Chapter 3

‘Listen,’ they said, And straightway was there silence on the earth, For men were dumb with wonder and surprise. ‘Listen, O mighty masters of the world, And hear the edict of all womankind: Since Christ His new commandment gave to men, _Love one another_, full two thousand years Have passed away, yet earth is red with blood. The strong male rulers of the world proclaim Their weakness, when we ask that war shall cease. Now will the poor weak women of the world Proclaim their strength, and say that war shall end. Hear, then, our edict: Never from this day Will any woman on the crust of earth Mother a warrior. We have sworn the oath And will go barren to the waiting tomb Rather than breed strong sons at war’s behest, Or bring fair daughters into life, to bear The pains of travail, for no end but war. Ay! let the race die out for lack of babes Better a dying race than endless wars! Better a silent world than noise of guns And clash of armies.

‘Long we asked for peace, And oft you promised—but to fight again. At last you told us, war must ever be While men existed, laughing at our plea For the disarmament of all mankind. Then in our hearts flamed such a mad desire For peace on earth, as lights the world at times With some great conflagration; and it spread From distant land to land, from sea to sea, Until all women thought as with one mind And spoke as with one voice; and now behold! The great Crusading Syndicate of Peace, Filling all space with one supreme resolve. Give us, O men, your word that war shall end: Disarm the world, and we will give you sons— Sons to construct, and daughters to adorn A beautiful new earth, where there shall be Fewer and finer people, opulence And opportunity and peace for all. Until you promise peace no shrill birth-cry Shall sound again upon the aging earth. We wait your answer.’

And the world was still While men considered.

THE WORLD-CHILD

At times I am the mother of the world; And mine seem all its sorrows, and its fears. That rose, which in each mother-heart is curled, The rose of pity, opens with my tears, And, waking in the night, I lie and hark To the lone sobbing, and the wild alarms, Of my World-child, a wailing in the dark: The child I fain would shelter in my arms. I call to it (as from another room A mother calls, what time she cannot go): ‘Sleep well, dear world; Love hides behind this gloom. There is no need for wakefulness or woe, The long, long night is almost past and gone, The day is near.’ And yet the world weeps on.

Again I follow it, throughout the day. With anxious eyes I see it trip and fall, And hurt itself in many a foolish way: Childlike, unheeding warning word or call. I see it grasp, and grasping, break the toys It cried to own, then toss them on the floor And, breathless, hurry after fancied joys That cease to please, when added to its store. I see the lacerations on its hands, Made by forbidden tools; but when it weeps, I also weep, as one who understands; And having been a child, the memory keeps. Ah, my poor world, however wrong thy part, Still is there pity in my mother-heart.

THE HEIGHTS

I cried, ‘Dear Angel, lead me to the heights, And spur me to the top.’ The Angel answered, ‘Stop And set thy house in order; make it fair For absent ones who may be speeding there. Then will we talk of heights.’

I put my house in order. ‘Now lead on!’ The Angel said, ‘Not yet; Thy garden is beset By thorns and tares; go weed it, so all those Who come to gaze may find the unvexed rose; Then will we journey on.’

I weeded well my garden. ‘All is done.’ The Angel shook his head. ‘A beggar stands,’ he said, ‘Outside thy gates; till thou hast given heed And soothed his sorrow, and supplied his need, Say not that all is done.’

The beggar left me singing. ‘Now at last— At last the path is clear.’ ‘Nay, there is one draws near Who seeks, like thee, the difficult highway. He lacks thy courage; cheer him through the day Then will we cry, “At last!”’

I helped my weaker brother. ‘Now the heights; Oh, Guide me, Angel, guide!’ The Presence at my side, With radiant face, said, ‘Look, where are we now?’ And lo! we stood upon the mountain’s brow— The heights, the shining heights!

