Chapter 4
Stand not aloof nor apart, Plunge in the thick of the fight; There, in the street and the mart, That is the place to do right. Not in some cloister or cave, Not in some kingdom above, Here, on this side of the grave, Here, should we labour and love.
UNCONQUERED
However skilled and strong art thou, my foe, However fierce is thy relentless hate, Though firm thy hand, and strong thy aim, and straight Thy poisoned arrow leaves the bended bow,
To pierce the target of my heart, ah! know I am the master yet of my own fate. Thou canst not rob me of my best estate, Though fortune, fame, and friends, yea, love shall go.
Not to the dust shall my true self be hurled, Nor shall I meet thy worst assaults dismayed; When all things in the balance are well weighed, There is but one great danger in the world— _Thou canst not force my soul to wish thee ill_, That is the only evil that can kill.
ALL THAT LOVE ASKS
“All that I ask,” says Love, “is just to stand And gaze, unchided, deep in thy dear eyes; For in their depths lies largest Paradise. Yet, if perchance one pressure of thy hand Be granted me, then joy I thought complete Were still more sweet.
“All that I ask,” says Love, “all that I ask, Is just thy hand-clasp. Could I brush thy cheek As zephyrs brush a rose leaf, words are weak To tell the bliss in which my soul would bask. There is no language but would desecrate A joy so great.
“All that I ask, is just one tender touch Of that soft cheek. Thy pulsing palm in mine, Thy dark eyes lifted in a trust divine, And those curled lips that tempt me overmuch Turned where I may not seize the supreme bliss Of one mad kiss.
“All that I ask,” says Love, “of life, of death, Or of high heaven itself, is just to stand, Glance melting into glance, hand twined in hand, The while I drink the nectar of thy breath In one sweet kiss, but one, of all thy store, I ask no more.”
“All that I ask”—nay, self-deceiving Love, Reverse thy phrase, so thus the words may fall, In place of “all I ask,” say, “I ask all,” All that pertains to earth or soars above, All that thou wert, art, will be, body, soul, Love asks the whole,
“DOES IT PAY?”
If one poor burdened toiler o’er life’s road, Who meets us by the way, Goes on less conscious of his galling load, Then life, indeed, does pay.
If we can show one troubled heart the gain That lies alway in loss, Why, then, we too are paid for all the pain Of bearing life’s hard cross.
If some despondent soul to hope is stirred, Some sad lip made to smile, By any act of ours, or any word, Then, life has been worth while.
SESTINA
I wandered o’er the vast green plains of youth, And searched for Pleasure. On a distant height Fame’s silhouette stood sharp against the skies. Beyond vast crowds that thronged a broad highway I caught the glimmer of a golden goal, While from a blooming bower smiled siren Love.
Straight gazing in her eyes, I laughed at Love With all the haughty insolence of youth, As past her bower I strode to seek my goal. “Now will I climb to glory’s dizzy height,” I said, “for there above the common way Doth pleasure dwell companioned by the skies.”
But when I reached that summit near the skies, So far from man I seemed, so far from Love— “Not here,” I cried, “doth Pleasure find her way.” Seen from the distant borderland of youth, Fame smiles upon us from her sun-kissed height, But frowns in shadows when we reach the goal.
Then were mine eyes fixed on that glittering goal, Dear to all sense—sunk souls beneath the skies. Gold tempts the artist from the lofty height, Gold lures the maiden from the arms of Love, Gold buys the fresh, ingenuous heart of youth, “And gold,” I said, “will show me Pleasure’s way.”
But ah! the soil and discord of that way, Where savage hordes rushed headlong to the goal, Dead to the best impulses of their youth, Blind to the azure beauty of the skies; Dulled to the voice of conscience and of love, They wandered far from Truth’s eternal height.
Then Truth spoke to me from that noble height, Saying, “Thou didst pass Pleasure on the way, She with the yearning eyes so full of Love, Whom thou disdained to seek for glory’s goal. Two blending paths beneath God’s arching skies Lead straight to Pleasure. Ah! blind heart of youth, Not up fame’s height, not toward the base god’s goal, Doth Pleasure make her way, but ’neath calm skies Where Duty walks with Love in endless youth.”
THE OPTIMIST
The fields were bleak and sodden. Not a wing Or note enlivened the depressing wood; A soiled and sullen, stubborn snowdrift stood Beside the roadway. Winds came muttering Of storms to be, and brought the chilly sting Of icebergs in their breath. Stalled cattle mooed Forth plaintive pleadings for the earth’s green food. No gleam, no hint of hope in anything.
