAR'S DAY AND EVERYDAY
PHILOSOPHER'S GARDEN
FLOWERS OF THE DUST
THE PILGRIM WAY
EVERYMAID
BETTER AND BEST
THE SHADOW
THE POTTER
NIGHTFALL
THE PRUNER
THE WAYS
SEEDS
WHIRRING WHEELS
THE BELLS OF YS
THE LITTLE POEM OF LIFE
CUP OF MIXTURE
WEAVERS ALL
THE CLEARER VISION
SHADOWS
THE INN OF LIFE
LIFE'S CHEQUER-BOARD
CROSS-ROADS
QUO VADIS?
TAMATE
BURDEN-BEARERS
THE IRON FLAIL
SARK
E.A.
THE PASSING OF THE QUEEN
THE GOLDEN CORD
THANK GOD FOR PEACE!
GOD'S HANDWRITING
STEPHEN--SAUL
PAUL
WAKENING
MACEDONIA, 1903
HEARTS IN EXILE
WANDERED
BIDE A WEE!
THE WORD THAT WAS LEFT UNSAID
DON'T WORRY!
THE GOLDEN ROSE
GADARA, A.D. 31
THE BELLS OF STEPAN ILINE
BOLT THAT DOOR!
GIANT CIRCUMSTANCE
THE HUNGRY SEA
WE THANK THEE, LORD
THE VAIL
NO EAST OR WEST
THE DAY--THE WAY
LIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY
FREEMEN
THE LONG ROAD
THE CHRIST
THE BALLAD OF LOST SOULS
PROFIT AND LOSS
FREE MEN OF GOD
TREASURE-TROVE
THE GATE
BRING US THE LIGHT
ALL'S WELL!
HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOR EVER
GOD IS GOOD
SOME--AND SOME
THE PRINCE OF LIFE
JUDGMENT DAY
DARKNESS AND LIGHT
INDIA
LIVINGSTONE
LIVINGSTONE THE BUILDER
LIVINGSTONE'S SOLILOQUY
KAPIOLANI
THEY COME!
PROCESSIONALS
FAITH
"I WILL!"
A LITTLE TE DEUM OF THE COMMONPLACE
POLICEMAN X
YOUR PLACE
IN NARROW WAYS
SHUT WINDOWS
PROPS
BED-ROCK
AFTER WORK
KAPIOLANI IN RAROTONGAN
AUTHOR'S APOLOGY
In these rushful days an apology is advisable, if not absolutely essential, from any man, save the one or two elect, who has the temerity to publish a volume of verse.
These stray lines, such as they are, have come to me from time to time, I hardly know how or whence; certainly not of deliberate intention or of malice aforethought. More often than not they have come to the interruption of other, as it seemed to me, more important--and undoubtedly more profitable--work.
They are for the most part, simply attempts at concrete and rememberable expression of ideas--ages old most of them--which "asked for more."
Most writers, I imagine, find themselves at times in that same predicament--worried by some thought which dances within them and stubbornly refuses to be satisfied with the sober dress of prose. For their own satisfaction and relief, in such a case, if they be not fools they endeavour to garb it more to its liking, and so find peace. Or, to vary the metaphor, they pluck the Bee out of their Bonnet and pop it into such amber as they happen to have about them or are able to evolve, and so put an end to its buzzing.
In their previous states these little Bonnet-Bees of mine have apparently given pleasure to quite a number of intelligent and thoughtful folk; and now--chiefly, I am bound to say, for my own satisfaction in seeing them all together--I have gathered them into one bunch.
If they please you--good! If not, there is no harm done, and one man is content.
JOHN OXENHAM
CREDO
Not what, but WHOM, I do believe, That, in my darkest hour of need, Hath comfort that no mortal creed To mortal man may give;-- Not what, but WHOM! For Christ is more than all the creeds, And His full life of gentle deeds Shall all the creeds outlive. Not what I do believe, but WHOM! WHO walks beside me in the gloom? WHO shares the burden wearisome? WHO all the dim way doth illume, And bids me look beyond the tomb The larger life to live?-- Not what I do believe, BUT WHOM! Not what, But WHOM!
NEW YEAR'S DAY--AND EVERY DAY
_Each man is Captain of his Soul, And each man his own Crew, But the Pilot knows the Unknown Seas, And He will bring us through_.
We break new seas to-day,-- Our eager keels quest unaccustomed waters, And, from the vast uncharted waste in front, The mystic circles leap To greet our prows with mightiest possibilities; Bringing us--what? --Dread shoals and shifting banks? --And calms and storms? --And clouds and biting gales? --And wreck and loss? --And valiant fighting-times? And, maybe, Death!--and so, the Larger Life!