ON SEEING ‘THE HOUSE OF JULIA’ AT HERCULANEUM

Not great Vesuvius, in all his ire, Nor all the centuries, could hide your shame. There is the little window where you came, With eyes that woke the demon of desire, And lips like rose leaves, fashioned out of fire; And from the lava leaps the molten flame Of your old sins. The walls cry out your name— Your face seems rising from the funeral pyre.

There must have dwelt, within your fated town, Full many a virtuous dame, and noble wife Who made your beauty seem as star to sun; How strange the centuries have handed down Your name, fair Julia, of immoral life, And left the others to oblivion.

A PRAYER

Master of sweet and loving lore, Give us the open mind To know religion means no more, No less, than being kind.

Give us the comprehensive sight That sees another’s need; And let our aim to set things right Prove God inspired our creed.

Give us the soul to know our kin That dwell in flock and herd, The voice to fight man’s shameful sin Against the beast and bird.

Give us a heart with love so fraught For all created things, That even our unspoken thought Bears healing on its wings.

Give us religion that will cope With life’s colossal woes, And turn a radiant face of hope On troops of pigmy foes.

Give us the mastery of our fate In thoughts so warm and white, They stamp upon the brows of hate Love’s glorious seal of light.

Give us the strong, courageous faith That makes of pain a friend, And calls the secret word of death ‘Beginning,’ and not ‘end.’

WHAT IS RIGHT LIVING?

What is right living? Just to do your best When worst seems easier. To bear the ills Of daily life with patient cheerfulness Nor waste dear time recounting them. To talk Of hopeful things when doubt is in the air. To count your blessings often, giving thanks, And to accept your sorrows silently, Nor question why you suffer. To accept The whole of life as one perfected plan, And welcome each event as part of it. To work, and love your work; to trust, to pray For larger usefulness and clearer sight. This is right living, pleasing in God’s eyes, Though you be heathen, heretic or Jew.

JUSTICE

However inexplicable may seem Event and circumstance upon this earth, Though favours fall on those whom none esteem, And insult and indifference greet worth; Though poverty repays the life of toil, And riches spring where idle feet have trod, And storms lay waste the patiently tilled soil— Yet Justice sways the universe of God.

As undisturbed the stately stars remain Beyond the glare of day’s obscuring light, So Justice dwells, though mortal eyes in vain Seek it persistently by reason’s sight. But when, once freed, the illumined soul looks out. Its cry will be, ‘O God, how could I doubt!’

TIME’S GAZE

Time looked me in the eyes while passing by The milestone of the year. That piercing gaze Was both an accusation and reproach. No speech was needed. In a sorrowing look More meaning lies than in complaining words, And silence hurts as keenly as reproof.

Oh, opulent, kind giver of rich hours, How have I used thy benefits! As babes Unstring a necklace, laughing at the sound Of priceless jewels dropping one by one, So have I laughed while precious moments rolled Into the hidden corners of the past. And I have let large opportunities For high endeavour move unheeded by, While little joys and cares absorbed my strength.

And yet, dear Time, set to my credit this: _Not one white hour have I made black with hate_, _Nor wished one living creature aught but good_.

Be patient with me. Though the sun slants west, The day has not yet finished, and I feel Necessity for action and resolve Bear in upon my consciousness. I know The earth’s eternal need of earnest souls, And the great hunger of the world for Love. I know the goal to high achievement lies Through the dull pathway of self-conquest first; And on the stairs of little duties done We climb to joys that stand thy test. O Time, Be patient with me, and another day, Perchance, in passing by, thine eyes may smile.

THE WORKER AND THE WORK

In what I do I note the marring flaw, The imperfections of the work I see; Nor am I one who rather _do_ than _be_, Since its reversal is Creation’s law.

Nay, since there lies a better and a worse, A lesser and a larger, in men’s view, I would be better than the thing I do, As God is greater than His universe.

He shaped Himself before He shaped one world: A million eons, toiling day and night, He built Himself to majesty and might, Before the planets into space were hurled.