The sky was blank and ashen, like the face Of some poor wretch who drains life’s cup too fast Yet, swaying to and fro, as if to fling About chilled Nature its lithe arms of grace, Smiling with promise in the wintry blast, The optimistic Willow spoke of spring.
THE PESSIMIST
The pessimistic locust, last to leaf, Though all the world is glad, still talks of grief.
AN INSPIRATION
However the battle is ended, Though proudly the victor comes With fluttering flags and prancing nags And echoing roll of drums, Still truth proclaims this motto In letters of living light,— No question is ever settled Until it is settled right.
Though the heel of the strong oppressor May grind the weak in the dust; And the voices of fame with one acclaim May call him great and just, Let those who applaud take warning. And keep this motto in sight,— No question is ever settled Until it is settled right.
Let those who have failed take courage; Though the enemy seems to have won, Though his ranks are strong, if he be in the wrong The battle is not yet done; For, sure as the morning follows The darkest hour of the night, No question is ever settled Until it is settled right.
O man bowed down with labour! O woman young, yet old! O heart oppressed in the toiler’s breast And crushed by the power of gold Keep on with your weary battle Against triumphant might; No question is ever settled Until it is settled right.
LIFE’S HARMONIES
Let no man pray that he know not sorrow, Let no soul ask to be free from pain, For the gall of to-day is the sweet of to-morrow, And the moment’s loss is the lifetime’s gain.
Through want of a thing does its worth redouble, Through hunger’s pangs does the feast content, And only the heart that has harboured trouble Can fully rejoice when joy is sent.
Let no man shrink from the bitter tonics Of grief, and yearning, and need, and strife, For the rarest chords in the soul’s harmonics Are found in the minor strains of life.
PREPARATION
We must not force events, but rather make The heart soil ready for their coming, as The earth spreads carpets for the feet of Spring, Or, with the strengthening tonic of the frost, Prepares for winter. Should a July noon Burst suddenly upon a frozen world Small joy would follow, even though that world Were longing for the Summer. Should the sting Of sharp December pierce the heart of June, What death and devastation would ensue! All things are planned. The most majestic sphere That whirls through space is governed and controlled By supreme law, as is the blade of grass Which through the bursting bosom of the earth Creeps up to kiss the light. Poor, puny man Alone doth strive and battle with the Force Which rules all lives and worlds, and he alone Demands effect before producing cause. How vain the hope! We cannot harvest joy Until we sow the seed, and God alone Knows when that seed has ripened. Oft we stand And watch the ground with anxious, brooding eyes, Complaining of the slow, unfruitful yield, Not knowing that the shadow of ourselves Keeps off the sunlight and delays result. Sometimes our fierce impatience of desire Doth like a sultry May force tender shoots Of half-formed pleasures and unshaped events To ripen prematurely, and we reap But disappointment; or we rot the germs With briny tears ere they have time to grow. While stars are born and mighty planets die And hissing comets scorch the brow of space, The Universe keeps its eternal calm. Through patient preparation, year on year, The earth endures the travail of the Spring And Winter’s desolation. So our souls In grand submission to a higher law Should move serene through all the ills of life Believing them masked joys.
GETHSEMANE
In golden youth when seems the earth A Summer-land of singing mirth, When souls are glad and hearts are light, And not a shadow lurks in sight, We do not know it, but there lies Somewhere veiled under evening skies A garden which we all must see— The garden of Gethsemane.
With joyous steps we go our ways, Love lends a halo to our days; Light sorrows sail like clouds afar, We laugh, and say how strong we are. We hurry on; and hurrying, go Close to the borderland of woe That waits for you, and waits for me— Forever waits Gethsemane.
Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams, Bridged over by our broken dreams; Behind the misty caps of years, Beyond the great salt fount of tears, The garden lies. Strive as you may, You cannot miss it in your way; All paths that have been, or shall be, Pass somewhere through Gethsemane.
All those who journey, soon or late, Must pass within the garden’s gate; Must kneel alone in darkness there, And battle with some fierce despair. God pity those who cannot say, “Not mine but Thine”; who only pray “Let this cup pass,” and cannot see The _purpose_ in Gethsemane.
GOD’S MEASURE
God measures souls by their capacity For entertaining his best Angel, Love. Who loveth most is nearest kin to God, Who is all Love, or Nothing.
He who sits And looks out on the palpitating world, And feels his heart swell in him large enough To hold all men within it, he is near His great Creator’s standard, though he dwells Outside the pale of churches, and knows not A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line Of Scripture even. What God wants of us Is that outreaching bigness that ignores All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds, And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.
