Chapter 4

Soon will arrive its twilight pall; Then, as the potent change is felt, The fountain's drops will cease to fall And feathery films refuse to melt.

But still in the solar warmth I wait, The hand of my lov'd one clasped in mine; Is that a tear? It is growing late, And she asks how long the sun will shine.

ON THE PROMENADE

O joyous idler in the sun, In pity slacken here thy pace! A lad, whose course is nearly run, Is watching thee with wistful face.

The glow of health upon thy cheek, The youthful ardor in thy gait, Appear to him, so frail and weak, The bitter irony of Fate.

Thou art to him the vision fair Of all he once had hoped to be; What wonder, then, that in despair His longing glances follow thee?

Let not the gulf too deep appear Between thy fortune and his own! Thou didst not see that falling tear, Nor hear his low, half-stifled moan.

The pang of age compared with youth, Or hunger with the spendthrift's wealth, Gnaws not with such a cruel tooth As that of pain confronting health.

Yet must the strong ship breast the wave, The wreck lie rotting on the shore; O hopes that perish in the grave! O youthful dreams that come no more!

SOLITUDE

Had I but lived when music-loving Pan Still played his flute amid the whispering reeds, When through Arcadian groves the dryads ran, And--symbolizing well man's earlier creeds-- A host of sculptured forms, divinely fair, Portrayed the gods, and led men's thoughts to prayer,

I would have sought some beautiful retreat, Remote from cities and the din of men,-- Some tranquil shore where lake and forest meet By limpid stream or flower-lit, sylvan glen, And would have reared, where none could e'er intrude, A shrine to thee, O precious Solitude!

How hath a heedless world neglected thee, Thou coy divinity, too shy and proud To sue for followers from those who see Attraction merely in the strenuous crowd! For only those can know thee, as thou art, Who wisely seek and study thee ... apart.

No rapt enthusiast, or mystic sage, No Asian founder of a faith divine, No bard, or writer of inspired page Hath ever failed to worship at thy shrine, O Nourisher of steadfast self-control, Of noble thoughts, of loftiness of soul!

Yet no continuous homage dost thou crave, No anchorite's seclusion wouldst thou ask, Thou lov'st no misanthrope or sullen slave, But only those who, faithful to life's task, Must yet at times look upward from the clod, And seek through thee acquaintanceship with God.

OUT OF THE RANKS

From the bitter fight I have made my way To the peaceful crest of a lonely hill, But the noise and heat of the deadly fray And the smart of wounds are with me still.

No recreant I to a noble cause, Nor traitor base to a leader bold; 'Twas a fight where he won most applause Who captured most of his neighbor's gold;

Where the wounded crawled away to die, Or, hopeless, ate their bread with tears, And the only cries that rent the sky Were the shouts of frenzied financiers.

Alas for the prematurely gray, Who struggle there through joyless lives To win the means of more display For thankless children, thoughtless wives!

Alas for those whose spirits yearn For leisure, books, and sunlit fields, Who yet can never pause to learn The joy that a life of culture yields!

Still sway the mad crowds to and fro! I hear their groans and panting breath, The hideous impacts, blow on blow, The moans of those who are crushed to death!

None stoop to lift up those who fall; A thousand leap for a vacant place, Thrust weaker thousands to the wall, And trample many an upturned face!

But I, however the fight may go, Have turned my back on the sordid fray, To face the tranquil sunset-glow, And hope for the dawn of a better day.

AUTONOMY

Stand forth, my soul, and take thine own! Though all should blame thee, have no fear! Self-poised and steadfast, dare alone Thy self-elected course to steer.

Before thee lies the open sea; Beyond it is the wished-for shore; The route that seemeth best to thee Select, and hesitate no more!

For he who lives the timorous slave Of social plaudits or disdain, Drags feebly to a nameless grave A craven's ever-lengthening chain.

Are thy plans noble, just, and fair? Pursue them bravely to the end, Nor pause to question or to care What says thy foe, or what thy friend.

Succeed, and thou shalt surely find That those who longed to see thee fail, And, lingering hopelessly behind, Spat venom on thine upward trail,

Shall run to reach thee on thy path, To grasp thy hand and say "'Twas well"; Or, distant, gnaw their lips in wrath, Their envious hearts a living hell.

