Chapter 3
The roses all were pink and red, Before the Bumble Bee, A lover bold, with cloak of gold, Came singing merrily Along the sunlit ways that led From woodland, and from lea.
He paused beside an opening rose, The garden’s pet and pride; She burst in flower that very hour, While wooing zephyrs sighed; No smile had she for one of those, And hope within them died.
The ardent butterfly in vain On radiant wings drew near; The hapless moth in vain grew wroth— The fair rose leaned to hear The deep-voiced stranger’s low refrain That thrilled upon her ear.
She gave her heart in love’s delight And let the whole world see; Alas! one day, away, away, Sped truant Bumble Bee; ’Twas then the red rose turned to white— So was the tale told me.
I LOOK TO SCIENCE
I look to Science for the cure of Crime; To patient righting of a thousand wrongs; To final healing of a thousand ills. Blind runner now, and cruel egotist It yet leads on to more than mortal sight, And the large knowledge that means humbleness, And tender love for all created things.
I look to Science for the Coming Race Growing from seed selected; and from soil Love fertilised; and pruned by wisdom’s hand, Till out of mortal man spring demi-gods, Strong primal creatures with awakened souls And normal passions, governed by the will, Leaving a trail of glory where they tread.
I look to Science for the growth of faith. That bold denier of accepted creeds— That mighty doubter of accepted truths— Shall yet reveal God’s secrets to the world, And prove the facts it seeks to overthrow. And a new name shall Science henceforth bear— The Great Religion of the Universe.
APPRECIATION
They prize not most the opulence of June Who from the year’s beginning to its close Dwell, where unfading verdure tireless grows, And where sweet summer’s harp is kept in tune. We must have listened to the winter’s rune, And felt impatient longings for the rose, Ere its full radiance on our vision glows, Or with its fragrant soul, we can commune.
Not they most prize life’s blessings, and delights, Who walk in safe and sunny paths alway. But those, who, groping in the darkness, borrow Pale rays from hope, to lead them through the night, And in the long, long watches wait for day. He knows not joy who has not first known sorrow.
THE AWAKENING
I love the tropics, where sun and rain Go forth together, a joyous train, To hold up the green, gay side of the world, And to keep earth’s banners of bloom unfurled.
I love the scents that are hidden there By housekeeper Time, in her chests of air: Strange and subtle and all a-rife, With vague lost dreams of a bygone life.
They steal upon you by night and day, But never a whiff can you take away: And never a song of a tropic bird Outside of its palm-decked land is heard.
And nowhere else can you know the sweet Soft, ‘joy-in-nothing,’ that comes with the heat Of tropic regions. And yet, and yet, If in evergreen worlds my way were set
I would span the waters of widest seas To see the wonder of waking trees; To feel the shock of sudden delight That comes when the orchard has changed in a night, From the winter nun to the bride of May, And the harp of Spring is attuned to play The wedding march, and the sun is priest, And the world is bidden to join the feast.
Oh, never is felt in a tropic clime, Where the singing of birds is a ceaseless chime, That leap o’ the blood, and the rapture thrill, That comes to us here, with the first bird’s trill; And only the eye that has looked on snows Can see the beauty that lies in a rose. The lure of the tropics I understand, But ho! for the Spring in my native land.
MOST BLEST IS HE
Most blest is he who in the morning time Sets forth upon his journey with no staff Shaped by another for his use. Who sees The imminent necessity for toil, And with each morning wakens to the thought Of tasks that wait his doing. Never yet Has unearned leisure and the gift of gold Bestowed such benefits upon the young As need and loneliness; and when life adds The burden of a duty, difficult, And hard to carry, then rejoice, O soul! And know thyself one chosen for high things. Behind thee walk the Helpers. Yet lead on! They only help the lifters, and they give But unto those who also freely give. Not till thy will, thy courage, and thy strength Have done their utmost, and thy love has flowed In pity and compassion, out to all (The worthless, the ungrateful, and the weak, As well as to the worthy and the strong) Canst thou receive invisible support. Do first thy part, and all of it, before Asking the helpers to do aught for thee. For this alone the Universe exists, That man may find himself is Destiny.