NOBLESSE OBLIGE
I hold it the duty of one who is gifted And specially dowered in all men’s sight, To know no rest till his life is lifted Fully up to his great gifts’ height.
He must mould the man into rare completeness, For gems are set only in gold refined. He must fashion his thoughts into perfect sweetness. And cast out folly and pride from his mind.
For he who drinks from a god’s gold fountain Of art or music or rhythmic song Must sift from his soul the chaff of malice, And weed from his heart the roots of wrong.
Great gifts should be worn, like a crown befitting, And not like gems in a beggar’s hands! And the toil must be constant and unremitting Which lifts up the king to the crown’s demands.
THROUGH TEARS
An artist toiled over his pictures; He laboured by night and by day, He struggled for glory and honour But the world, it had nothing to say. His walls were ablaze with the splendours We see in the beautiful skies; But the world beheld only the colours That were made out of chemical dyes.
Time sped. And he lived, loved, and suffered; He passed through the valley of grief. Again he toiled over his canvas, Since in labour alone was relief. It showed not the splendour of colours Of those of his earlier years; But the world? the world bowed down before it Because it was painted with tears.
A poet was gifted with genius, And he sang, and he sang all the days. He wrote for the praise of the people, But the people accorded no praise. Oh! his songs were as blithe as the morning, As sweet as the music of birds; But the world had no homage to offer, Because they were nothing but words.
Time sped. And the poet through sorrow Became like his suffering kind. Again he toiled over his poems To lighten the grief of his mind. They were not so flowing and rhythmic As those of his earlier years; But the world? lo! it offered its homage, Because they were written in tears.
So ever the price must be given By those seeking glory in art; So ever the world is repaying The grief-stricken, suffering heart. The happy must ever be humble; Ambition must wait for the years Ere hoping to win the approval Of a world that looks on through its tears.
WHAT WE NEED
What does our country need? No armies standing With sabres gleaming ready for the fight; Not increased navies, skilful and commanding, To bound the waters with an iron might; Not haughty men with glutted purses trying To purchase souls, and keep the power of place; Not jewelled dolls with one another vying For palms of beauty, elegance, and grace.
But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly, With that rare meekness, born of gentleness; Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy, The women whom all little children bless; Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other, With finest scorn for all things low and mean; Women who hold the names of wife and mother Far nobler than the title of a queen.
Oh! these are they who mould the men of story, These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth, Who, worn and weary, ask no greater glory Than making some young soul the home of truth; Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowing The seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin, And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growing And weed out tares which crafty hands cast in;
Women who do not hold the gift of beauty As some rare treasure to be bought and sold. But guard it as a precious aid to duty— The outer framing of the inner gold; Women who, low above their cradles bending, Let flattery’s voice go by, and give no heed, While their pure prayers like incense are ascending _These_ are our country’s pride, our country’s need.
PLEA TO SCIENCE
O Science, reaching backward through the distance, Most earnest child of God, Exposing all the secrets of existence, With thy divining rod, I bid thee speed up to the heights supernal, Clear thinker, ne’er sufficed; Go seek and bind the laws and truths eternal, But leave me Christ.
Upon the vanity of pious sages Let in the light of day; Break down the superstitions of all ages— Thrust bigotry away; Stride on, and bid all stubborn foes defiance, Let Truth and Reason reign: But I beseech thee, O Immortal Science, Let Christ remain.
What canst thou give to help me bear my crosses, In place of Him, my Lord? And what to recompense for all my losses, And bring me sweet reward? _Thou_ couldst not with thy clear, cold eyes of reason, Thou couldst not comfort me Like One who passed through that tear-blotted season In sad Gethsemane!
Through all the weary, wearing hour of sorrow, What word that thou hast said Would make me strong to wait for some to-morrow When I should find my dead? When I am weak, and desolate, and lonely— And prone to follow wrong? Not thou, O Science—Christ, my Saviour, only Can make me strong.
Thou art so cold, so lofty, and so distant, Though great my need might be, No prayer, however constant and persistent, Could bring thee down to me. Christ stands so near, to help me through each hour, To guide me day by day O Science, sweeping all before thy power— Leave Christ, I pray!
RESPITE
The mighty conflict, which we call existence, Doth wear upon the body and the soul, Our vital forces wasted in resistance, So much there is to conquer and control.
The rock which meets the billows with defiance, Undaunted and unshaken day by day, In spite of its unyielding self-reliance, Is by the warfare surely worn away.
And there are depths and heights of strong emotions That surge at times within the human breast, More fierce than all the tides of all the oceans Which sweep on ever in divine unrest.
