Chapter 2

She woke as one wakes from a deep And dreamless, yet exhausting, sleep.

A strange confusion filled her mind, And sorrows vague and undefined,

Like half-remembered faces pressed To memory’s window, in her breast,

Gazed at her with reproachful eyes. She felt a sudden, dazed surprise,

Commingled with a sense of dread, “I did but sleep—I am not dead,

“The potion and the purpose failed, And I still live,” she wildly wailed.

“Nay, thou art dead, rash suicide,” A sad voice spake: and at her side

She saw a weird and shadowy crowd With anguished lips, and shoulders bowed,

And orbs that seemed the wells of woe. She shrieked and veiled her eyes. “No, no!

“I am not dead! I ache with life. An earthly passion’s hopeless strife

“Still tortures me.” “Yet thou art dead,” The voice with sad insistence said.

“But love and sorrow and regret All die with death. _I_ feel them yet.”

“God bade thee live, and only He Can say when thou shalt cease to be.”

“But I was sin-sick, sad, alone— I thought by death I could atone,

“And died that Christ might show me how.” “Christ bore His burden, why not thou?”

“Oh! lead me to His holy feet And let my penance be complete.”

“What! thinkest thou to find that path— Thou who hast tempted Heaven’s wrath

“By thy rash deed? Nay, nay, not so, ’Tis but perfected spirits go

“To that supreme and final goal. A self-sought death delays the soul.

“With yonder shuddering, woeful throng Of suicides thy ways belong.

“Close to the earth a shadowy band, Unseen, but seeing all, they stand

“Until their natural time to die, As God intended, shall draw nigh.

“On earth, repentant, sick of sin, A ministering angel thou hadst been

“Whose patient toil and deeds divine Had rescued souls as sad as thine,

“Each deed a firm ascending stair To lead beyond thy great despair.

“But now it is thy mournful fate To linger here and meditate

“On thy dark past—to stand so near The earthly plane that thou canst hear

“Thy lover’s voice, while old desire Shall burn within thee like a fire,

“And grief shall root thee to the spot To find how soon thou art forgot.

“But since thou hast endured the woes That only fragile woman knows,

“And loved as only woman can, Thou shalt not suffer all that man

“Must suffer when he interferes With God’s great law. In death’s dim spheres

“That justice waits, which men refuse. Thy sex shall in some part excuse

“Thy desperate deed. When God shall send A second death to be thy friend,

“Thou need’st not fear a darker fate— Go forth with yonder throng, and wait.”

A SONG OF REPUBLICS

Fair Freedom’s ship, too long adrift— Of every wind the sport— Now rigged and manned, her course well planned, Sails proudly out of port; And fluttering gaily from the mast This motto is unfurled, Let all men heed its truth who read: “Republics rule the World!”

The universe is high as God! Good is the final goal; The world revolves and man evolves A purpose and a soul. No church can bind, no crown forbid Thought’s mighty upward course— Let kings give way before its sway, For God inspires its force.

The hero of a vanished age Was one who bathed in gore; Who best could fight was noblest knight In savage days of yore; Now warrior chiefs are out of date, The times have changed. To-day We call men great who arbitrate And keep war’s hounds at bay.

The world no longer looks to priest Or prince to know its needs; Earth’s human throng has grown too strong To rule with courts and creeds. We want no kings but kings of toil— No crowns but crowns of deeds; Not royal birth but sterling worth Must mark the man who leads.

Proud monarchies are out of step With modern thought to-day, For Brotherhood is understood, And thrones may pass away. Men dare to think. Concerted thought Contains more power than swords: The force that binds united minds Defeats mere savage hordes.

Man needs no arbitrary hand To keep him in control; He feels the power grow hour by hour Of his expanding soul: In God’s stupendous scheme of worlds He knows he has a place; He is no slave to cringe, and crave Some worthless monarch’s grace.

As ocean billows undermine The haughty shores each hour, Time’s sea has brought its waves of thought To crumble thrones of power; And one by one shall kingdoms fall Like leaves before the blast, As man with man combines to plan Republics formed to last.

Columbia baulked a tyrant king, And built upon a rock, In Freedom’s name, a shrine whose fame Outlived the century’s shock. Now France within our port has set Her symbol of re-birth; Her lifted hand tells sea and land Republics light the earth.

One mighty church for all the world Would make men far more kind; One government would bring content To many a restless mind. Sail on, fair ship of Freedom, sail The wide sea’s breadth and length. ’Till worlds unite to make the might Of “One Republic’s” strength.