_For should the Pilot deem it best To cut the voyage short, He sees beyond the sky-line, and He'll bring us into Port_.
And, maybe, Life,--Life on a bounding tide, And chance of glorious deeds;-- Of help swift-born to drowning mariners; Of cheer to ships dismasted in the gale; Of succours given unasked and joyfully; Of mighty service to all needy souls.
_So--Ho for the Pilot's orders, Whatever course He makes! For He sees beyond the sky-line, And He never makes mistakes_.
And, maybe, Golden Days, Full freighted with delight! --And wide free seas of unimagined bliss, --And Treasure Isles, and Kingdoms to be won, --And Undiscovered Countries, and New Kin.
_For each man captains his own Soul, And chooses his own Crew, But the Pilot knows the Unknown Seas, And He will bring us through_.
PHILOSOPHER'S GARDEN
"_See this my garden, Large and fair_!" --Thus, to his friend, The Philosopher.
"'_Tis not too long_," His friend replied, With truth exact,-- "_Nor yet too wide. But well compact, If somewhat cramped On every side_."
Quick the reply-- "_But see how high!-- It reaches up To God's blue sky_!"
Not by their size Measure we men Or things. Wisdom, with eyes Washed in the fire, Seeketh the things That are higher-- Things that have wings, Thoughts that aspire.
FLOWERS OF THE DUST
The Mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small-- So soft and slow the great wheels go they scarcely move at all; But the souls of men fall into them and are powdered into dust, And in that dust grow the Passion-Flowers--Love, Hope, Trust.
Most wondrous their upspringing, in the dust of the Grinding-Mills, And rare beyond the telling the fragrance each distils. Some grow up tall and stately, and some grow sweet and small, But Life out of Death is in each one--with purpose grow they all.
For that dust is God's own garden, and the Lord Christ tends it fair, With oh, such loving tenderness! and oh, such patient care! In sorrow the seeds are planted, they are watered with bitter tears, But their roots strike down to the Water-Springs and the Sources of the Years.
These flowers of Christ's own providence, they wither not nor die, But flourish fair, and fairer still, through all eternity. In the Dust of the Mills and in travail the amaranth seeds are sown, But the Flowers in their full beauty climb the Pillars of the Throne.
NOTE.--The first line only is adapted from the Sinngedichte of Friedrich von Logau.
THE PILGRIM WAY
But once I pass this way, And then--no more. But once--and then, the Silent Door Swings on its hinges,-- Opens ... closes,-- And no more I pass this way. So while I may, With all my might, I will essay Sweet comfort and delight, To all I meet upon the Pilgrim Way. For no man travels twice The Great Highway, That climbs through Darkness up to Light,-- Through Night To Day.
EVERYMAID
King's Daughter! Wouldst thou be all fair, Without--within-- Peerless and beautiful, A very Queen?
Know then:-- Not as men build unto the Silent One,-- With clang and clamour, Traffic of rude voices, Clink of steel on stone, And din of hammer;-- Not so the temple of thy grace is reared. But,--in the inmost shrine Must thou begin, And build with care A Holy Place, A place unseen, Each stone a prayer. Then, having built, Thy shrine sweep bare Of self and sin, And all that might demean; And, with endeavour, Watching ever, praying ever, Keep it fragrant-sweet, and clean: So, by God's grace, it be fit place,-- His Christ shall enter and shall dwell therein. Not as in earthly fane--where chase Of steel on stone may strive to win Some outward grace,-- _Thy temple face is chiselled from within_.
BETTER AND BEST
Better in bitterest agony to lie, Before Thy throne, Than through much increase to be lifted up on high, And stand alone.
Better by one sweet soul, constant and true, To be beloved, Than all the kingdoms of delight to trample through, Unloved, unloved.
Yet best--the need that broke me at Thy feet, In voiceless prayer, And cast my chastened heart, a sacrifice complete, Upon Thy care.
For all the world is nought, and less than nought, Compared with this,-- That my dear Lord, with His own life, my ransom bought, And I am His.
THE SHADOW
Shapeless and grim, A Shadow dim O'erhung the ways, And darkened all my days. And all who saw, With bated breath, Said, "It is Death!"
And I, in weakness Slipping towards the Night, In sore affright Looked up. And lo!-- No Spectre grim, But just a dim Sweet face, A sweet high mother-face, A face like Christ's Own Mother's face, Alight with tenderness And grace.
"Thou art not Death!" I cried;-- For Life's supremest fantasy Had never thus envisaged Death to me;-- "Thou art not Death, the End!"