NIRVANA
A drop of water risen from the ocean Forgot its cause, and spake with deep emotion Unto a passing breeze. ‘How desolate And all forlorn is my unhappy fate. I know not whence I came, or where I go. Scorched by the sun, or chilled by winds that blow, I dwell in space a little time, then pass Out into the night and nothingness—alas!’
‘Nay,’ quoth the breeze, ‘my friend, that cannot be. Thou dost reflect the Universe to me. Look at thine own true self, and there behold A world of light, all scintillant with gold.’ Just there the drop sank back into the wave From whence it came. Nay, that was not its _grave_!
It lived, it moved, it was a joyous part Of that strong palpitating ocean heart; Its little dream of loneliness was done; It woke to find, Self, and Cause, were one. So shalt thou wake, sad mortal, when thy course Has run its karmic round, and reached the Source, And even now thou dost reflect the whole Of God’s great glory in thy shining soul.
LIFE
Oh! I feel the growing glory Of our life upon this sphere, Of the life that like a river Runs forever and forever, From the somewhere to the here, And still on and onward flowing, Leads us out to larger knowing, Through the hidden, to the clear.
And I feel a deep thanksgiving For the sorrows I have known; For the worries and the crosses, And the grieving and the losses, That along my path were sown. Now the great eternal meaning Of each trouble I am gleaning, And the harvest is my own.
I am opulent with knowledge Of the Purpose and the Cause. And I go my way rejoicing, And in singing seek the voicing Of love’s never-failing laws. From the now, unto the Yonder, Full of beauty and of wonder, Life flows ever without pause.
And I feel the exaltation Of a child that loves its play, Though the ranks of friends are thinning, Still the end is but beginning Of a larger, fuller day, And the joy of life is spilling From my spirit, as all willing I go speeding on my way.
TWO MEN
So much one thought about the life beyond He did not drain the waters of his pond; And when death laid his children ’neath the sod He called it—‘the mysterious will of God.’ He would not strive for worldly gain, not he. His wealth, he said, was stored in God’s To Be. He kept his mortal body poorly drest, And talked about the garments of the blest. And when to his last sleep he laid him down, His only mourner begged her widow’s gown.
One was not sure there was a life to come, So made an Eden of his earthly home. He strove for wealth, and with an open hand He comforted the needy in his land. He wore new garments often, and the old Helped many a brother to keep out the cold. He said this life was such a little span Man ought to make the most of it,—for man. And when he died the fortune that he left Gave succour to the needy and bereft.
ONLY BE STILL
‘Only be still, and in the silence grow,’ If thou art seeking what the gods bestow. This is the simple, safe, and certain way That leads to knowledge for which all men pray Of higher laws to govern things below.
But in our restless discontent we go With noisy importuning day on day— Drowning the inner voice that strives to say ‘Only be still, and in the silence grow.’
We doubt, we cavil, and we talk of woe— We delve in books, and waste our forces so; We cling to creeds that were not meant to stay, And close our ears to Truth’s immortal lay. Oh wouldst thou see, and understand, and know? ‘Only be still, and in the silence grow.’
PARDONED OUT
I’m pardoned out. Again the stars Shine on me with their myriad eyes. So long I’ve peered ’twixt iron bars, I’m awed by this expanse of skies. The world is wider than I thought, And yet ’tis not so wide, I know, But into its remotest spot My tale of shame can go.
I’m pardoned out. Old Father Time Who seemed to halt in horror, when I stained my manhood by a crime, With steady step moves on again, And through the black appalling night, That walled me in a gloom accurst, The wonder of the morning light In sudden glory burst.
