Part 2

The moon has but one side of light and beauty, The other, steeped in never-ending night, Seems worse than dead, as in the harmony Of spheres, she cannot even echo. And She died they say, for love of her great brother, The glorious Sun, whom she may never reach, Condemned to be apart, for that great sin Of love. He was the light and life and joy Of all her world, how could she then refrain And love not, when her brother was a god? But then she died, you see, and was forgiven. Wherefore is Earth so dark and yet alive? Wherefore doth fire still melt the gold in depths So fathomless, that not a spark may light The poor outside? She wanders through the worlds, Unknown, without a ray, and yet alive With foaming waters and with words as proud As flowing hair. Why art thou dark, O Earth? If thou wert sinless, would not dancing rays Laugh through the night and gladden other planets? Would not thy bosom's warmth give life again To yonder ghost, thy mate in misery? What hast thou done to be condemned to darkness, To be a living hell, wherein the souls Of millions suffer until death? Thy heart Is gold: hast thou betrayed the sun? Or hast Thou stolen wondrous goods, in gliding from The sun? Therefore is Death to be thy child, A curse to wander on thy lovely sides, That oft are torn and ever motherly Will comfort the offender with her off'rings. Or art thou dark because thy womb must be The grave of all thy children, Mother Earth?

THE SENTINEL

Each flower is a sentinel of God, And ev'ry tree and ev'ry grassblade. Not An unseen little stem, but that will stand And wait and shine, and never ask wherefore It came and why it has to wither. Thou Art such a sentinel, O Heart! Thou hast To stand and bloom and love beside the others, And wither when thy work is done, the spot Being given to another, whereupon Thou standest. And that other heart is growing And blooming into life beneath thy shade, As strong as thine, as ruby-red as thine, To wither and to fall beneath the scythe, As thine has done. Why ask and why despair? Why not be happy with the sun, the dew, The other flowery hearts that, full of life Unfold their petals, which are deep like thine, And rich as thine? Ye are to be a glorious And many-coloured meadow. Is it not Enough? And must ye grumble? Must ye strive To take away the light and dew, that fall Not to your share? Behold the scythe! And sow Thy seed and ask not where it falls. The wind Of fate has carried it away, to place Another sentinel, as unknown, as Unsought for as thyself, in a far land, To live when thou art gone, to bloom into Some unexpected beauty with thy strength, Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions once To thee and that the wind hath blown so far Away. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed: "Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will. Thou shalt not long to be another plant; Thy tragedy is useless, and thy will Is nought. With all thy strength thou art but what Is wanted--tree or grassblade--never ask Wherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itself Knows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not, But takes thy noblest self to other climes And leaves thee to the scythe. Complain not! Mourn not! Long not to live another day, when thou Art called, but bow thy head without a sigh, In gentle acquiescence, sentinel!

LETHE

When dark thy childhood, tears and grief have filled Thy swelling heart, that understood too much, Yet not enough to be forgiving, when The sun was pale, and darkness lonely, when The fear of unknown evil made thy lips Turn cold, and wonder changed to horror, then To dumb despair, to childhood's hopelessness, More hopeless than old age's iron clutch Of unbelief, the shadow of the past Will cast a pall o'er all thy life, then say: Go down, Remembrance, into Lethe, go! When work was hard and sacrifice in vain, And stones were hurled at thee, thy flowers trodden Into the soil, that, soaked with all thy blood, Could not resist, and giving way would swallow Thy noblest thoughts, and teach thee to undo Thyself, gainsay thyself, as if a coward Were crouching on thy shoulders, making thee Believe that all thy heroism was A sham--then say: Go down to Lethe, Thought, And darken not the hour when I rise Out of myself, out of the past, into The open day of wide forgetfulness. When shame has crept into the rocky strength, Into the pure recess a spotless soul Had lent thee, and with fiery coals has burnt A mark no rivers wash away, no winds Can cool, that sends a shudder through thy heart, Like snakes of cold disgust, then say again: Go down to Lethe, not to rise and sting. But when those eyes, that were thy sun, are shut, When blind with tears thy gaze hath yet behold The angel wings that carried through unknown Untold of space thy life, thy heart, thy hope-- No Lethe then! And no forgetfulness! But open wide thy soul: It is the sun, The sun that sends its beauteous rays into The dark, into the cold, into the night And terror of thy life. If grief hath ploughed The soil, fear not! The corn is rising, young And green and full of hope; the sun hath called; The sun shines full into that heart that was So torn, so weak, that could not lift itself Unto the heavens. They are open now, Flooded with light; take not thine eyes away, Bend not thy look unto the earth again, But rise on shining wings toward the rays That draw thee, call thee, bear thee to the light!

