Chapter 1

Transcribed from the 1912 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

[Picture: Book cover]

THE ENGLISHMAN AND OTHER POEMS

BY

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

[Picture: Decorative graphic]

GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD. 12 AND 13 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN LONDON 1912

[_All rights reserved_]

PREFACE _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_!

CONTENTS

PAGE The Englishman 1 Canada 3 The Call 5 Coronation Poem and Prayer 7 Two Voices 11 A Ballade of the Unborn Dead 14 The Truth Teller 17 Just You 19 Reflection 20 Songs of Love and the Sea 21 Acquaintance 25 In India’s Dreamy Land 26 Rangoon 27 Thoughts on leaving Japan 28 On seeing the Diabutsu—at Kamakura, Japan 30 The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart 31 East and West 33 The Squanderer 34 Compensations 35 Song of the Rail 38 Always at Sea 40 The Suitors 42 The Jealous Gods 44 God Rules Alway 45 The Cure 49 The Forecast 52 Little Girls 55 Science 57 The Earth 60 The Muse and the Poet 63 The Spinster 67 Brotherhood 71 The Tavern of Last Times 73 The Two Ages 74 If I Were 77 Warned 78 Forward 80 In England 81 Karma 83 The Gossips 85 Together 89 Petition 91 A Waft of Perfume 92 The Plough 94 Go Plant a Tree 96 Pain’s Purpose 98 Memory’s Mansion 99 Old Rhythm and Rhyme 101 All in a Coach and Four 103 Songs of a Country Home 105 Worthy the name of “Sir Knight” 108

THE ENGLISHMAN

Born in the flesh, and bred in the bone, Some of us harbour still A New World pride: and we flaunt or hide The Spirit of Bunker Hill. We claim our place, as a separate race, Or a self-created clan; Till there comes a day when we like to say, ‘We are kin of the Englishman.’

For under the front that seems so cold, And the voice that is wont to storm, We are certain to find, a big, broad mind And a heart that is soft and warm. And he carries his woes in a lordly way, As only the great souls can: And it makes us glad when in truth we say, We are kin of the Englishman.’

He slams his door in the face of the world, If he thinks the world too bold. He will even curse; but he opens his purse To the poor, and the sick, and the old. He is slow in giving to woman the vote, And slow to put up her fan; But he gives her room in the hour of doom, And dies—like an Englishman.

CANADA

_England_, _father and mother in one_, _Look on your stalwart son_. Sturdy and strong, with the valour of youth, Where is another so lusty? Coated and mailed, with the armour of truth, Where is another so trusty? Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone, He is yours alone.

_England_, _father and mother in one_, _See the wealth of your son_. Forests primeval, and virginal sod, Wheat-fields golden and splendid: Riches of nature and opulent God For the use of his children intended. A courage that dares, and a hope that endures, And a soul all yours.

_England_, _father and mother in one_, _Hear the cry of your son_. Little cares he for the glories of earth Lying around and above him, Yearning is he for the rights of his birth, And the heart of his mother to love him. Vast are your gifts to him, ample his store, Now open your door.

_England_, _father and mother in one_, _Heed the voice of your son_. Proffer him place in your councils of state: Let him sit near, and attend you. Ponder his words in the hour of debate, Strong is his arm to defend you. Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone, Give him his own.

THE CALL

_In the banquet hall of Progress_ _God has bidden to a feast_ _All the women in the East_.

Some have said ‘We are not ready,— We must wait another day.’ Some, with voices clear and steady, ‘Lord, we hear, and we obey.’

Others, timid and uncertain, Step forth trembling in the light, Many hide behind the curtain With their faces hid from sight.

_In the banquet hall of Progress_ _All must gather soon or late_, _And the patient Host will wait_.

If to-day, or if to-morrow, If in gladness, or in woe, If with pleasure, or with sorrow, All must answer, all must go. They must go with unveiled faces, Clothed in virtue and in pride. For the Host has set their places, And He will not he denied.

CORONATION POEM AND PRAYER

The world has crowned a thousand kings: But destiny has kept Her weightiest hour of kingly power To offer England’s son. The rising bell of Progress rings; And Truths which long have slept, Like prophets strange, predicting change, Before Time’s chariot run.