I’m pardoned out. I shall be known No more by number, but by name. And yet each whispering wind has blown Abroad the story of my shame. I dread to see men shrink away With startled looks of scorn or fear, When in life’s crowded marts some day, That name falls on their ear.
I’m pardoned out, ah God! to roam Like some whipped dog among my kind. I have no friends, I have no home, Save these bleak walls I leave behind. How can I face the world of men, My comrades in the days of yore? Oh! hide me in my cell again, And, warden, lock the door.
THE TIDES
Oh, vain is the stern protesting Of winds, when the tide runs high; And vainly the deep-sea waters Call out, as the waves speed by; For, deaf to the claim of the ocean, To the threat of the loud winds dumb, Past reef and bar, to shores afar, They rush when the hour is come.
Vainly the tempest thunders, Of unsexed waves that roam, Away from the mid-sea calmness, Where Nature made their home. For the voice of the great Moon-Mother, Has spoken and said, ‘Be free.’ And the tide must go to the strong full flow, In the time of the perigee.
So vain is the cry of the masters, And vain the plea of the hearth; As the ranks of the strange New Woman Go sweeping across the earth. They have come from hall and hovel, They have pushed through door and gate; On the world’s highway they are crowded to-day, For the hour is the hour of fate.
Many are hurt in the crowding, The light of the home burns dim; And man is aghast at the changes, Though all can be traced to him. They sat too long at the hearthstone, And sat too oft alone: And the silence spoke, and their souls awoke, And now they must claim their own.
Let no man hope to hinder, Let no man bid them pause: They are moved by a hidden purpose, They follow resistless laws. And out of the wreck and chaos Of the order that used to be, A strong new race shall take its place In a world we are yet to see.
Oh, ever has man been leader, Yet failed as woman’s guide. It is better that she step forward, And take her place at his side. For only from greater woman, May come the greater man, Through life’s long quest they should walk abreast— As was meant by the primal plan.
PROGRESSION
To each progressive soul there comes a day When all things that have pleased and satisfied Grow flavourless, the springs of joy seem dried. No more the waters of youth’s fountains play; Yet out of reach, tiptoeing as they may, The more mature and higher pleasures hide. Life, like a careless nurse, fails to provide New toys for those the soul has cast away.
Upon a strange land’s border all alone, Awhile it stands dismayed and desolate. Nude too, since its old garments are outgrown; Till clothed with strength befitting its estate, It grasps at length those raptures that are known To souls who learn to labour, and to wait.
ACQUAINTANCE
Not we who daily walk the city’s street Not those who have been cradled in its heart, Best understand its architectural art Or realise its grandeur. Oft we meet Some stranger who has staid his passing feet And lingered with us for a single hour, And learned more of cathedral, and of tower, Than we who deem our knowledge quite complete.
Not always those we hold most loved and dear, Not always those who dwell with us, know best Our greater selves. Because they stand so near They cannot see the lofty mountain crest, The gleaming sun-kissed height, which fair and clear Stands forth—revealed unto the some-time guest.
ATTAINMENT
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 to’rd 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.
THE TOWER-ROOM
There is a room serene and fair, All palpitant with light and air; Free from the dust, world’s noise and fuss— God’s Tower-room in each of us.
Oh! many a stair our feet must press, And climb from self to selflessness, Before we reach that radiant room Above the discord and the gloom.
So many, many stairs to climb, But mount them gently—take your time; Rise leisurely, nor strive to run— Not so the mightiest feats are done.
Well doing of the little things: Repression of the word that stings; The tempest of the mind made still By victory of the God-like will.
The hated task performed in love— All these are stairs that wind above The things that trouble and annoy, Up to the Tower-room of joy.
Rise leisurely; the stairs once trod Reveal the mountain peaks of God; And from its upper room the soul Sees all, in one united whole.
FATHER
He never made a fortune, or a noise In the world where men are seeking after fame; But he had a healthy brood of girls and boys Who loved the very ground on which he trod. They thought him just a little short of God; Oh you should have heard the way they said his name— ‘Father.’