Forever, flint-like, set thy face Against the loss of self-control; Compel the world to keep its place; Be thou the captain of thy soul!

ORIENT TO OCCIDENT, 1906

You thought me sunk in lethargy, too deeply drugged with sleep To notice how your armored fleets kept creeping o'er the deep, Too indolent to organize, too feeble to resist, Too timid to return the blow of Europe's mailèd fist; And Asia's conquest seemed to you a matter of such ease That all your kings knew perfectly the part which each would seize. Of such a "sluggish, inert mass" why should you be afraid? You wanted ports and provinces for purposes of trade, And monster "spheres of influence", whose wealth could be controlled And plundered by your Governments to fill their vaults with gold; Hence, since it seemed so probable that none of us would fight, Why should you even hesitate to prove that Might makes Right?

And yet perhaps it had been well, before you formed your plan, To study Asia's history from Persia to Japan; For though the sleeping Orient, like grain before the blast, May bow its head, it rights itself when once the storm is past. How often has the Occident invaded our domains And boasted of its victories! Yet of them what remains? Seems India exceptional? Fools, judge not by a day! The horologe of centuries moves slowly in Cathay. The brilliant son of Macedon saw, crushed and pale with fear, The vanquished East from Babylon to Egypt and Cashmere; But though the conquered Orient lay helpless, as his slave, Of Alexander's influence how much survived his grave? Of Rome's prodigious armaments, to Asian conquests led, Where is there now a souvenir save relics of the dead? And of the vast Crusading hosts, which in their madness rose And hurled themselves repeatedly upon their Moslem foes,-- What is to-day the net result? A thousand years have passed, But none of all their vaunted gains proved great enough to last; The Saviour's tomb, Jerusalem, and all the sacred lands Connected with the Christian faith are still in Asian hands!

We needed rude awakening to rouse us from our sloth; It came among our northern isles, whose heroes, nothing loth, Unbarred their ports to modern fleets, their ancient life forswore, And learned from greedy foreigners the Christians' art of war. Behold! the world in fifty years is breathless with surprise, And Europe's greatest Government has sought us for allies! That little section of our mass aroused itself, and lo! Your largest Occidental Power has reeled beneath the blow; And while our living troops receive men's rapturous acclaim, Our fallen heroes have attained the Pantheon of fame. Yet think not we deceive ourselves; you praise, but really dread The valour of the Orient, if this awakening spread; Behind this movement of the East you think you hear the low, Long murmur of the Asians,--"The foreigner must go"! What wonder that we hate you all? You look on us to-day As lions look on antelopes,--their heaven-appointed prey; You know you have no lawful right to lands that you possess; You gained them all through violence, or lying and finesse; Your cursed opium alone, despite our prayers and tears, Has ruined millions of our race for more than two score years, And when we rose indignantly to right that bitter wrong, Your heavy guns bombarded us, and you annexed ... Hong Kong! You force yourselves on us, and ask concessions, favors, mines, Protection for your mission schools, and grants of railway lines, But when we cross the seas to you, an entry you refuse, And curse, illtreat, and harry us with loathing and abuse. Japan has shown the only way of keeping for our own The fertile fields which rightfully belong to us alone; We do not wish to arm ourselves, and fighting we abhor, But self-protection forces us to learn and practise war.

Hence, if assailed, we shall not shun a struggle with the West; Not bent on conquest, like yourselves, but, rising to the test Of "Asia for the Asians", defend our threatened farms By sending to encounter you a million men in arms. You think yourselves invincible? Learn something from Japan, The fever of whose chivalry now spreads from man to man, Encouraging the Orient to hasten on the day When all enlightened Asians shall cry "Enough! Away! Go exploit helpless Africa, where you have shamed the beast, But understand, your cruel day is over in the East!" You still have many things to learn, base worshippers of gold; When you were wild barbarians, our Governments were old! Your self-conceit and arrogance we therefore laugh to scorn; We had our laws millenniums before your courts were born. You talk by electricity, you ride on wings of steam, You thunder with machinery,--and these you proudly deem The grandest triumphs of the race, forgetting that mere speed In transference of men and things is less than one great deed.