A DEBTOR

Oh, do not say that thanklessness has been Thy sole reward! What? Wouldst thou be rewarded? When God had laid the gift into thy heart, Thy hand, upon the road thou hadst to tread? Lay all thy thanks before the feet of him Who did not shun thy help, thy gift, thy love, But bore the humiliation and the weakness, And bared his heart before thy human gaze, The heart where none but God e'er read the truth, The burning record of despair. Be humble, Thyself, and touch not roughly, where the wound Is open, see the beads of anguish on The furrowed brow, the tightdrawn lips, and hear The tremor in the whispered words, that roll So heavily from off the heart, and leave It crushed, sometimes for ever. Dost thou know What lifeblood it hath cost to speak to thee, What tortured nights have gone before, what cry Of anguish rose towards that God, who seemed So merciless to him and overkind To thee, allowing thee to be his angel, To answer when a living word of love Had to be spoken, and a hand put out to help. Make him forget what he has told thee, Let him not feel that thou hast not forgotten, But make him help thee in his turn, when thine The pain, the care, the fear; allow him then To tend thee, and to pay his debt to thy Humility, and to thy thankfulness.

"VENGEANCE IS MINE," SAITH THE LORD

Thou wouldst not be avenged if thou hadst but Insight enough into the human heart, Into its frailty and its cowardice. Thou wouldst not be avenged if thou but sawest How mad, how childish and how selfish are The helpless ones, that did thee harm because They thought--Ah! What then thought they! That perchance You hated them, or trod them down, or took Their sun away; and e'en for love will they Destroy thee, meaning well with thee--so well, That they as lief would see thee dead, not to Belong to what they hate--thy work, thy friend, Thy strong ambition, or the gift that God Hath put into thy soul, that calleth thee Away to other heights and other temples, Then where they long have worshipped. They dislike Thy road, thy word, they call it strange and dark, And they would lead thee back to where they started So long ago with thee, and show the wrong Thou doest quite unwittingly. A sigh, A smile is all thine answer, but thy way Is chosen; then the hue and cry is raised Against thee, and thy staunchest friends will pile With eager hands the wood on which to burn Thy very soul, and not a tear will quench That fire, not a hand will save thee, for Thou art misunderstood, misjudged, despised, And hated by the friends, who once believed In thee as in their God. And what revenge Could help thee? Falling back on thee, thy arm Struck to the ground, thy heart a desert, not Devastated to bloom again, but burnt To lava by your heart's own flame of vengeance. And if forgiveness be too great for thee, Go past, turn not thy head, speak not a word That cannot be recalled, and that will bar The road for ever, that will cut the cloth Between thy foes and thee. The present hour Hath made that foe, who may come back to thee, And see thy truth. Be great and say: I have No foe! I smile, and they are nought! A breath May lay them low, so low that they must call To me for help! Then is thy vengeance ripe! Give help with gentle pity. Feel that thou Art ready with a well of living waters, With flowers still more lovely than before. Keep down the flames that make thee a volcano. Let lovely warmth be all their strength. For thou Art called upon to love and not to hate, To help and not to punish, as thine eyes Are far too weak to see the consequence Of human anger. Even the volcano Is aimless, powerless, like Fate itself, And thou canst not be Fate. Ah! Be thou then A human heart amongst poor human hearts!

