Chapter 1
[Picture: Book cover]
POEMS OF POWER
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BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD. 21 BEDFORD ROW LONDON
[_All rights reserved_]
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_Published_ 1903 _Reprinted_ 1904, 1905, 1906, 1907, 1908 1909 (_three times_), 1910 (_four times_), 1911, 1912 (_twice_), 1913, 1914, 1916, 1917, 1918
_N.B._—_The only volumes of my poems issued_ _with my approval in the British Empire are_ _published by_ MESSRS. GAY & HANCOCK.
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
NOTE
_The final word in the title of this volume refers to the DIVINE POWER in every human being_, _the recognition of which is the secret to all success and happiness_. _It is this idea which many of the verses endeavour to illustrate_.
_E. W. W._
CONTENTS
PAGE The Queen’s last ride 1 The Meeting of the Centuries 3 Death has Crowned him a Martyr 7 Grief 10 Illusion 12 Assertion 14 I Am 16 Wishing 18 We two 20 The Poet’s Theme 22 Song of the Spirit 25 Womanhood 27 Morning Prayer 29 The Voices of the People 30 The World grows Better 32 A Man’s Ideal 34 The Fire Brigade 36 The Tides 38 When the Regiment came back 39 Woman to Man 41 The Traveller 43 The Earth 45 Now 46 You and To-day 47 The Reason 49 Mission 50 Repetition 52 Begin the Day 53 Words 54 Fate and I 55 Attainment 58 A Plea to Peace 59 Presumption 61 High Noon 63 Thought-magnets 66 Smiles 67 The Undiscovered Country 69 The Universal Route 70 Unanswered Prayers 72 Thanksgiving 74 Contrasts 76 Thy Ship 77 Life 79 A Marine Etching 81 “Love Thyself Last” 82 Christmas Fancies 84 The River 87 Sorry 89 Ambition’s trail 92 Uncontrolled 93 Will 94 To an Astrologer 96 The Tendril’s Fate 98 The Times 100 The Question 102 Sorrow’s Uses 103 If 104 Which are you? 106 The Creed to be 108 Inspiration 110 The Wish 112 Three Friends 113 You never can tell 115 Here and now 117 Unconquered 119 All that love asks 120 “Does it pay?” 122 Sestina 123 The Optimist 126 The Pessimist 127 An Inspiration 128 Life’s Harmonies 130 Preparation 131 Gethsemane 133 God’s Measure 135 Noblesse Oblige 136 Through Tears 137 What we Need 139 Plea to Science 141 Respite 143 Song 145 My Ships 147 Her Love 149 If 151 Love’s burial 153 “Love is enough” 155 Life is a Privilege 157 Insight 159 A Woman’s Answer 162 The World’s Need 164
THE QUEEN’S LAST RIDE
(Written on the day of Queen Victoria’s funeral)
The Queen is taking a drive to-day, They have hung with purple the carriage-way, They have dressed with purple the royal track Where the Queen goes forth and never comes back.
Let no man labour as she goes by On her last appearance to mortal eye: With heads uncovered let all men wait For the Queen to pass, in her regal state.
Army and Navy shall lead the way For that wonderful coach of the Queen’s to-day. Kings and Princes and Lords of the land Shall ride behind her, a humble band; And over the city and over the world Shall the Flags of all Nations be half-mast-furled, For the silent lady of royal birth Who is riding away from the Courts of earth, Riding away from the world’s unrest To a mystical goal, on a secret quest.
Though in royal splendour she drives through town, Her robes are simple, she wears no crown: And yet she wears one, for, widowed no more, She is crowned with the love that has gone before, And crowned with the love she has left behind In the hidden depths of each mourner’s mind.
Bow low your heads—lift your hearts on high— The Queen in silence is driving by!
THE MEETING OF THE CENTURIES
A curious vision on mine eyes unfurled In the deep night. I saw, or seemed to see, Two Centuries meet, and sit down vis-à-vis Across the great round table of the world: One with suggested sorrows in his mien, And on his brow the furrowed lines of thought; And one whose glad expectant presence brought A glow and radiance from the realms unseen.
Hand clasped with hand, in silence for a space The Centuries sat; the sad old eyes of one (As grave paternal eyes regard a son) Gazing upon that other eager face. And then a voice, as cadenceless and gray As the sea’s monody in winter time, Mingled with tones melodious, as the chime Of bird choirs, singing in the dawns of May.