The greatest Empire of the Earth. Old England proudly stands. Like arteries her Colonies Reach out from sea to sea. She clasps all races in her girth; Her gaze the world commands; And far and wide where strong ships ride, The British Flag floats free.

Oh, never since the stars began Their round of Cosmic law, And souls evolved in ways unsolved, And kingdoms reached their prime Has Destiny held out to Man A gift so full of awe, As England’s crown which she hands down In this stupendous time.

This is a crucial hour, when Fate Tries Monarchs as by fire. All rulers must be more than just— Men starve on bread alone. Old England’s sense of _right_ is great: But now let her aspire To feel more love, and build thereof An everlasting Throne.

The dreaming East, awake at last, Is asking ‘when’ and ‘why’; Wait not too long nor answer wrong, Nor in too stern a voice. Let England profit by her past, And with her wise reply Rouse hearts, within her foster kin To hope, and to rejoice.

True wealth dwells not in things we own, But in our _use_ of things. Who would command a conquered land Must conquer first its heart. Such might as Man has never known, And power undreamed by kings, And boundless strength would come at length To one who used that art.

For now has dawned the People’s day: A day of great unrest. Nor king nor creed can still man’s need Of time and space to grow. All lands must shape a wider way, For this eternal quest; And Leisure yield a larger field Where work-worn feet may go.

The Universe is all a-thrill With changes imminent. The World in faith, with bated breath, Holds free the Leader’s place. And wise is he whose heart and will At one with Time’s intent, Shall open wide doors long denied To _mothers_ of the race.

On this round globe, oh, when and where Were fitter time and scene For Woman’s soul to reach its goal Than _now_ in England’s realm. Was not the crown its King will wear Made glorious by its Queen? And who steered straight its ship of State? _Victoria at the Helm_!

Kings have been kings by accident, By favour and by force, But right of birth and moral worth, And Empires rich and broad For England’s King to-day are blent Like rivers on one course. But, ah! the light falls searching white Down from the Throne of God.

Lord of the Earth and heavenly-spheres, Creator of all things, Thou who hast wrought great worlds from naught, Give strength to England’s son. Give courage to dispel those fears That come to even kings, And for his creed give Love’s full mead; Amen. Thy Will be done.

TWO VOICES

VIRTUE

O wanton one, O wicked one, how was it that you came, Down from the paths of purity, to walk the streets of shame? And wherefore was that precious wealth, God gave to you in trust, Flung broadcast for the feet of men to trample in the dust?

VICE

O prudent one, O spotless one, now listen well to me. The ways that led to where I tread these paths of sin, were three: And God, and good folks, all combined to make them fair to see.

VIRTUE

O wicked one, blasphemous one, now how could that thing be?

VICE

The first was Nature’s lovely road, whereon my life was hurled. I felt the stirring in my blood, which permeates the world. I thrilled like willows in the spring, when sap begins to flow, It was young passion in my veins, but how was I to know?

The second was the silent road, where modest mothers dwell, And hide from eager, curious minds, the truth they ought to tell. That misnamed road called ‘Innocence’ should bear the sign ‘to Hell.’ With song and dance in ignorance I walked that road and fell.

VIRTUE

O fallen one, unhappy one, but why not rise and go Back to the ways you left behind, and leave your sins below, Nor linger in this sink of sin, since now you see, and know.

VICE

The third road was the fair high way, trod by the good and great. I cried aloud to that vast crowd, and told my hapless fate. They hurried all through door and wall and shut Convention’s gate. I beat it with my bleeding hands: they must have heard me knock. They must have heard wild sob and word, yet no one turned the lock.

Oh, it is very desolate, on Virtue’s path to stand, And see the good folks flocking by, withholding look and hand.

And so with hungry heart and soul, and weary brain and feet, I left that highway whence you came, and sought the sinful street.

O prudent one, O spotless one, when good folks speak of me, Go, tell them of the roads I came; the road ways fair, and three.

A BALLADE OF THE UNBORN DEAD

They walked the valley of the dead; Lit by a weird half light; No sound they made, no word they said; And they were pale with fright. Then suddenly from unseen places came Loud laughter, that was like a whip of flame.

They looked, and saw, beyond, above, A land where wronged souls wait; (Those spirits called to earth by love, And driven back by hate). And each one stood in anguish dumb and wild, As she beheld the phantom of her child.