NIGHT

O night! Thou friend of Thought, of Song, of winged Inspiration! So gentle is thy tread, Thy hand so soft, thy look so deep, the sea Is not so deep as thy mysterious gaze. Revealest thou what worlds have thought in distant, Unfathomable dream? Thou knowest wonders, And tellest them in whispers to the dreamer. Thou art alive with silence, gentle Night, The silence of the Past and of the Future, Of things untold, but not forgotten, dreams Unreal, yet full of burning truth, and clad In image, that they startle not our heart, Nor wake its nerveless beating till it sounds. In silence, wondrous Night, thou teachest what The noisy Day would never understand: Thou makest us descend into the mine Yet unexplorèd of our soul, that hoards The many destinies of thousand years And other thousand years it wandered through. Search in the darkness of that mine, behold! The gold that shineth forth into thine eyes, The treasures of those other lives that death Transformed and left them unremembered. In The stillness that surrounds thy search thy soul Will show thee all its strength and weakness, all Those errors that condemned it to another And yet another life, to die again, And rise again and wander, yet a stranger, Into the changing world, but laden with The knowledge of the past it seems to learn And calls it history, perchance its own Forgotten past, the very person that It seemed to be. And now it wonders why That person acted so and erred and wrought Such destinies. And all the time it is Itself that learns itself. Neglect not dreams Nor call them worthless. Great the truths they bring, Revealed in sights and legendary lore. When understood they are a blessing. Learn To understand the vision's soul, the thought Which it conveys, the future it reveals, The past it fetches out of yonder mine Thy brain was far too tired or far too weak To search. When plunged in sleep that brain that now Is thine will listen and may learn such things Thy soul will tell, as never book or school Or present life will teach. Oh, blessed Night! Spread o'er my soul thy wings and carry me Into those worlds my brain can never reach! Fathom not memories, but let me feel At one with all those lights that lie upon Thy bosom, breathing, shining there in silence.

ROUSED

Slumber not! Rest not! Dream not! Thou art called! The blast has rung out o'er thy living grave; The clouds that hung so low above thy head Poured out their flame into thy soul, and yet Left more, much more alive there than thou knewest of. Awake! the years stand at thy gate, and knock To call thee forth, the dead past comes to life, And drives thee, with its flood of whirling waters, Onward to action, not to idle dreaming. Arise! walk on those waves, for they will bear thee. Trust thine own strength, and tread the flakes of foam Lightly, with wingèd feet, with wingèd soul! And thou shalt see that gales have left untouched The springtime in thy heart, still breaking forth In admiration, thankfulness and love. Yes, not even love is quenched, and still undimmed Enthusiasm's banner waves on high above thee. Thou fearest the world? And what then is the world? The shadow of a cloud--no more. Thou wouldst not Suffer it to become a stone to crush thee? Up! Shake thy shining wings upon the Dawn, And laugh the world to shame. 'Tis but a pageant, A mockery; give up thy heart to life In all its fulness--never to the world! And though the world should crush thine heart and say "Behold! 'tis dust and ashes!"--though it scatter Those ashes to the winds--yet art thou still Pure and unconquerable, O my heart! Thou art of those to whom an open foe Is but a friend disguised; to whom each blow Serves as a force to send thee ever higher, Far above yawning gulf and raging whirlpool. O heart of mine, be strong! Doubt not, for doubt Was ever the one deadly foe, whose toils Might strangle thee. Up! fight that monster, trample Its venom under foot. The hour has come For thee to step forth, young again and free, A new Sir Galahad, brave, pure and strong, Around whom angels hover as he stretches His spotless shield to meet the early rays Of Heaven's bright, cloudless, joyous Morning-sun!

SADNESS

Thy sadness is a leaden shroud, a rock Of Sisyphus, which thou must upward roll By night and day, on, on. Its downward rush Is no relief, no help, since it but seems Heavier at each fresh start. And still thy strength Is waning, and thy heart aches with the tears-- The unshed tears that lie like stones upon it, While those that flowed are rivers in thy path-- Unfathomable, fordless, dark and deep. These thou must wade, with all thy burdens--wade And sink with every step as 'twere thy last, And feel such deadly weakness seize on thee As though some raging fever laid thee low. Thy sadness is a Nessus robe, that clings In burning folds about thee, sears thy flesh, And eats into thy bones. 'Tis like a weapon A man turns on himself, whose wound nought heals, Since it is dealt against his inmost soul. If, then, through clouds of sadness, thou perceivest The world, well mayst thou say of it: 'Tis hell! For spring itself is dark, the birds' sweet carol Cheerless and dull, thy life a very desert, Where human faces pass like spectral visions, And gladness is a thing so clean forgotten, As if it ne'er had been--its very name Become a soundless word, a ghostly whisper!