You treat us condescendingly, as if our gifts were small, But do you think Almighty God has dowered you with all? Earth's greatest continent is ours; her highest mountains rise In unapproached sublimity beneath our starry skies; Ours, too, the cradle of the race; and at our Buddha's shrine Unequalled numbers of mankind adore him as divine. How dare you speak of Asian thought with pity or a sneer, When practically all you know originated here? What had you been, if our ideals, in art and faith expressed, Had not come down through Greece and Rome to civilize your West? The great religions of the world are all of Asian birth, And thence went forth resistlessly to dominate the earth. Of six we granted one to you; and you profess its creeds, But what a sorry travesty you make of it in deeds! The Christ taught love to enemies; His followers to-day Have trained the whole male Christian world their fellow men to slay! The very Bible that you prize was writ by Asian hands; Your prophets, saints, and patriarchs were all of Eastern lands; The Son of God, as you believe, was born a humble Jew; The Virgin Mother equally no other parents knew; Yet you have robbed and tortured Jews, and murdered them at will Through eighteen Christian centuries,--are killing thousands still!

The "Star of Empire," as you claim, has "westward" made its way; But what if now in Eastern skies it heralds a new day? You fondly dreamed its brilliant course had ended there with you, But on it moves, old lands to greet, and belt the globe anew! Its kindling rays revivify our nations, which have slept While round the world our influence through you has slowly crept. The coming century's great deeds lie not at Europe's doors; A grander stage awaits mankind,--the vast Pacific's shores; And we not only skirt that sea from Tokyo to Saigon, Our coastline fronts the western world from Syria to Ceylon! Again shall we supply to you the part of life you need; Again your slaves of strenuous toil shall live at slower speed; Once more, as pilgrims to a shrine, your chiefs shall come to me, And learn of my philosophy, as children at my knee. You cannot cut me from your past, nor cancel what you owe For all my sages gave to you two thousand years ago; For after twenty centuries you think, and speak, and pray Still much as I instructed you in Syria and Cathay. Keep you, then, the material, I hold the mental, realm; For you the ship's machinery, for me the guiding helm!

THE CAPTIVE

I opened the cage of my pet canary; Timid, it faltered a moment there, Then, at my call, became less wary, And blithely sprang to the buoyant air.

Brief was its dream of freedom's rapture; A window barred its sunward flight; It beat its wings in fear of capture, But found no way to the world of light.

Out in the park two birds were mating, Building together their tiny nest; Keenly the captive watched them, waiting, Pressing the glass with its throbbing breast.

Leaving at length the window-casing, Lighting by chance on a neighboring shelf, It stood before a mirror, facing The pretty form of its own sweet self.

Falling in love with its own reflection, Thinking it always another bird, Bravely it tried to win affection, Warbling tones I had never heard.

Hopeless alas! its tender wooing, Vainly it trilled its sweetest note, Coldly received was its ardent sueing, Silent the mirrored songster's throat.

Wearied at last, it flew off sadly, Back to the cage's open door, Back to the home it left so gladly Only a little hour before.

Dead are the lovers so fondly mated! Gone is their nest; it was blown away! But safe in the narrow cage it hated The captive sings on its perch to-day.

WEARINESS

Snowy sails, silvery sails, Gleaming in the sun, Leaving scores of jewelled trails In the course you run,

On your white wings bear away All my care and pain; I would for at least to-day Be a child again.

Just to thrill with youthful fire, Kindling heart and brain, Just to know the old desire Lofty heights to gain;

Just to hold the simple faith Into which I grew, When my God was not a wraith, And all men were true!

Shadowed sails, clouded sails, Life hath made me know That you leave no jewelled trails, Proudly though you go;

Drops that floods of diamonds seem Are but dazzling spray, Fleeting as a happy dream, Swift to fade away.

Distant sails, waning sails, Waft me to some shore Where corroding care prevails Never, nevermore!

Where the flotsam of the deep Finds its wanderings cease, And the shipwrecked sink to sleep On the strand of peace.

A MAY MONODY

Beside my opened window pane, Each morning in this month of May A blackbird sings in dulcet strain Two liquid notes, which seem to say "Come again! Come again!"

Alike in sunshine and in rain, Now loud and clear, now soft and low, He warbles forth the same refrain, Which haunts me with its hint of woe,-- "Come again! Come again!"

What bird, whose absence gives him pain, Doth he thus tenderly recall? What longed-for joy would he regain By those two words which rise and fall,-- "Come again! Come again!"