In accents winning, Came the answer,--"_Friend, There is no Death! I am the Beginning, --Not the End_!"
THE POTTER
A Potter, playing with his lump of clay, Fashioned an image of supremest worth. "_Never was nobler image made on earth, Than this that I have fashioned of my clay. And I, of mine own skill, did fashion it,-- I--from this lump of clay_."
The Master, looking out on Pots and Men, Heard his vain boasting, smiled at that he said. "_The clay is Mine, and I the Potter made, As I made all things,--stars, and clay, and men. In what doth this man overpass the rest? --Be thou as other men_!"
He touched the Image,--and it fell to dust, He touched the Potter,--he to dust did fall. Gently the Master,--"_I did make them all,-- All things and men, heaven's glories, and the dust. Who with Me works shall quicken death itself, Without Me--dust is dust_."
NIGHTFALL
Fold up the tent! The sun is in the West. To-morrow my untented soul will range Among the blest. And I am well content, For what is sent, is sent, And God knows best.
Fold up the tent, And speed the parting guest! The night draws on, though night and day are one On this long quest. This house was only lent For my apprenticement-- What is, is best.
Fold up the tent! Its slack ropes all undone, Its pole all broken, and its cover rent,-- Its work is done. But mine--tho' spoiled and spent Mine earthly tenement-- Is but begun.
Fold up the tent! Its tenant would be gone, To fairer skies than mortal eyes May look upon. All that I loved has passed, And left me at the last Alone!--alone!
Fold up the tent! Above the mountain's crest, I hear a clear voice calling, calling clear,-- "To rest! To rest!" And I am glad to go, For the sweet oil is low, And rest is best!
THE PRUNER
God is a zealous pruner, For He knows-- Who, falsely tender, spares the knife But spoils the rose.
THE WAYS
To every man there openeth A Way, and Ways, and a Way. And the High Soul climbs the High way, And the Low Soul gropes the Low, And in between, on the misty flats, The rest drift to and fro. But to every man there openeth A High Way, and a Low. And every man decideth The Way his soul shall go.
SEEDS
What shall we be like when We cast this earthly body and attain To immortality? What shall we be like then?
Ah, who shall say What vast expansions shall be ours that day? What transformations of this house of clay, To fit the heavenly mansions and the light of day? Ah, who shall say?
But this we know,-- We drop a seed into the ground, A tiny, shapeless thing, shrivelled and dry, And, in the fulness of its time, is seen A form of peerless beauty, robed and crowned Beyond the pride of any earthly queen, Instinct with loveliness, and sweet and rare, The perfect emblem of its Maker's care.
This from a shrivelled seed?-- --Then may man hope indeed!
For man is but the seed of what he shall be. When, in the fulness of his perfecting, He drops the husk and cleaves his upward way, Through earth's retardings and the clinging clay, Into the sunshine of God's perfect day. No fetters then! No bonds of time or space! But powers as ample as the boundless grace That suffered man, and death, and yet, in tenderness, Set wide the door, and passed Himself before-- As He had promised--to prepare a place.
Yea, we may hope! For we are seeds, Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming. Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting, His loving care May find some use for even a humble tare.
We know not what we shall be--only this-- That we shall be made like Him--as He is.
WHIRRING WHEELS
Lord, when on my bed I lie, Sleepless, unto Thee I'll cry; When my brain works overmuch, Stay the wheels with Thy soft touch.
Just a quiet thought of Thee, And of Thy sweet charity,-- Just a little prayer, and then I will turn to sleep again.
THE BELLS OF YS
When the Bells of Ys rang softly,--softly, _Soft--and sweet--and low_, Not a sound was heard in the old gray town, As the silvery tones came floating down, But life stood still with uncovered head, And doers of ill did good instead, And abroad the Peace of God was shed, _When the bells aloft sang softly--softly, Soft--and sweet--and low,-- The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,-- Aloft, and aloft, and alow_.
And still those Bells ring softly--softly, _Soft--and sweet--and low_. Though full twelve hundred years have gone, Since the waves rolled over the old gray town, Bold men of the sea, in the grip of the flow, Still hear the Bells, as they pass and go, Or win to life with their hearts aglow, _When the Bells below sing softly--softly, Soft--and sweet--and low,-- The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,-- Alow, and alow, and alow_.
O the Mystical Bells, they still ring softly, _Soft--and sweet--and low_,-- For the sound of their singing shall never die In the hearts that are tuned to their melody; And down in the world's wild rush and roar, That sweeps us along to the Opening Door.
Hearts still beat high as they beat of yore, _When the Bells sing softly--softly--softly, Soft--and sweet--and low, The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,-- Alow, and aloft, and alow_.