And when Creation’s early work was done, What crude beginnings out of chaos came— A formless nebula, a wavering flame, An errant comet, a voracious sun.

And, still unable to perfect His plan, What awful creatures at His touch found birth— Those protoplasmic monsters of the earth, That owned the world before He fashioned Man.

And now, behold the poor unfinished state Of this, His latest masterpiece! Then why, Seeing the flaws in my own work, should I Be troubled that no voice proclaims it great?

Before me lie the cycling rounds of years; With this small earth will die the thing I do: The thing I am, goes journeying onward through A million lives, upon a million spheres.

My work I build, as best I can and may, Knowing all mortal effort ends in dust. I build myself, not as I may, but must, Knowing, or good, or ill, that self must stay.

Along the ages, out, and on, afar, Its journey leads, and must perforce be made. Likewise its choice, with things of shame and shade, Or up the path of light, from star to star.

When all these solar systems shall disperse, Perchance this labour, and this self-control, May find reward; and my completed soul Will fling in space, a little universe.

ART THOU ALIVE?

Art thou alive? Nay, not too soon reply, Tho’ hand, and foot, and lip, and ear, and eye, Respond, and do thy bidding yet may be Grim death has done his direst work with thee. Life, as God gives it, is a thing apart From active body and from beating heart. It is the vital spark, the unseen fire, That moves the mind to reason and aspire; It is the force that bids emotion roll, In mighty billows from the surging soul.

It is the light that grows from hour to hour, And floods the brain with consciousness of power; It is the spirit dominating all, And reaching God with its imperious call, Until the shining glory of His face Illuminates each sorrowful, dark place;

It is the truth that sets the bondsman free, Knowing he will be what he wills to be. With its unburied dead the earth is sad. Art thou alive? proclaim it and be glad. Perchance the dead may hear thee and arise, Knowing they live, and _here_ is Paradise.

TO-DAY

I love this age of energy and force, Expectantly I greet each pregnant hour; Emerging from the all-creative source, Supreme with promise, imminent with power. The strident whistle and the clanging bell, The noise of gongs, the rush of motored things Are but the prophet voices which foretell A time when thought may use unfettered wings.

Too long the drudgery of earth has been A barrier ’twixt man and his own mind. Remove the stone, and lo! the Christ within; For He is there, and who so seeks shall find. The Great Inventor is the Modern Priest. He paves the pathway to a higher goal. Once from the grind of endless toil released Man will explore the kingdom of his soul.

And all this restless rush, this strain and strife, This noise and glare is but the fanfarade That ushers in the more majestic life Where faith shall walk with science, unafraid. I feel the strong vibrations of the earth, I sense the coming of an hour sublime, And bless the star that watched above my birth And let me live in this important time.

THE LADDER

Unto each mortal who comes to earth A ladder is given by God, at birth, And up this ladder the soul must go, Step by step, from the valley below; Step by step, to the centre of space, On this ladder of lives, to the Starting Place.

In time departed (which yet endures) I shaped my ladder, and you shaped yours. Whatever they are—they are what we made: A ladder of light, or a ladder of shade, A ladder of love, or a hateful thing, A ladder of strength, or a wavering string. A ladder of gold, or a ladder of straw, Each is the ladder of righteous law.

We flung them away at the call of death, We took them again with the next life breath. For a keeper stands by the great birth gates; As each soul passes, its ladder waits. Though mine be narrow, and yours be broad, On my ladder alone can I climb to God. On your ladder alone can your feet ascend, For none may borrow, and none may lend.

If toil and trouble and pain are found, Twisted and corded, to form each round, If rusted iron or mouldering wood Is the fragile frame, you must make it good. You must build it over and fashion it strong, Though the task be hard as your life is long; For up this ladder the pathway leads To earthly pleasures and spirit needs; And all that may come in another way Shall be but illusion, and will not stay.

In useless effort, then, waste no time; Rebuild your ladder, and climb and climb.