MEMORIAL DAY—1892

The quiet graves of our country’s braves Through thirty Junes and Decembers Have solemnly lain under sun and rain, And yet the Nation remembers.

The marching of feet and the flags on the street Told once again this morning, In the voice of the drum how the day had come For those lowly beds’ adorning.

Then swiftly back on Time’s worn track His three decades seemed driven, And with startled eyes I saw arise, From graves by fancy riven,

The Gray and Blue in a grand review. Oh! vast were the hosts they numbered, As they wheeled and swayed in a dress parade O’er the graves where they long had slumbered.

The colours were not, as when they fought, Ranked one against the other, But a mingled hue of gray and blue, As brother marching with brother.

And a blue flower lay on each coat of gray, Like forget-me-nots on a boulder; And the gray moss lace in its Southern grace Was knotted on each blue shoulder.

The vision fled; but I think our dead, If they could come back with the living, Would clasp warm hands o’er hostile lands, Forgetting old wrongs and forgiving.

’Mong the blossoms of Spring that you gather and bring To graves that though lowly are royal, Let the blue flower prevail, though modest and pale, Since it speaks of the hue that was loyal.

But tie each bouquet with a ribbon of gray And lay it on memory’s altar, For the dead who fought for the cause they thought Was right, and who did not falter.

WHEN BABY SOULS SAIL OUT

When from our mortal vision Grown men and women go To sail strange fields Elysian And know what spirits know, I think of them as tourists, In some sun-gilded clime, ’Mong happy sights and dear delights We all shall find, in time.

But when a child goes yonder And leaves its mother here, Its little feet must wander, It seems to me, in fear. What paths of Eden beauty, What scenes of peace and rest, Can bring content to one who went Forth from a mother’s breast?

In palace gardens, lonely, A little child will roam And weep for pleasures only Found in its humble home. It is not won by splendour, Nor bought by costly toys; To hide from harm on mother’s arm Makes all its sum of joys.

It must be when the baby Goes journeying off alone, Some angel (Mary, may be) Adopts it for her own. Yet when a child is taken Whose mother stays below, With weeping eyes, through Paradise, I seem to see it go.

With troops of angels trying To drive away its fear, I seem to hear it crying, “I want my mamma here.” I do not court the fancy, It is not based on doubt, It is a thought that comes unsought When baby souls sail out.

TO ANOTHER WOMAN’S BABY

I list your prattle, baby boy, And hear your pattering feet With feelings more of pain than joy And thoughts of bitter-sweet.

While touching your soft hands in play Such passionate longings rise For my wee boy who strayed away So soon to Paradise.

You win me with your infant art; But when our play is o’er, The empty cradle in my heart Seems lonelier than before.

Sweet baby boy, you do not guess How oft mine eyes are dim, Or that my lingering caress Is sometimes meant for _him_.

DIAMONDS

The tears of fallen women turned to ice By man’s cold pity for repentant vice.

RUBIES

The crimson life-drops from a virgin heart Pierced to the core by Cupid’s fatal dart.

SAPPHIRES

Lost rays of light that wandered off alone And down through space were hurled From that great sapphire sun beyond our own Pale, puny little world.

TURQUOISE

A baby went to heaven while it slept, And, waking, missed its mother’s arms, and wept. Those angel tear-drops, falling earthward through God’s azure skies, into the turquoise grew.

REFORM

The time has come when men with hearts and brains Must rise and take the misdirected reins Of government; too long left in the hands Of aliens and of lackeys. He who stands And sees the mighty vehicle of State Hauled through the mire to some ignoble fate And makes not such bold protest as he can, Is no American,

A MINOR CHORD

I heard a strain of music in the street— A wandering waif of sound. And then straightway A nameless desolation filled the day. The great green earth that had been fair and sweet, Seemed but a tomb; the life I thought replete With joy, grew lonely for a vanished May. Forgotten sorrows resurrected lay Like bleaching skeletons about my feet.

Above me stretched the silent, suffering sky, Dumb with vast anguish for departed suns That brutal Time to nothingness has hurled. The daylight was as sad as smiles that lie Upon the wistful, unkissed mouths of nuns, And I stood prisoned in an awful world.

DEATH’S PROTEST

Why dost thou shrink from my approach, O Man? Why dost thou ever flee in fear, and cling To my false rival, Life? I do but bring Thee rest and calm. Then wherefore dost thou ban And curse me? Since the forming of God’s plan I have not hurt or harmed a mortal thing, I have bestowed sweet balm for every sting, And peace eternal for earth’s stormy span.