Sometimes, when I too long have lain And listened to his plaintive air, An impulse I cannot restrain Hath moved me too to breathe that prayer,-- "Come again! Come again!"

O vanished youth, when faith was plain, When hopes were high, and manhood's years Showed dazzling summits to attain; O days, ere eyes grew dim with tears,-- "Come again! Come again!"

O friends, whose memory leaves no stain, O dearly loved and early lost! Do you your love for me retain Beyond the silent sea you crossed? "Come again! Come again!"

Alas! sweet bird, all life moves on; The seed becomes the ripened grain, And what is past is gone, is gone! Cease calling, therefore,--'tis in vain--, "Come again! Come again!"

MY LOST FRIENDS

One by one they have slipped from Earth, And vanished into the depths of space, And I, beside my lonely hearth, Find none to take their place.

Never a word of fond farewell Fell from their lips ere they were gone; Never a hint since then to tell If after night came dawn!

Latest of all to thus depart, Still is thy hand-clasp warm in mine; Wilt thou not tell me where thou art? Canst thou impart no sign?

Wild are the winds above thy grave; Cold is the form I loved so well; But what to thee are storms that rave, Or the snow that last night fell?

Out in the awful void of night, Numberless suns and planets roll; Has one of all those isles of light Received thy homeless soul?

Mute is the sky as an empty tomb; Trackless the path, and all unknown; What means this journey through its gloom, Which each must make alone?

Vain is the task; I strive no more To learn the secret of their fate; Till sounds for me the muffled oar, I can but hope and wait.

But well I know they have gone from me Into the silent depths of space, Across a vast, uncharted sea, Whose shores I cannot trace.

TO SLEEP AND TO FORGET

To sleep and to forget,--O blessèd guerdon! The day is waning, and the night draws near; My failing heart grows weary of its burden; Why should I therefore hesitate or fear To sleep and to forget?

Though bright my skies with transient gleams of gladness, And sweet the breath of many a summer sea, Yet, under all, a haunting note of sadness Forever lures me in its minor key To sleep and to forget.

Of petty souls whose joy is defamation, Of malice, envy, cruelty, and greed Each day supplies its sickening revelation, And makes imperative my spirit's need To sleep and to forget.

Let others bravely plan for death's to-morrow, And crave fresh progress toward a higher goal! Appalled by Earth's long tragedy of sorrow, I humbly ask one favor for my soul, When this life's sun is set,-- To sleep and to forget.

IN SILENCE

She sees our faces bright and gay, Our moving lips, our laughing eyes, But scarce a word of what we say Can pass the zone that round her lies;--

A zone of stillness,--strange, profound, Invisible to mortal eye, Upon whose verge the waves of sound In muffled murmurs break and die.

Across that silent void she strains To catch at least some wingèd word, And, though she fails, still smiles and feigns The poor pretence of having heard.

That smile! Its pathos wrings the heart Of many a friend, who yet conceals The tears that from his eyelids start, The grief and pity that he feels.

And she, aware of our distress, And sadly conscious of her own, Still bravely speaks, nor dares confess That our real meaning is unknown.

What rapture, when the closing door Shuts out the world and gives release, And on her quivering nerves once more Descends the benison of peace!

No longer forced to dimly read Men's meanings from their lips and looks, Her greatest joy, her only need The sweet companionship of books!

Do we thus ever fully know The boon of leaving far behind The world's dull tales of crime and woe, The gossip of its vacant mind?

What if her loss be really gain, That zone of silence a defence, A compensation for her pain, A quickening of her psychic sense?

Perhaps when fall at last away The chains which bind her spirit here, A voice divine will gently say In tones which reach alone her ear,--

"While others in that world of sin Heard evil things, to thee unknown, Apart from that defiling din Thy spirit grew, in strength, alone.

"They must through other lives return To slowly earn thy strength of soul; Through suffering only couldst thou learn The virtue that hath made thee whole."

AT THE VILLA OF THE EMPEROR FREDERICK III AT SAN REMO

San Remo's palms in beauty stand Beside the storied sea, Where azure band and golden sand Are wedded ceaselessly; For from the deep, which seems to sleep, The slow waves, long and low, Their journeys done, break one by one In rhythmic ebb and flow.