Yea, saw the soul her wish had hurled Out into night and death; Before it reached the Mother world, Or drew its natal breath. And terrified, each hid her face and fled Beyond the presence of her unborn dead.

And God’s Great Angel, who provides Souls for our mortal land, Laughed, with the laughter that derides, At that fast fleeing band Of self-made barren women of the earth. (Hell has no curse that withers like such mirth.)

‘O Angel, tell us who were they, That down below us fared; Those shapes with faces strained and grey, And eyes that stared and stared; Something there was about them, gave us fear; Yet are we lonely, now they are not here.’

Thus spake the spectral children; thus The Angel made reply: ‘They have no part or share with us; They were but passers-by.’ ‘But may we pray for them?’ the phantoms plead. ‘Yea, for they need your prayers,’ the Angel said.

They went upon their lonely way; (Far, far from Paradise); Their path was lit with one wan ray From ghostly children’s eyes; The little children who were never born; And as they passed, the Angel laughed in scorn.

THE TRUTH TELLER

The Truth Teller lifts the curtain, And shows us the people’s plight; And everything seems uncertain, And nothing at all looks right. Yet out of the blackness groping, My heart finds a world in bloom; For it somehow is fashioned for hoping, And it cannot live in the gloom.

He tells us from border to border, That race is warring with race; With riot and mad disorder, The earth is a wretched place; And yet ere the sun is setting I am thinking of peace, not strife; For my heart has a way of forgetting All things save the joy of life.

I heard in my Youth’s beginning That earth was a region of woe, And trouble, and sorrow, and sinning: The Truth Teller told me so. I knew it was true, and tragic; And I mourned over much that was wrong; And then, by some curious magic, The heart of me burst into song.

The years have been going, going, A mixture of pleasure and pain; But the Truth Teller’s books are showing That evil is on the gain. And I know that I ought to be grieving, And I should be too sad to sing; But somehow I keep on believing That life is a glorious thing.

JUST YOU

All the selfish joys of earth, I am getting through. That which used to lure and lead Now I pass and give no heed; Only one thing seems of worth— Just you.

Not for me the lonely height, And the larger view; Lowlier ways seem fair and wide, While we wander side by side. One thing makes the whole world bright— Just you.

Not for distant goals I run, No great aim pursue; Most of earth’s ambitions seem Like the shadow of a dream. All the world to me means one— Just you.

REFLECTION

Twice have I seen God’s full reflected grace. Once when the wailing of a child at birth Proclaimed another soul had come to earth, That look shone on, and through the mother’s face.

And once when silence, absolute and vast, Followed the final indrawn mortal breath, Sudden upon the countenance of death That supreme glory of God’s grace was cast.

SONGS OF LOVE AND THE SEA

I

When first we met (the Sea and I), Like one before a King, I stood in awe; nor felt nor saw The sun, the winds, the earth, the sky Or any other thing. God’s Universe, to me, Was just the Sea.

When next we met, the lordly Main Played but a courtier’s part; Crowned Queen was I; and earth and sky, And sun and sea were my domain, Since love was in my heart. Before, beyond, above, Was only Love.

II

Love built me, on a little rock, A little house of pine, At first, the Sea Beat angrily About that house of mine; (That dear, dear home of mine).

But when it turned to go away Beyond the sandy track, Down o’er its wall The house would call, Until the Sea came back; (It always hurried back).

And now the two have grown so fond, (Oh, breathe no word of this), When clouds hang low, And east winds blow, They meet and kiss and kiss: (At night, I hear them kiss).

III

No man can understand the Sea, until He knows all passions of the senses; all The great emotions of the heart; and each Exalted aspiration of the soul. Then may he sit beside the sea and say: ‘I, too, have flung myself against the rocks, And kissed their flinty brows with no return; And fallen spent upon unfeeling sands. I, too, have gone forth yearning, to far shores, Seeking that something which would bring content; And finding only what I took away; And I have looked up, through the veil of skies, When all the world was still, and understood That I am one with Nature and with God.’

IV

The Dawn was flying from the Night; Swift as the wind she sped; Her hair was like a fleece of light; Her cheeks were warm and red.

All passion pale, the Night pursued; She fled away, away; And in her garments, rainbow hued, She gained the peak of day.

And then, all shaken with alarms, She leaped down from its crest; Into the Sea’s uplifted arms, And swooned upon his breast.