WHO IS A CHRISTIAN?

Who is a Christian in this Christian land Of many churches and of lofty spires? Not he who sits in soft upholstered pews Bought by the profits of unholy greed, And looks devotion, while he thinks of gain. Not he who sends petitions from the lips That lie to-morrow in the street and mart. Not he who fattens on another’s toil, And flings his unearned riches to the poor, Or aids the heathen with a lessened wage, And builds cathedrals with an increased rent.

Christ, with Thy great, sweet, simple creed of love, How must Thou weary of Earth’s ‘Christian’ clans, Who preach salvation through Thy saving blood While planning slaughter of their fellow men. Who is a Christian? It is one whose life Is built on love, on kindness and on faith; Who holds his brother as his other self; Who toils for justice, equity and PEACE, And hides no aim or purpose in his heart That will not chord with universal good.

Though he be pagan, heretic or Jew, That man is Christian and beloved of Christ.

THE GOAL

All your wonderful inventions, All your houses vast and tall, All your great gun-fronted vessels, Every fort and every wall, With the passing of the ages, They shall pass and they shall fall.

As you sit among the idols That your avarice gave birth, As you count the hoarded treasures That you think of priceless worth, Time is digging tombs to hide them In the bosom of the earth.

There shall come a great convulsion Or a rushing tidal wave, Or a sound of mighty thunders From a subterranean cave, And a boasting world’s possessions Shall be buried in one grave.

From the Centuries of Silence We are bringing back again Buried vase and bust and column And the gods they worshipped then, In the strange unmentioned cities Built by prehistoric men.

Did they steal, and lie, and slaughter? Did they steep their souls in shame? Did they sell eternal virtues Just to win a passing fame? Did they give the gold of honour For the tinsel of a name?

We are hurrying all together Toward the silence and the night; There is nothing worth the seeking But the sun-kissed moral height— There is nothing worth the doing But the doing of the _right_.

THE SPUR

I asked the rock beside the road what joy existence lent. It answered, ‘For a million years my heart has been content.’

I asked the truffle-seeking swine, as rooting by he went, ‘What is the keynote of your life?’ He grunted out, ‘Content.’

I asked a slave, who toiled and sung, just what his singing meant. He plodded on his changeless way, and said, ‘I am content.’

I asked a plutocrat of greed, on what his thoughts were bent. He chinked the silver in his purse, and said, ‘I am content.’

I asked the mighty forest tree from whence its force was sent. Its thousand branches spoke as one, and said, ‘From discontent.’

I asked the message speeding on, by what great law was rent God’s secret from the waves of space. It said, ‘From discontent.’

I asked the marble, where the works of God and man were blent, What brought the statue from the block. It answered, ‘Discontent.’

I asked an Angel, looking down on earth with gaze intent, How man should rise to larger growth. Quoth he, ‘Through discontent.’

AWAKENED!

Slowly the People waken; they have been, Like weary soldiers, sleeping in their tents, While traitors tiptoed through the silent camp Intent on plunder. Suddenly a sound— A careless movement of too bold a thief— Starts one dull sleeper; then another stirs, A third cries out a warning, and at last The people are awake! Oh, when as one The many rise, united and alert, With Justice for their motto, they reflect The mighty force of God’s Omnipotence. And nothing stands before them. Lusty Greed, Tyrannical Corruption long in power, And smirking Cant (whose right hand robs and slays So that the left may dower Church and School), Monopoly, whose mandate took from Toil The Mother Earth, that Idleness might loll And breed the Monster of Colossal Wealth— All these must fall before the gathering Force Of public indignation. That old strife Which marks the progress of each century, The war of Right with Might, is on once more, And shame to him who does not take his stand.

This is the weightiest moment of all time, And on the issues of the present hour A nation’s honour and a country’s peace, A People’s future, ay, a World’s, depends.