THE LITTLE POEM OF LIFE
I;-- Thou;-- We;-- They;-- Small words, but mighty. In their span Are bound the life and hopes of man.
For, first, his thoughts of his own self are full; Until another comes his heart to rule. For them, life's best is centred round their love; Till younger lives come all their love to prove.
CUP OF MIXTURE
For every Guest who comes with him to sup, The Host compounds a strangely mingled cup;-- Red Wine of Life and Dregs of Bitterness, And, will-he, nil-he, each must drink it up.
WEAVERS ALL
Warp and Woof and Tangle,-- _Weavers of Webs are we_. Living and dying--and mightier dead, For the shuttle, once sped, is sped--is sped;-- _Weavers of Webs are we_.
White, and Black, and Hodden-gray,-- _Weavers of Webs are we_. To every weaver one golden strand Is given in trust by the Master-Hand;-- _Weavers of Webs are we_.
And that we weave, we know not,-- _Weavers of Webs are we_. The threads we see, but the pattern is known To the Master-Weaver alone, alone;-- _Weavers of Webs are we_.
THE CLEARER VISION
When, with bowed head, And silent-streaming tears, With mingled hopes and fears, To earth we yield our dead; The Saints, with clearer sight, Do cry in glad accord,-- "_A soul released from prison Is risen, is risen,-- Is risen to the glory of the Lord_."
SHADOWS
Shadows are but for the moment-- Quickly past; And then the sun the brighter shines That it was overcast.
For Light is Life! Gracious and sweet, The fair life-giving sun doth scatter blessings With his light and heat,-- And shadows. But the shadows that come of the life-giving sun Crouch at his feet.
No mortal life but has its shadowed times-- Not one! Life without shadow could not taste the full Sweet glory of the sun.
No shadow falls, but there, behind it, stands The Light Behind the wrongs and sorrows of life's troublous ways Stands RIGHT.
THE INN OF LIFE
_As It was in the Beginning,-- Is Now,-- And...?
Anno Domini I_.
* * * * *
"No room! No room! The Inn is full, Yea--overfull. No room have we for such as ye-- Poor folk of Galilee, Pass on! Pass on!"
"Nay then!-- Your charity Will ne'er deny Some corner mean, Where she may lie unseen. For see!-- Her time is nigh."
"Alack! And she So young and fair! Place have we none; And yet--how bid ye gone? Stay then!--out there Among the beasts Ye may find room, And eke a truss To lie upon."
_Anno Domini 1913, etc., etc_.
* * * * *
"No room! No room! No room for Thee, Thou Man of Galilee! The house is full, Yea, overfull. There is no room for Thee,-- Pass on! Pass on!
Nay--see! The place is packed. "We scarce have room For our own selves, So how shall we Find room for Thee, Thou Man of Galilee,-- Pass on! Pass on!
But--if Thou shouldst This way again, And we can find So much as one small corner Free from guest, Not then in vain Thy quest. But now-- The house is full. Pass on!"
Christ passes On His ceaseless quest, Nor will He rest With any, Save as Chiefest Guest.
LIFE'S CHEQUER-BOARD
"'Tis all a Chequer-Board of Nights and Days, Where Detiny with men for pieces plays, Hither and thither moves, and mates and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays."
_Omar Khayyam_.
A Chequer-Board of mingled Light and Shade? And We the Pieces on it deftly laid? Moved and removed, without a word to say, By the Same Hand that Board and Pieces made?
No Pieces we in any Fateful Game, Nor free to shift on Destiny the blame; Each Soul doth tend its own immortal flame, Fans it to Heaven, or smothers it in shame.
CROSS-ROADS
Oft, as he jogs along the Winding-Way, Occasion comes for Every Man to say,-- "This Road?--or That?" and as he chooses them, So shall his journey end in Night or Day.
QUO VADIS?
Peter, outworn, And menaced by the sword, Shook off the dust of Rome; And, as he fled, Met one, with eager face, Hastening cityward, And, to his vast amaze, It was The Lord. "_Lord, whither goest Thou_?" He cried, importunate, And Christ replied,-- "_Peter, I suffer loss. I go to take thy place, To bear thy cross_."
Then Peter bowed his head, Discomforted; There, at the Master's feet, Found grace complete, And courage, and new faith, And turned--with Him, To Death.
So we,-- Whene'er we fail Of our full duty, Cast on Him our load,-- Who suffered sore for us, Who frail flesh wore for us, Who all things bore for us,-- On Christ, The Lord.
TAMATE
_Great-Heart is dead, they say_,-- Great-Heart the Teacher, Great-Heart the Joyous, Great-Heart the Fearless, Great-Heart the Martyr, Great-Heart of Sweet White Fire.