There seemed to be a loving little prayer In their voices, even when they called him ‘Dad.’ Though the man was never heard of anywhere, As a hero, yet you somehow understood He was doing well his part and making good; And you knew it, by the way his children had Of saying ‘Father.’
He gave them neither eminence nor wealth, But he gave them blood untainted with a vice, And the opulence of undiluted health. He was honest, and unpurchable and kind; He was clean in heart, and body, and in mind. So he made them heirs to riches without price— This father.
He never preached or scolded; and the rod— Well, he used it as a turning pole in play. But he showed the tender sympathy of God To his children in their troubles, and their joys. He was always chum and comrade with his boys, And his daughters—oh, you ought to hear them say ‘Father.’
Now I think of all achievements ’tis the least To perpetuate the species; it is done By the insect and the serpent, and the beast. But the man who keeps his body, and his thought, _Worth_ bestowing on an offspring love-begot, Then the highest earthly glory he has won, When in pride a grown-up daughter or a son Says ‘That’s Father.’
THE NEW HAWAIIAN GIRL
EXPLANATORY
KAMEHAMEHA FIRST, of the Hawaiian Islands, conquered his foes in a great battle, driving them over the high mountain peak known as Pali—one of the famous scenic views of the world, and the goal of all visitors in Honolulu.
The Hula (pronounced _hoola_) was the national muscle and abdominal dance of Hawaii, and the late King Kalakua was its enthusiastic patron. The costume of the dancers was composed chiefly of skirts of grass. The Hula (so attired) is now forbidden by law. The Hula Kui is a modification of the dance and exceedingly graceful.
Many charming young self-supporting woman in Honolulu trace their ancestry back to Kamehameha with great pride. The chant is a weird sing-song which relates the conquests of the race.
It is the custom in Honolulu to present guests at feasts and festivals, or departing visitors, with long wreaths of natural flowers, and which are worn by men, as well as women, about the head, hat, and neck. These wreaths, called lais (pronounced lays), sometimes reach below the waist.
The flower-sellers are one of the national features of Honolulu.
_Scene made to represent grounds at Hawaiian hotel_. _Sort of open café or pavilion with palms_, _vines_, _and tropic flowers_. RALPH _sitting alone with a dreamy air_.
_Enter_ ETHEL—_in short travelling suit_—_typical American girl_—_blonde and petite_.
ETHEL
Oh, here you are. Your sister and your mother Commissioned me detective, sleuth, and spy, To find the disappearing son and brother; And tell him that the time is slipping by. Our boat will sail in just two hours, you know. Dear Honolulu, how I hate to go.
RALPH
Don’t mention it; I shun the very thought.
ETHEL
You see this is the sort of thing one hears And don’t believe, until one sees the spot. We left New York in snow up to its ears; And now a Paradise! the palm, the rose, The Boaganvillia, and the breath of summer.
RALPH
I tell you, Honolulu is a hummer. It pays for six long days upon the ocean— And those sad memories of a ship’s queer motion
ETHEL
There’s one thing, though, that’s disappointed me,— The much exploited Honolulu maid. I haven’t seen a beauty in the town.
RALPH
They’re thick as ripe bananas on a tree. You have not been observing, I’m afraid.
ETHEL (_shrugging her shoulders_)
Oh well, tastes differ; I don’t care for brown, At least for this pronounced Hawaiian shade; I really can’t imagine how a man Could love a girl dyed to a chronic tan.
RALPH
Some one has said, ‘Love goes where it is sent.’
ETHEL (_sadly_)
I think that true; one can not guide its bent. But I must go; and will you come along? Your mother said to bring you.
RALPH
Not quite yet; I’ll wait until that bird completes its song; The last I’ll hear, till many a sun has set. Just tell the folks I’ll meet them on the pier.
[_Exit_ ETHEL, _looking disappointed_.