THE OLD CENTURY SPEAKS
By you, Hope stands. With me, Experience walks. Like a fair jewel in a faded box, In my tear-rusted heart, sweet Pity lies. For all the dreams that look forth from your eyes, And those bright-hued ambitions, which I know Must fall like leaves and perish, in Time’s snow, (Even as my soul’s garden stands bereft,) I give you pity! ’tis the one gift left.
THE NEW CENTURY
Nay, nay, good friend! not pity, but Godspeed, Here in the morning of my life I need. Counsel, and not condolence; smiles, not tears, To guide me through the channels of the years. Oh, I am blinded by the blaze of light That shines upon me from the Infinite. Blurred is my vision by the close approach To unseen shores, whereon the times encroach.
THE OLD CENTURY
Illusion, all illusion. List and hear The Godless cannons, booming far and near. Flaunting the flag of Unbelief, with Greed For pilot, lo! the pirate age in speed Bears on to ruin. War’s most hideous crimes Besmirch the record of these modern times. Degenerate is the world I leave to you,— My happiest speech to earth will be—adieu.
THE NEW CENTURY
You speak as one too weary to be just. I hear the guns—I see the greed and lust. The death throes of a giant evil fill The air with riot and confusion. Ill Ofttimes makes fallow ground for Good; and Wrong Builds Right’s foundation, when it grows too strong. Pregnant with promise is the hour, and grand The trust you leave in my all-willing hand.
THE OLD CENTURY
As one who throws a flickering taper’s ray To light departing feet, my shadowed way You brighten with your faith. Faith makes the man Alas, that my poor foolish age outran Its early trust in God! The death of art And progress follows, when the world’s hard heart Casts out religion. ’Tis the human brain Men worship now, and heaven, to them, means—gain.
THE NEW CENTURY
Faith is not dead, tho’ priest and creed may pass, For thought has leavened the whole unthinking mass, And man looks now to find the God within. We shall talk more of love, and less of sin, In this new era. We are drawing near Unatlassed boundaries of a larger sphere. With awe, I wait, till Science leads us on, Into the full effulgence of its dawn.
DEATH HAS CROWNED HIM A MARTYR
(Written on the day of President McKinley’s death)
In the midst of sunny waters, lo! the mighty Ship of State Staggers, bruised and torn and wounded by a derelict of fate, One that drifted from its moorings in the anchorage of hate.
On the deck our noble Pilot, in the glory of his prime, Lies in woe-impelling silence, dead before his hour or time, Victim of a mind self-centred in a Godless fool of crime.
One of earth’s dissension-breeders, one of Hate’s unreasoning tools, In the annals of the ages, when the world’s hot anger cools, He who sought for Crime’s distinction shall be known as Chief of Fools.
In the annals of the ages, he who had no thought of fame (Keeping on the path of duty, caring not for praise or blame), Close beside the deathless Lincoln, writ in light, will shine his name.
Youth proclaimed him as a hero; time, a statesman; love, a man; Death has crowned him as a martyr,—so from goal to goal he ran, Knowing all the sum of glory that a human life may span.
He was chosen by the people; not an accident of birth Made him ruler of a nation, but his own intrinsic worth. Fools may govern over kingdoms—not republics of the earth.
He has raised the lovers’ standard by his loyalty and faith, He has shown how virile manhood may keep free from scandal’s breath. He has gazed, with trust unshaken, in the awful eyes of Death.
In the mighty march of progress he has sought to do his best. Let his enemies be silent, as we lay him down to rest, And may God assuage the anguish of one suffering woman’s breast.
GRIEF
As the funeral train with its honoured dead On its mournful way went sweeping, While a sorrowful nation bowed its head And the whole world joined in weeping, I thought, as I looked on the solemn sight, Of the one fond heart despairing, And I said to myself, as in truth I might, “How sad must be this _sharing_.”
To share the living with even Fame, For a heart that is only human, Is hard, when Glory asserts her claim Like a bold, insistent woman; Yet a great, grand passion can put aside Or stay each selfish emotion, And watch, with a pleasure that springs from pride, Its rival—the world’s devotion.
But Death should render to love its own, And my heart bowed down and sorrowed For the stricken woman who wept alone While even her _dead_ was borrowed; Borrowed from her, the bride—the wife— For the world’s last martial honour, As she sat in the gloom of her darkened life, With her widow’s grief fresh upon her.
He had shed the glory of Love and Fame In a golden halo about her; She had shared his triumphs and worn his name: But, alas! he had died without her. He had wandered in many a distant realm, And never had left her behind him, But now, with a spectral shape at the helm, He had sailed where she could not find him.