The wild mad prayers for comfort sent in vain To knock at the indifferent heart of Life, I, Death, have answered. Knowest thou not ’tis he, My cruel rival, who sends all thy pain And wears the soul out in unending strife? Why dost thou hold to him, then, spurning me?

SEPTEMBER

My life’s long radiant Summer halts at last, And lo! beside my path way I behold Pursuing Autumn glide: nor frost nor cold Has heralded her presence; but a vast Sweet calm that comes not till the year has passed Its fevered solstice, and a tinge of gold Subdues the vivid colouring of bold And passion-hued emotions. I will cast

My August days behind me with my May, Nor strive to drag them into Autumn’s place, Nor swear I hope when I do but remember. Now violet and rose have had their day, I’ll pluck the soberer asters with good grace And call September nothing but September.

WAIL OF AN OLD-TIMER

Each new invention doubles our worries an’ our troubles, These scientific fellows are spoilin’ of our land; With motor, wire, an’ cable, now’-days we’re scarcely able To walk or ride in peace o’ mind, an’ ’tisn’t safe to stand.

It fairly makes me crazy to see how tarnal lazy The risin’ generation grows—an’ science is to blame. With telephones for talkin’, an’ messengers for walkin’, Our young men sit an’ loaf an’ smoke, without a blush o’ shame.

An’ then they wer’n’t contented until some one invented A sort o’ jerky tape-line clock, to help on wasteful ways. An’ that infernal ticker spends money fur ’em quicker Than any neighbourhood o’ men in good old bygone days.

The risin’ generation is bent so on creation, Folks haven’t time to talk or sing or cry or even laugh. But if you take the notion to want some such emotion, They’ve got it all on tap fur you, right in the phonograph.

But now a crazy creature has introduced the feature Of artificial weather, I think we’re nearly through. For when we once go strainin’ to keep it dry or rainin’ To suit the general public, ’twill bust the world in two,

WAS, IS, AND YET-TO-BE

Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be Were chatting over a cup of tea.

In tarnished finery smelling of must, Was talked of people long turned to dust;

Of titles and honours and high estate, All forgotten or out of date;

Of wonderful feasts in the long ago, Of pride that perished with nothing to show.

“I loathe the present,” said Was, with a groan; “I live in pleasures that I _have_ known.”

The Yet-to-be, in a gown of gauze, Looked over the head of musty Was,

And gazed far off into misty space With a wrapt expression upon her face.

“Such wonderful pleasures are coming to me, Such glory, such honour,” said Yet-to-be.

“No one dreamed, in the vast Has-Been, Of such successes as I shall win.

“The past, the present—why, what are they? I live for the joy of a future day.”

Then practical Is, in a fresh print dress, Spoke up with a laugh, “I must confess

“I find to-day so pleasant,” she said, “I never look back, and seldom ahead.

“Whatever has been, is a finished sum; Whatever will be—why, let it come.

“To-day is mine. And so, you see, I have the past and the yet-to-be;

“For to-day is the future of yesterday, And the past of to-morrow. I live while I may,

“And I think the secret of pleasure is this. And this alone,” said practical Is.

MISTAKES

God sent us here to make mistakes, To strive, to fail, to re-begin, To taste the tempting fruit of sin, And find what bitter food it makes,

To miss the path, to go astray, To wander blindly in the night; But, searching, praying for the light, Until at last we find the way.

And looking back along the past, We know we needed all the strain Of fear and doubt and strife and pain To make us value peace, at last.

Who fails, finds later triumph sweet; Who stumbles once, walks then with care, And knows the place to cry “Beware” To other unaccustomed feet.

Through strife the slumbering soul awakes, We learn on error’s troubled route The truths we could not prize without The sorrow of our sad mistakes.

DUAL

You say that your nature is double; that life Seems more and more intricate, complex, and dual, Because in your bosom there wages the strife ’Twixt an angel of light and a beast that is cruel— An angel who whispers your spirit has wings, And a beast who would chain you to temporal things.

I listen with interest to all you have told, And now let me give you my view of your trouble: You are to be envied, not pitied; I hold _That every strong nature is always made double_. The beast has his purpose; he need not be slain: He should serve the good angel in harness and chain.