RALPH (_sitting down in a reverie_)
A nice girl, Ethel; but, by Jove, it’s queer The way a fellow’s stubborn mind will turn To something that he should forget. That face— I saw once on a San Francisco street, How well I do recall the time and place. ‘A girl from Honolulu,’ some one said. I wonder where she is now! Married? Dead?
[_A silent reverie for a moment_. _Then speaks again_.]
I planned this trip with just one crazy thought— To look upon that strange girl’s face once more. That is the luny project which has brought The four of us to this idyllic shore.
[_Laughs and lights a cigar_.]
My scheme was worked with such consummate care That mother thinks _she_ planned the whole affair. Then she invited Ethel as her guest.
[_Silence for a moment_.]
Well, sometimes mothers know just what is best For wayward sons.
And yet, and yet, and yet, Why is it one girl’s face I can’t forget? Why is it that I feel despondent hearted In missing that fool hope for which I started? Four thousand miles is something of a chase To run to cover one elusive face And then to _fail_.
[_Reverie_. _A chant is heard outside_. _The man listens_. _The chant ceases and then a maiden slowly approaches calling out her flower wares_, _which she carries in a basket_; _she wears several lais herself_, _on hat and neck_. _She does not observe the man at first_.]
FLOWER GIRL (_calls in a musical voice_)
Lais, lais, royal lais, beautiful flowers in bloom; Colours of splendour, fragrance so tender, Blossoms to brighten your room; Lais, lais, royal lais, who buys—
RALPH (_leans forward and says aside_)
(Eve and the serpent meet in Paradise.)
[_He moves forward as the maid enters the doorway_. _Recognition shows in both faces_. _Then the maiden recovers her self-possession and starts to go_.]
RALPH (_with sudden boldness and excitement_)
I’ll buy you out, in case you then are free To stay awhile, beneath this banyan tree, And tell me all about your lovely land.
FLOWER GIRL (_with dignity_)
Your pardon, sir, I do not understand.
RALPH (_who seems drunk with exhilaration_)
Oh well, ’tis plain enough; from realms of snow I landed here, some little time ago, A lonely orphan, without kith or kin. I need a friend.
[FLOWER GIRL _gives him an indignant_, _surprised glance_. _Then speaks with quiet sarcasm_.]
Sir, they will take you in On Hotel Street. The Y.M.C.A. there Shelters all homeless youths within its pale.
RALPH (_shaking his head sadly_)
They wouldn’t take _me_ in. I am from Yale.
GIRL (_with mock sympathy_)
Oh, that _is_ sad. Because no skill or tact You might employ could ever hide the fact From all the world, wherever you might be. Now Harvard, Princeton, Stanford men, we see And never know, until they speak the name; But Yale,—it bears its brand.
RALPH (_reproachfully_)
You’re making game Of me, and of my College, cruel girl.
[_Approaches her excitedly_.]
Come, drop those flowers, and let us have a whirl. I’ll give you both the Yale Yell and the Boola, If you will dance for me your famous Hula.
GIRL (_drawing back haughtily_)
_I_ dance the Hula? You mistake, my friend; You heard my chant, but did not comprehend The meaning of it. Hark, while I repeat it.
[_Repeats the chant_.]
RALPH (_puzzled_)
I’m sure there’s nothing in the world can beat it; But—er—the language is a little queer; I did not quite catch all the words, I fear; Besides, I’m so distracted by your face.
GIRL (_proudly_)
That chant relates the conquests of my race; Though I am poor, and hawk about these lais To earn my bread, yet in the olden days There was no prouder family on earth Than mine. But Polynesian pride of birth Is quite beyond the white man’s scope of brain, And so perchance I speak to you in vain.
[_Takes her flowers and starts to go_.]
RALPH (_intercepts her_)
Great Scott! but you are splendid when you’re mad Now, please, don’t go; I’m really not so bad: I don’t mean half I say.
GIRL (_turns blazing eyes upon him_)