It was only a thought, that came that day In the midst of the muffled drumming And funeral music and sad display, That I knew was right and becoming Only a thought as the mourning train Moved, column after column, Bearing the dead to the burial plain With a reverence grand as solemn.
ILLUSION
God and I in space alone And nobody else in view. “And where are the people, O Lord,” I said, “The earth below, and the sky o’er head, And the dead whom once I knew?”
“That was a dream,” God smiled and said— “A dream that seemed to be true. There were no people, living or dead, There was no earth, and no sky o’erhead; There was only Myself—in you.”
“Why do I feel no fear,” I asked, “Meeting You here this way? For I have sinned I know full well? And is there heaven, and is there hell, And is this the judgment day?”
“Say, those were but dreams,” the Great God said, “Dreams, that have ceased to be. There are no such things as fear or sin, There is no you—you never have been— There is nothing at all but _Me_.”
ASSERTION
I am serenity. Though passions beat Like mighty billows on my helpless heart, I know beyond them lies the perfect sweet Serenity, which patience can impart. And when wild tempests in my bosom rage, “Peace, peace,” I cry, “it is my heritage.”
I am good health. Though fevers rack my brain And rude disorders mutilate my strength, A perfect restoration after pain, I know shall be my recompense at length. And so through grievous day and sleepless night, “Health, health,” I cry, “it is my own by right.”
I am success. Though hungry, cold, ill-clad, I wander for awhile, I smile and say, “It is but for a time—I shall be glad To-morrow, for good fortune comes my way. God is my father, He has wealth untold, His wealth is mine, health, happiness, and gold.”
I AM
I know not whence I came, I know not whither I go; But the fact stands clear that I am here In this world of pleasure and woe. And out of the mist and murk Another truth shines plain— It is my power each day and hour To add to its joy or its pain.
I know that the earth exists, It is none of my business why; I cannot find out what it’s all about, I would but waste time to try. My life is a brief, brief thing, I am here for a little space, And while I stay I would like, if I may, To brighten and better the place.
The trouble, I think, with us all Is the lack of a high conceit. If each man thought he was sent to this spot To make it a bit more sweet, How soon we could gladden the world, How easily right all wrong, If nobody shirked, and each one worked To help his fellows along!
Cease wondering why you came— Stop looking for faults and flaws; Rise up to-day in your pride and say, “I am part of the First Great Cause! However full the world, There is room for an earnest man. It had need of me, or I would not be— I am here to strengthen the plan.”
WISHING
Do you wish the world were better? Let me tell you what to do: Set a watch upon your actions, Keep them always straight and true; Rid your mind of selfish motives; Let your thoughts be clean and high. You can make a little Eden Of the sphere you occupy.
Do you wish the world were wiser? Well, suppose you make a start, By accumulating wisdom In the scrapbook of your heart: Do not waste one page on folly; Live to learn, and learn to live. If you want to give men knowledge You must get it, ere you give.
Do you wish the world were happy? Then remember day by day Just to scatter seeds of kindness As you pass along the way; For the pleasures of the many May be ofttimes traced to one, As the hand that plants an acorn Shelters armies from the sun.
WE TWO
We two make home of any place we go; We two find joy in any kind of weather; Or if the earth is clothed in bloom or snow, If summer days invite, or bleak winds blow, What matters it if we two are together? We two, we two, we make our world, our weather.
We two make banquets of the plainest fare; In every cup we find the thrill of pleasure; We hide with wreaths the furrowed brow of care, And win to smiles the set lips of despair. For us life always moves with lilting measure; We two, we two, we make our world, our pleasure.
We two find youth renewed with every dawn; Each day holds something of an unknown glory. We waste no thought on grief or pleasure gone; Tricked out like hope, time leads us on and on, And thrums upon his harp new song or story. We two, we two, we find the paths of glory.
We two make heaven here on this little earth; We do not need to wait for realms eternal. We know the use of tears, know sorrow’s worth, And pain for us is always love’s rebirth. Our paths lead closely by the paths supernal; We two, we two, we live in love eternal.
THE POET’S THEME
What is the explanation of the strange silence of American poets concerning American triumphs on sea and land?
_Literary Digest_.
Why should the poet of these pregnant times Be asked to sing of war’s unholy crimes?
To laud and eulogize the trade which thrives On horrid holocausts of human lives?
Man was a fighting beast when earth was young, And war the only theme when Homer sung.
’Twixt might and might the equal contest lay, Not so the battles of our modern day.
Too often now the conquering hero struts A Gulliver among the Liliputs.