ACQUAINTANCE

Not we who daily walk the City’s street; Not those who have been cradled in its heart, Best understand its architectural art, Or realise its grandeur. Oft we meet Some stranger who has stayed his passing feet And lingered with us for a single hour, And learned more of cathedral, and of tower, Than we, who deem our knowledge quite complete.

Not always those we hold most loved and dear, Not always those who dwell with us, know best Our greater selves. Because they stand so near They cannot see the lofty mountain crest, The gleaming sun-kissed height, which fair and dear Stands forth—revealed unto the some-time guest.

IN INDIA’S DREAMY LAND

In India’s land one listens aghast To the people who scream and bawl; For each caste yells at a lower caste, And the Britisher yells at them all.

RANGOON

Just a changing sea of colour Surging up and flowing down; And pagodas shining golden, night and noon; And a sun-burst-tinted throng Of young priests that move along Under sun-burst-hued umbrellas through the town. That’s Rangoon.

THOUGHTS ON LEAVING JAPAN

A changing medley of insistent sounds, Like broken airs, played on a Samisen, Pursues me, as the waves blot out the shore. The trot of wooden heels; the warning cry Of patient runners; laughter and strange words Of children, children, children everywhere: The clap of reverent hands, before some shrine; And over all the haunting temple bells, Waking, in silent chambers of the soul, Dim memories of long-forgotten lives.

_But oh_! _the sorrow of the undertone_; _The wail of hopeless weeping in the dawn_ _From lips that smiled through gilded bars at night_.

Brave little people, of large aims, you bow Too often, and too low before the Past; You sit too long in worship of the dead. Yet have you risen, open eyed, to greet The great material Present. Now salute The greater Future, blazing its bold trail Through old traditions. Leave your dead to sleep In quiet peace with God. Let your concern Be with the living, and the yet unborn; Bestow on them your thoughts, and waste no time In costly honours to insensate dust. Unlock the doors of usefulness, and lead Your lovely daughters forth to larger fields, Away from jungles of the ancient sin.

_For oh_! _the sorrow of that undertone_, _The wail of hopeless weeping in the dawn_ _From lips that smiled through gilded bars at night_.

ON SEEING THE DIABUTSU—AT KAMAKURA, JAPAN

Long have I searched, cathedral shrine, and hall, To find a symbol, from the hand of art, That gave the full expression (not a part) Of that ecstatic peace which follows all Life’s pain and passion. Strange it should befall This outer emblem of the inner heart Was waiting far beyond the great world’s mart— Immortal answer, to the mortal call.

Unknown the artist, vaguely known his creed: But the bronze wonder of his work sufficed To lift me to the heights his faith had trod. For one rich moment, opulent indeed, I walked with Krishna, Buddha, and the Christ, And felt the full serenity of God.

THE LITTLE LADY OF THE BULLOCK CART

Now is the time when India is gay With wedding parties; and the radiant throngs Seem like a scattered rainbow taking part In human pleasures. Dressed in bright array, They fling upon the bride their wreaths of songs— The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.

Here is the temple ready for the rite: The large-eyed bullocks halt; and waiting arms Lift down the bride. All India’s curious art Speaks in the gems with which she is bedight. And in the robes which hide her sweet alarms— The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.

This is her day of days: her splendid hour When joy is hers, though love is all unknown. It has not dawned upon her childish heart. But human triumph, in a temporal power, Has crowned her queen upon a one-day throne— The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.

Ah, Little Lady! What will be your fate? So long, so long, the outward-reaching years: So brief the joy of this elusive part; So frail the shoulders for the loads that wait: So bitter salt the virgin widow’s tears— O Little Lady of the Bullock cart.

EAST AND WEST

The Day has never understood the Gloaming or the Night; Though sired by one Creative Power, and nursed at Nature’s breast; The White Man ever fails to read the Dark Man’s heart aright; Though from the self-same Source they came, upon the self-same quest; So deep and wide, the Great Divide, Between the East and West.

But like a shadow on a screen, mine eyes behold, above The yawning gulf, a dim forecast, of structures strong and broad; Where caste, and colour prejudice, by countless feet down trod, With old traditions crushed by Time, pave smooth the bridge of Love; And all the creed that men shall heed Is consciousness of God.

THE SQUANDERER