Before me lies a fair retreat, Whose every breath brings balm From plants replete with odors sweet And many a fronded palm; Hence at its gate I, spellbound, wait To feast my gladdened eyes On buds that wake and flowers that make A perfumed paradise.

Alas, that love could not avail To guard this sweet repose! That strength should fail, and life prove frail And fleeting as the rose! So fair! and yet, who can forget The heir to Prussia's throne, Who here fought death with labored breath, And faced the great Unknown?

O Spirit of the Fatherland, O love that changeth not, Thy filial hand hath made this strand A consecrated spot; For on the wall, where roses fall, Bronze words recall his fate,-- A sceptre won ... when life was done, An empire gained ... too late!

"Halt, wanderer from a German shore!" (Thus runs the sad refrain,) "Here dwelt thine Emperor, here he bore With fortitude his pain; Hear'st thou the lone, low monotone Of billows tempest-tossed? In that long roll the German soul Still mourns for him she lost."

San Remo's stately palms still rise Beside the storied shore; But he now lies 'neath northern skies, At peace forevermore, In that calm, deep, untroubled sleep, Whose secret none may know, While, one by one,--their courses run,-- The long waves ebb and flow.

IN A COLUMBARIUM

The autumn sun still bravely streams Along the tomb-girt Appian Way, And warms the heart of one who dreams Of all its splendor on the day When Scipio triumphed, bringing home The spoils of Africa to Rome.

On this same road the conqueror came, Called "Africanus, the Divine" By thousands who adored his fame, And proudly watched the endless line Of Punic captives in his train, And trophies, won on Zama's plain.

To-day the vast Campagna rolls In stately grandeur to the sea, But where are now the countless souls Whose dwelling-place this used to be, When all its space to Ostia's gate Lay peopled and inviolate?

Ask of the Claudian arches gray Which stride toward Rome in broken lines; Ask of the lizards at their play On relics of the Antonines; Ask of the fever-blighted shore, Where Roman galleys ride no more!

Yet some poor traces still remain Of those who here have lived and died; For underneath this solemn plain The Christian catacombs still hide,-- A city of sepulchral gloom, The martyrs' labyrinthine tomb.

Moreover, in this classic soil, Where sleeps so much of ancient Rome, A simple peasant at his toil Discovered 'neath the upturned loam The spot to which I now have come,-- A Roman Columbarium.

Down through its modern, open door A flood of mellow sunshine falls In golden waves from roof to floor, Revealing in its moss-grown walls The "dove-cotes", where one still discerns The fragments of old funeral urns.

One vacant niche, whose ampler space Betokens special love and care, Contained no doubt a sculptured face Above the hallowed ashes there; While, just beneath, faint letters spell A faithful woman's fond farewell.

How often on love's wingèd feet She doubtless sought this dear recess, To deck with floral offerings sweet Her sepulchre of happiness, Whose script, despite two thousand years, Preserves the memory of her tears!

Rome's annals hint not of the name Of him whose dust lay treasured here, But could the fleeting breath of fame Have made him to her heart more dear? A word of tenderness outweighs In woman's soul a world of praise.

What though, remote from pomp and state, At Caesar's court he could not shine? Less blest had surely been his fate Upon the lustful Palatine! And mutual love, wherever viewed, Is life's supreme beatitude.

Alas! the urn no longer stands Within the little alcove dim; Gone also are the faithful hands That hung sweet roses on its rim; And vanished even is the bust Which watched above the sacred dust.

Yet still its words of love survive The shocks and tragedies of time, And bid our drooping hearts revive, Inculcating the faith sublime That, while the urn in ruin lies, Love soars immortal to the skies.

DISCOURAGEMENT

"Forward, comrades, ever forward"! Shout the leaders in the fight; "Scale the ramparts! Plant the standard On the citadel of light!

"Break the chains of superstition! Crush corruption! Free the slave! Plant the flowers of love and mercy On the past's ensanguined grave!

"Toward the strongholds of oppression Lead again the hope forlorn! See! the night is disappearing; Lo! the coming of the morn"!

Bravely said; yet men have spoken Just as bravely long ago, When the hair had raven blackness Which is now as white as snow;

And alas! how many thousands Have responded to that call, Whose forgotten corpses moulder By the still beleaguered wall!