Until the vital questions of the day Are solved and settled, and the spendthrift thieves Who rob the coffers of the saving poor Are led from fashion’s feasts to prison fare, And taught the saving grace of honest work— Till Labour claims the privilege of toil And toil the proceeds of its labour shares— Let no man sleep, let no man dare to sleep!

SHADOWS

I am sorry in the gladness Of the joys that crown my days, For the souls that sit in sadness Or walk uninviting ways.

On the radiance of my labour That a loving fate bestowed, Falls the shadow of my neighbour, Crushed beneath a thankless load.

As the canticle of pleasure From my lovelit altar rolls, There is one discordant measure, As I think of homeless souls.

And I know that grim old story, Preached from pulpits, is not so, For no God could sit in glory And see sinners writhe below.

In that great eternal Centre Where all human life has birth, Boundless love and pity enter And flow downward to the earth.

And all souls in sin or sorrow Are but passing through the night, And I know on some to-morrow God will love them into light.

THE NEW COMMANDMENT

‘_Let go the Cross_’—GERTRUDE RUNSHON.

I heard a strange voice in the distance calling As from a star an echo might be falling.

It spoke four syllables, concise and brief, Charged with a God-sent message of relief:

_Let go the cross_! Oh, you who cling to sorrow, Hark to the new command and comfort borrow.

Even as the Master left His cross below And rose to Paradise, let go, let go.

Forget your wrongs, your troubles and your losses, For with the tools of thought we build our crosses.

Forget your griefs, all grudges and all fear And enter Paradise—its gates are near.

Heaven is a realm by loving souls created, And hell was fashioned by the hearts that hated.

Love, hope and trust; believe all joys are yours, Life pays the soul whose confidence endures,

The blows of adverse fate, by larger pleasures, As after storms the soil yields fuller measures.

Let go the cross; roll self—the stone—away And dwell with Love in Paradise to-day.

SUMMER DREAMS

When the Summer sun is shining, And the green things push and grow, Oft my heart runs over measure, With its flowing fount of pleasure, As I feel the sea winds blow; Ah, then life is good, I know.

And I think of sweet birds building, And of children fair and free; And of glowing sun-kissed meadows, And of tender twilight shadows, And of boats upon the sea. Oh, then life seems good to me!

Then unbidden and unwanted, Come the darker, sadder sights; City shop and stifling alley, Where misfortune’s children rally; And the hot crime-breeding nights, And the dearth of God’s delights.

And I think of narrow prisons Where unhappy songbirds dwell, And of cruel pens and cages Where some captured wild thing rages Like a madman in his cell, In the Zoo, the wild beasts’ hell.

And I long to lift the burden Of man’s selfishness and sin; And to open wide earth’s treasures Of God’s storehouse, full of pleasures, For my dumb and human kin, And to ask the whole world in.

THE BREAKING OF CHAINS

Between the ringing of bells and the musical clang of chimes I hear a sound like the breaking of chains, all through these Christmas times. For the thought of the world is waking out of a slumber deep and long, And the race is beginning to understand how Right can master Wrong.

And the eyes of the world are opening wide, and great are the truths they see; And the heart of the world is singing a song, and its burden is ‘Be free!’ Now the thought of the world and the wish of the world and the song of the world will make A force so strong that the fetters forged for a million years must break.

Fetters of superstitious fear have bound the race to creeds That hindered the upward march of man to the larger faith he needs. Fetters of greed and pride have made the race bow down to kings; But the pompous creed and the costly throne must yield to simpler things.

The thought of the world has climbed above old paths for centuries trod; And cloth and crown no longer mean the ‘vested power of God.’ The race no longer bends beneath the weight of Adam’s sin, But stands erect and knows itself the Maker’s first of kin.

And the need of the world and the wish of the world and the song of the world I hear, All through the clanging and clashing of bells, this Christmas time o’ the year; And I hear a sound like the breaking of chains, and it seems to say to me, In the voice of One who spoke of old, ‘The Truth shall make men free.’

DECEMBER