WHEN JOY IS DEAD

Be still! A corpse lies there, a poor dead thing, With upturned face, white-lipped, the haggard features, Whereon once played a smile that gladdened hearts, Now set and cold. Circled with black and sunken Are now the eyes where stars were wont to sparkle, And Fate has drawn deep lines between the brows, That but a short time since seemed arched for mischief, And full of childish mirth. Close to the temples The hair clings straight and dull and colourless. And it was golden once, like living rays, And waved about the head, a sunrise-halo! The hands are folded--rigid, waxen, cold, They that were once like rose-leaves, in whose veins The blood coursed swiftly, full of generous warmth And loving gifts, and flowers, and balm for sorrow. Cold are they now, as had they never yet Clasped children to the heart, nor with deft touch Broidered such fairy work, nor scattered broadcast Such fairy gifts. The feet that danced along, Leaving no trace upon the flower-petals, Lie stiff out-stretched, and round about them hang In heavy folds, as were they carved in marble, The robes that fluttered lightly in the breeze, Like opalescent wings. Ah! cold and dark The grave to thee, thou Sun-child! ray of brightness! Beloved messenger of God! Arise! Canst thou be dead? and canst thou look so stern? Ah, no! not stern, but martyred! Cruel hands Have rent thy garments, dragged thee by the hair, Burnt out thine eyes, and filled thy cup with poison, As fit requital of thy priceless gifts, Kind Joy, true friend! And now they see thee dead With careless eyes, and point, and feign to think Thou ne'er hast been! Ah, Joy! sweet Joy! arise! Be stronger than thy foes! But no! 'tis vain! Poor Joy was deadly tired, and now she sleeps!

A ROOM

Whitewashed or panelled, filled with books, with light, With flowers, with trifles sacred to the heart, And work so pure and sweet that morning-dew Might settle there and feel itself at home As though 'mid garden fragrance; while the carol Of birds streams through the window joyously, Mistaking that abode of peace and love For their own woodland haunts! And in that room A woman's dainty hands ever at work, A woman's loving heart ever awake For others' happiness, a woman's thought Alive in tender memories that embalm The past in mute forgiveness. Enter then As 'twere a sanctuary, lay aside Thy load of care, and yield thy weary soul To the deep sense of comfort reigning there. Not many words--nay, not a single word-- Need tremble through the stillness, not a sigh With untoward avowal break the peace That folds thee to its heart and asks no question. Such perfect peace pervades a room like this, 'Twould seem the raging storm, the roaring sea, Might lay themselves to rest upon its threshold. The ghosts that haunt it come in guise of angels, With rosy finger-tips laid on their lips, To hush our voices to the whispered tones Of children's prayers. Enter, thou weary wanderer, Enter! and have no fear, for pain and anguish Have long been wept away, and have but left Their precious perfume and the healing balm Of self-forgetfulness to comfort thee!

UNREST

To toss with fevered brain and throbbing pulses Upon thy bed at night--thine aching eyes, Straining into the darkness, hot and weary, Thy heart like lead, yet ever wildly bounding Within thee, like a gun made loose in shipwreck, That rolls from side to side, an unchained danger, Thy pillows fire, thy couch a rack, whereon Thy tortured limbs seem cords strung by the storm, Thy thoughts a tangled skein, unclear, disordered, And all the past that should have been forgotten Rising up ghostly, in fantastic guise, To make the present worse, to slay all hope, To quench the beacon that till now has been Thy only stay in night's deep gloom and horror! This, O my soul! is Unrest, and thou knowest Its misery but too well! All the old scars Of former battles bleed once more within thee, As if thy life were oozing, drop by drop. And thou wert fain with trembling fingers seize That foolish heart, and fling it in thy path To trample under foot, or, further still, Sink it in sea-depths, and then turn away Calm and indifferent, deeming all were well Were but its restlessness thus stilled, and thou Free from its tumult. Yet that heart of thine Has weathered may a gale, and still might stand Unshaken at the helm of life's wrecked craft, A gallant pilot, waiting for the sign That bids the clouds disperse, hushes the winds, And, having calmed the waves, shall guide thy course To sun-lit shores, sweet with immortal flowers. Be brave, poor heart, for thou drawest near the haven, And though thy beacon be extinguished, though Thy rudder has been snapped, thy compass lost, Thou still art safe, for the same Mighty Hand That sent thee forth upon the stormy sea Shall lead thee home and give thee rest at last!

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_Colston & Coy. Limited, Printers, Edinburgh_