_Great-Heart is dead, they say_,-- Fighting the fight, Holding the Light, Into the night. _Great-Heart is dead, they say_.-- But the Light shall burn the brighter. And the night shall be the lighter, For his going; And a rich, rich harvest for his sowing.
_Great-Heart is dead, they say_!-- What is death to such an one as Great-Heart? One sigh, perchance, for work unfinished here;-- Then a swift passing to a mightier sphere, New joys, perfected powers, the vision clear, And all the amplitude of heaven to work The work he held so dear.
_Great-Heart is dead, say they_? Nor dead nor sleeping! He lives on! His name Shall kindle many a heart to equal flame. The fire he lighted shall burn on and on, Till all the darkness of the lands be gone, And all the kingdoms of the earth be won, And one.
_A soul so fiery sweet can never die, But lives and loves and works through all eternity_.
BURDEN-BEARERS
Burden-bearers are we all, Great and small. Burden-sharers be ye all, Great and small! Where another shares the load, Two draw nearer God. Yet there are burdens we can share with none, Save God; And paths remote where we must walk alone, With God; For lonely burden and for path apart-- Thank God! If these but serve to bring the burdened heart To God.
THE IRON FLAIL
Time beats out all things with his iron flail, Things great, things small. With steady strokes that never fail, With slow, sure strokes of his iron flail, Time beats out all.
SARK
Pearl Iridescent! Pearl of the sea! Shimmering, glimmering Pearl of the sea! White in the sun-flecked Silver Sea, White in the moon-decked Silver Sea, White in the wrath of the Silver Sea,-- Pearl of the Silver Sea! Lapped in the smile of the Silver Sea, Ringed in the foam of the Silver Sea, Glamoured in mists of the Silver Sea,-- Pearl of the Silver Sea! Glancing and glimmering under the sun. Jewel and casket all in one, Joy supreme of the sun's day dream, Soft in the gleam of the golden beam,-- Pearl of the Silver Sea! Splendour of Hope in the rising sun, Glory of Love in the noonday sun, Wonder of Faith in the setting sun,-- Pearl of the Silver Sea!
Gaunt and grim to the outer world, Jewel and casket all impearled With the kiss of the Silver Sea!-- With the flying kiss of the Silver Sea, With the long sweet kiss of the Silver Sea, With the rainbow kiss of the Silver Sea,-- Pearl of the Silver Sea! And oh the sight,--the wonderful sight, When calm and white, in the mystic light Of her quivering pathway, broad and bright, The Queen of the Night, in silver dight, Sails over the Silver Sea!
Wherever I go, and wherever I be, The joy and the longing are there with me,-- The gleam and the glamour come back to me,-- In a mystical rapture there comes to me, The call of the Silver Sea! As needle to pole is my heart to thee, Pearl of the Silver Sea!
E.A., Nov. 6, 1900
Bright stars of Faith and Hope, her eyes Shall shine for us through all the years. For all her life was Love, and fears Touch not the love that never dies.
And Death itself, to her, was but The wider opening of the door That had been opening, more and more, Through all her life, and ne'er was shut.
--And never shall be shut. She left The door ajar for you and me, And, looking after her, we see The glory shining through the cleft.
And when our own time comes,--again We'll meet her face to face;--again Well see the star-shine; and again She'll greet us with her soft, "Come ben!"
THE PASSING OF THE QUEEN
_Hark! The drums! Muffled drums! The long low ruffle of the drums_!-- And every head is bowed, In the vast expectant crowd, As the Great Queen comes,-- By the way she knew so well, Where our cheers were wont to swell, As we tried in vain to tell Of our love unspeakable. Now she comes To the rolling of the drums, And the slow sad tolling of the bell. Let every head be bowed, In the silent waiting crowd, As the Great Queen comes, To the slow sad ruffle of the drums!
_Who is this that comes, To the rolling of the drums, In the sorrowful great silence of the peoples_? Take heart of grace, She is not here! The Great Queen is not here! What most in her we did revere,-- The lofty spirit, white and clear, The tender love that knew no fear, The soul sincere,-- These come not here, To the rolling of the drums, In the silence and the sorrow of the peoples.
_Death has but little part In her. Love cannot die. Who reigns in every heart Hath immortality_. So, though our heads are bent, Our hearts are jubilant, As she comes,-- As a conqueror she comes-- With the rolling of the drums, To the stateliest of her homes, In the hearts of her true and faithful peoples. _For the Great Queen lives for ever In the hearts of those who love her. January, 1901_.
THE GOLDEN CORD