The body that never knows carnal desires, The heart that to passion is always a stranger, Is merely a furnace with unlighted fires; It sends forth no warmth while it threatens no danger. But who wants to shiver in cold safety there? _Touch flame to the fuel_! then watch it with care.

Those wild, fierce emotions that trouble your soul Are sparks from the great source of passion and power; Throne reason above them, and give it control, And turn into blessing this dangerous dower. By lightnings unguided destruction is hurled, But chained and directed they gladden the world.

THE ALL-CREATIVE SPARK

Pain can go guised as joy, dross pass for gold, Vulgarity can masquerade as wit, Or spite wear friendship’s garments; but I hold That passionate feeling has no counterfeit. Chief jewel from Jove’s crown ’twas sent men, lent For inspiration and for sacrament.

Jove never could have made the Universe Had he not glowed with passion’s sacred fire; Though man oft turns the blessing to a curse, And burns himself on his own funeral pyre, Though scarred the soul be where its light burns bright, Yet where it is not, neither is there might.

Yea, it was set in Jove’s resplendent crown When he created worlds; that done, why, hence, He cast the priceless, awful jewel down To be man’s punishment and recompense. And that is how he sees and hears our tears Unmoved and calm from the eternal spheres.

But sometimes, since he parted with all passion, In trifling mood, to pass the time away, He has created men in that same fashion, And many women (jesting as gods may), Who have no souls to be inspired or fired, Mere sport of idle gods who have grown tired.

And these poor puppets, gazing in the dark At their own shadows, think the world no higher; And when they see the all-creative spark In other souls, they straightway cry out, “Fire!” And shriek, and rave, till their dissent is spent, While listening gods laugh loud in merriment.

BE NOT CONTENT

Be not content—contentment means inaction; The growing soul aches on its upward quest; Satiety is twin to satisfaction; All great achievements spring from life’s unrest.

The tiny roots, deep in the dark mould hiding, Would never bless the earth with leaf and flower Were not an inborn restlessness abiding In seed and germ, to stir them with its power.

Were man contented with his lot forever, He had not sought strange seas with sails unfurled, And the vast wonder of our shores had never Dawned on the gaze of an admiring world.

Prize what is yours, but be not quite contented. There is a healthful restlessness of soul By which a mighty purpose is augmented In urging men to reach a higher goal.

So when the restless impulse rises, driving Your calm content before it, do not grieve; It is the upward reaching of the spirit Of the God in you to achieve—achieve.

ACTION

For ever stars are winging Their swift and endless race; For ever suns are swinging Their mighty globes through space. Since by his law required To join God’s spheres inspired, The earth has never tired, But whirled and whirled and whirled. For ever streams are flowing, For ever seeds are growing, Alway is Nature showing That Action rules the world.

And since by God requested To _be_, the glorious light Has never paused or rested, But travelled day and night. Yet pigmy man, unseeing The purpose of his being, Demands escape and freeing From universal force. But law is law for ever, And like a mighty lever It thrusts him tow’rd endeavour, And speeds him on his course.

TWO ROSES

A humble wild-rose, pink and slender, Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet, Beside a Jacqueminot’s royal splendour, And both in my lady’s boudoir lay.

Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning, “I wonder why you are called a rose? Your leaves will fade in a single morning; No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows.

“Your coarse green stalk shows dust of the highway, You have no depths of fragrant bloom; And what could you learn in a rustic byway To fit you to lie in my lady’s room?

“If called to adorn her warm, white bosom, What have you to offer for such a place, Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom, Ripe with colour and rich with grace?”

Said the sweet wild-rose, “Despite your dower Of finer breeding and deeper hue, Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower, It is I who should lie on her breast, not you.

“For small account is your hot-house glory Beside the knowledge that came to me When I heard by the wayside love’s old story And felt the kiss of the amorous bee.”

SATIETY

To yearn for what we have not had, to sit With hungry eyes glued on the Future’s gate, Why, that is heaven compared to having it With all the power gone to appreciate.

Better to wait and yearn, and still to wait, And die at last with unappeased desire, Than live to be the jest of such a fate, For that is my conception of hell-fire.

A SOLAR ECLIPSE

In that great journey of the stars through space About the mighty, all-directing Sun, The pallid, faithful Moon has been the one Companion of the Earth. Her tender face, Pale with the swift, keen purpose of that race Which at Time’s natal hour was first begun, Shines ever on her lover as they run And lights his orbit with her silvery smile.