I sometimes think the rock worn with adventures, And sad with thoughts of conflicts yet to be, Must envy the frail reed which no one censures, When, overcome, ’tis swallowed by the sea.
This life is all resistance and repression. Dear God, if in that other world unseen, Not rest we find, but new life and progression, Grant us a respite in the grave between.
SONG
O praise me not with your lips, dear one! Though your tender words I prize. But dearer by far is the soulful gaze Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes Your tender, loving eyes.
O chide me not with your lips, dear one! Though I cause your bosom sighs. You can make repentance deeper far By your sad, reproving eyes, Your sorrowful, troubled eyes.
Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds; Above, in the beaming skies, The constant stars say never a word, But only smile with their eyes— Smile on with their lustrous eyes.
Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one; On the winged wind speech flies. But I read the truth of your noble heart In your soulful, speaking eyes— In your deep and beautiful eyes.
MY SHIPS
If all the ships I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well! the harbour could not hold So many sails as there would be If all my ships came in from sea.
If half my ships came home from sea, And brought their precious freight to me, Ah, well! I should have wealth as great As any king who sits in state— So rich the treasures that would be In half my ships now out at sea.
If just one ship I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown For if the others all went down, Still rich and proud and glad I’d be If that one ship came back to me.
If that one ship went down at sea, And all the others came to me, Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, With glory, honours, riches, gold, The poorest soul on earth I’d be If that one ship came not to me.
O skies, be calm! O winds, blow free— Blow all my ships safe home to me! But if thou sendest some a-wrack, To never more come sailing back, Send any—all that skim the sea, But bring my love-ship home to me.
HER LOVE
The sands upon the ocean side That change about with every tide, And never true to one abide, A woman’s love I liken to.
The summer zephyrs, light and vain, That sing the same alluring strain To every grass blade on the plain— A woman’s love is nothing more.
The sunshine of an April day That comes to warm you with its ray, But while you smile has flown away— A woman’s love is like to this.
God made poor woman with no heart, But gave her skill, and tact, and art, And so she lives, and plays her part. We must not blame, but pity her.
She leans to man—but just to hear The praise he whispers in her ear; Herself, not him, she holdeth dear— O fool! to be deceived by her.
To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts, Then throws them lightly by and laughs, Too weak to understand their pain.
As changeful as the winds that blow From every region to and fro, Devoid of heart, she cannot know The suffering of a human heart.
IF
Dear love, if you and I could sail away, With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled, Across the waters of some unknown bay, And find some island far from all the world;
If we could dwell there, evermore alone, While unrecorded years slip by apace, Forgetting and forgotten and unknown By aught save native song-birds of the place;
If Winter never visited that land, And Summer’s lap spilled o’er with fruits and flowers, And tropic trees cast shade on every hand, And twinèd boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers;
If from the fashions of the world set free, And hid away from all its jealous strife, I lived alone for you, and you for me— Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.
But since we dwell here in the crowded way, Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold, And all is commonplace and work-a-day As soon as love’s young honeymoon grows old;
Since fashion rules and nature yields to art, And life is hurt by daily jar and fret, ’Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart And go our ways alone, love, and forget.
LOVE’S BURIAL
Let us clear a little space, And make Love a burial-place.
He is dead, dear, as you see, And he wearies you and me.
Growing heavier, day by day, Let us bury him, I say.
Wings of dead white butterflies, These shall shroud him, as he lies
In his casket rich and rare, Made of finest maiden-hair.
With the pollen of the rose Let us his white eyelids close.
Put the rose thorn in his hand, Shorn of leaves—you understand.
Let some holy water fall On his dead face, tears of gall—
As we kneel to him and say, “Dreams to dreams,” and turn away.
Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust, They will lower him to the dust.
Let us part here with a kiss— You go that way, I go this.
Since we buried Love to-day We will walk a separate way.
“LOVE IS ENOUGH”
Love is enough. Let us not ask for gold. Wealth breeds false aims, and pride, and selfishness; In those serene, Arcadian days of old Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress. The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia’s height Lived only for dear love and love’s delight. Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we care for fame? Ambition is a most unpleasant guest: It lures us with the glory of a name Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest. Let us stay here in this secluded place Made beautiful by love’s endearing grace! Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we strive for power? It brings men only envy and distrust. The poor world’s homage pleases but an hour, And earthly honours vanish in the dust. The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate; Let me be loved, and let who will be great. Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we ask for more? What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men? What better boon of all their precious store Than our fond hearts that love and love again? Old love may die; new love is just as sweet; And life is fair and all the world complete: Love is enough!
LIFE IS A PRIVILEGE