Success no longer rests on skill or fate, But on the movements of a syndicate.
Of old men fought and deemed it right and just. To-day the warrior fights because he must,
And in his secret soul feels shame because He desecrates the higher manhood’s laws
Oh! there are worthier themes for poet’s pen In this great hour, than bloody deeds of men
Or triumphs of one hero (though he be Deserving song for his humility):
The rights of many—not the worth of one; The coming issues—not the battle done;
The awful opulence, and awful need; The rise of brotherhood—the fall of greed,
The soul of man replete with God’s own force, The call “to heights,” and not the cry “to horse,”—
Are there not better themes in this great age For pen of poet, or for voice of sage
Than those old tales of killing? Song is dumb Only that greater song in time may come.
When comes the bard, he whom the world waits for, He will not sing of War.
SONG OF THE SPIRIT
All the aim of life is just Getting back to God. Spirit casting off its dust, Getting back to God. Every grief we have to bear Disappointment, cross, despair Each is but another stair Climbing back to God.
Step by step and mile by mile— Getting back to God; Nothing else is worth the while— Getting back to God. Light and shadow fill each day Joys and sorrows pass away, Smile at all, and smiling, say, Getting back to God.
Do not wear a mournful face Getting back to God; Scatter sunshine on the place Going back to God; Take what pleasure you can find, But where’er your paths may wind. Keep the purpose well in mind,— Getting back to God.
WOMANHOOD
She must be honest, both in thought and deed, Of generous impulse, and above all greed; Not seeking praise, or place, or power, or pelf, But life’s best blessings for her higher self, Which means the best for all. She must have faith, To make good friends of Trouble, Pain, and Death, And understand their message. She should be As redolent with tender sympathy As is a rose with fragrance. Cheerfulness Should be her mantle, even though her dress May be of Sorrow’s weaving. On her face A loyal nature leaves its seal of grace, And chastity is in her atmosphere. Not that chill chastity which seems austere (Like untrod snow-peaks, lovely to behold Till once attained—then barren, loveless, cold); But the white flame that feeds upon the soul And lights the pathway to a peaceful goal. A sense of humour, and a touch of mirth, To brighten up the shadowy spots of earth; And pride that passes evil—choosing good. All these unite in perfect womanhood.
MORNING PRAYER
Let me to-day do something that shall take A little sadness from the world’s vast store, And may I be so favoured as to make Of joy’s too scanty sum a little more Let me not hurt, by any selfish deed Or thoughtless word, the heart of foe or friend; Nor would I pass, unseeing, worthy need, Or sin by silence when I should defend. However meagre be my worldly wealth, Let me give something that shall aid my kind— A word of courage, or a thought of health, Dropped as I pass for troubled hearts to find. Let me to-night look back across the span ’Twixt dawn and dark, and to my conscience say— Because of some good act to beast or man— “The world is better that I lived to-day.”
THE VOICES OF THE PEOPLE
Oh! I hear the people calling through the day time and the night time, They are calling, they are crying for the coming of the right time. It behooves you, men and women, it behooves you to be heeding, For there lurks a note of menace underneath their plaintive pleading.
Let the land usurpers listen, let the greedy-hearted ponder, On the meaning of the murmur, rising here and swelling yonder, Swelling louder, waxing stronger, like a storm-fed stream that courses Through the valleys, down abysses, growing, gaining with new forces.
Day by day the river widens, that great river of opinion, And its torrent beats and plunges at the base of greed’s dominion. Though you dam it by oppression and fling golden bridges o’er it, Yet the day and hour advances when in fright you’ll flee before it.
Yes, I hear the people calling, through the night time and the day time, Wretched toilers in life’s autumn, weary young ones in life’s May time— They are crying, they are calling for their share of work and pleasure; You are heaping high your coffers while you give them scanty measure,— You have stolen God’s wide acres, just to glut your swollen purses— Oh! restore them to His children ere their pleading turns to curses.
THE WORLD GROWS BETTER
Oh! the earth is full of sinning And of trouble and of woe, But the devil makes an inning Every time we say it’s so. And the way to set him scowling, And to put him back a pace, Is to stop this stupid growling, And to look things in the face.
If you glance at history’s pages, In all lands and eras known, You will find the buried ages Far more wicked than our own. As you scan each word and letter. You will realise it more, That the world to-day is better Than it ever was before.
There is much that needs amending In the present time, no doubt; There is right that needs amending, There is wrong needs crushing out. And we hear the groans and curses Of the poor who starve and die, While the men with swollen purses In the place of hearts go by.