Sometimes such passionate love doth in her rise, Down from her beaten path she softly slips, And with her mantle veils the Sun’s bold eyes, Then in the gloaming finds her lover’s lips. While far and near the men our world call wise See only that the Sun is in eclipse.

A SUGGESTION To C. A. D.

Let the wild red-rose bloom. Though not to thee So delicately perfect as the white And unwed lily drooping in the light, Though she has known the kisses of the bee And tells her amorous tale to passers-by In perfumed whispers and with untaught grace, Still let the red-rose bloom in her own place; She could not be the lily should she try.

Why to the wondrous nightingale cry hush Or bid her cease her wild heart-breaking lay, And tune her voice to imitate the way The whip-poor-will makes music, or the thrush? All airs of sorrow to one theme belong, And passion is not copyrighted yet. Each heart writes its own music. Why not let The nightingale unchided sing her song?

THE DEPTHS

Not only sun-kissed heights are fair. Below The cold, dark billows of the frowning deep Do lovely blossoms of the ocean sleep, Rocked gently by the waters to and fro. The coral beds with magic colours glow, And priceless pearl-encrusted molluscs heap The glittering rocks where shining atoms leap Like living broken rainbows.

Even so We find the sea of sorrow. Black as night The sullen surface meets our frightened gaze, As down we sink to darkness and despair. But at the depths—such beauty! such delight! Such flowers as never grew in pleasure’s ways! Ah! not alone are sun-kissed summits fair.

LIFE’S OPERA

Like an opera-house is the world, I ween, Where the passionate lover of music is seen In the balcony near the roof: While the very best seat in the first stage-box Is filled by the person who laughs and talks Through the harmony’s warp and woof.

THE SALT SEA-WIND

When Venus, mother and maker of blisses, Rose out of the billows, large-limbed, and fair, She stood on the sands and blew sweet kisses To the salt sea-wind as she dried her hair.

And the salt sea-wind was the first to caress her To praise her beauty and call her sweet, The first of the whole wide world to possess her, She, that creature of light and heat.

Though the sea is old with its sorrows and angers, And the world has forgotten why love was born, Yet the salt sea-wind is full of the languors That Venus taught on her natal morn.

And now whoever dwells there by the ocean, And feels the wind on his hair and face, Is stirred by a subtle and keen emotion, The lingering spell of that first embrace.

NEW YEAR

New Year, I look straight in your eyes— Our ways and our interests blend; You may be a foe in disguise, But I shall believe you a friend. We get what we give in our measure, We cannot give pain and get pleasure; I give you good will and good cheer, And you must return it, New Year.

We get what we give in this life, Though often the giver indeed Waits long upon doubting and strife Ere proving the truth of my creed. But somewhere, some way, and for ever Reward is the meed of endeavour; And if I am really worth while, New Year, you will give me your smile.

You hide in your mystical hand No “luck” that I cannot control, If I trust my own courage and stand On the Infinite strength of my soul. Man holds in his brain and his spirit A power that is God-like, or near it, And he who has measured his force Can govern events and their course.

You come with a crown on your brow, New Year, without blemish or spot; Yet you, and not I, sir, must bow, For time is the servant of thought Whatever you bring me of trouble Shall turn into good, and then double, If my spirit looks up without fear To the Source that you came from, New Year.

CONCENTRATION

The age is too diffusive. Time and Force Are frittered out and bring no satisfaction. The way seems lost to straight determined action. Like shooting stars that zig-zag from their course We wander from our orbit’s pathway; spoil The rôle we’re fitted for, to fail in twenty. Bring empty measures, that were shaped for plenty, At last as guerdon for a life of toil. There’s lack of greatness in this generation Because no more man centres on one thought. We know this truth, and yet we heed it not: The secret of success is Concentration.

THOUGHTS

Thoughts do not need the wings of words To fly to any goal. Like subtle lightnings, not like birds, They speed from soul to soul.

Hide in your heart a bitter thought— Still it has power to blight; Think Love—although you speak it not It gives the world more light.

LUCK

Luck is the tuning of our inmost thought To chord with God’s great plan. That done, ah! know, Thy silent wishes to results shall grow, And day by day shall miracles be wrought. Once let thy being selflessly be brought To chime with universal good, and lo! What music from the spheres shall through thee flow! What benefits shall come to thee unsought!

Shut out the noise of traffic! Rise above The body’s clamour! With the soul’s fine ear Attune thyself to harmonies divine— All, all are written in the key of Love. Keep to the score, and thou hast naught to fear; Achievements yet undreamed of shall be thine.