Chapter 3

A modern hour from London (as we spin Into a silver thread the miles of space Between us and our goal), there is a place Apart from city traffic, dust, and din, Green with great trees, where hides a quiet Inn. Here Nelson last looked on the lovely face Which made his world; and by its magic grace Trailed rosy clouds across each early sin. And, leaning lawnward, is the room where Keats Wrote the last one of those immortal songs (Called by the critics of his day ‘mere rhymes’). A lark, high in the boxwood bough repeats Those lyric strains, to idle passing throngs, There by the little Tavern-of-Last-Times.

THE TWO AGES

On a great cathedral window I have seen A Summer sunset swoon and sink away, Lost in the splendours of immortal art. Angels and saints and all the heavenly hosts, With smiles undimmed by half a thousand years, From wall and niche have met my lifted gale. Sculpture and carving and illumined page, And the fair, lofty dreams of architects, That speak of beauty to the centuries— All these have fed me with divine repasts. Yet in my mouth is left a bitter taste, The taste of blood that stained that age of art.

Those glorious windows shine upon the black And hideous structure of the guillotine; Beside the haloed countenance of saints There hangs the multiple and knotted lash. The Christ of love, benign and beautiful, Looks at the torture-rack, by hate conceived And bigotry sustained. The prison cell, With blood-stained walls, where starving men went mad, Lies under turrets matchless in their grace.

God, what an age! How was it that You let Colossal genius and colossal crime Walk for a hundred years across the earth, Like giant twins? How was it then that men, Conceiving such vast beauty for the world, And such large hopes of heaven, could entertain Such hellish projects for their human kin? How could the hand that, with consummate skill And loving patience, limned the luminous page, Drop pen and brush, and seize the branding-rod, To scourge a brother for his differing faith?

Not great this age in beauty or in art; Nothing is wrought to-day that shall endure For earth’s adornment, through long centuries; Not ours the fervid worship of a God That wastes its splendid opulence on glass, Leaving but hate for hungry human hearts. Yet great this age; its mighty work is man Knowing himself the universal life. And great our faith, which shows itself in works For human freedom and for racial good. The true religion lies in being kind. No age is greater than its faith is broad. Through liberty and love men climb to God.

IF I WERE

If I were a raindrop, and you were a leaf, I would burst from the cloud above you, And lie on your breast in a rapture of rest, And love you, love you, love you.

If I were a brown bee, and you were a rose, I would fly to you, love, nor miss you; I would sip and sip from your nectared lip, And kiss you, kiss you, kiss you.

If I were a doe, dear, and you were a brook, Ah, what would I do then, think you? I would kneel by the bank, in the grasses dank, And drink you, drink you, drink you.

WARNED

They stood at the garden gate. By the lifting of a lid She might have read her fate In a little thing he did.

He plucked a beautiful flower; Tore it away from its place On the side of the blooming bower; And held it against his face.

Drank in its beauty and bloom, In the midst of his idle talk; Then cast it down to the gloom And dust of the garden walk.

Ay, trod it under his foot, As it lay in his pathway there; Then spurned it away with his boot, Because it bad ceased to be fair.

Ah! the maiden might have read The doom of her young life then; But she looked in his eyes instead, And thought him the king of men.

She looked in his eyes and blushed, She hid in his strong arms’ fold; And the tale of the flower, crushed And spurned, was once more told.

FORWARD

Let me look always forward. Never back. Was I not formed for progress? Otherwise With onward pointing feet and searching eyes Would God have set me squarely on the track Up which we all must labour with life’s pack? Yonder the goal of all this travel lies. What matters it, if yesterday the skies With light were golden, or with clouds were black? I would not lose to-morrow’s glow of dawn By peering backward after sun’s long set. New hope is fairer than an old regret; Let me pursue my journey and press on— Nor tearful eyed, stand ever in one spot, A briny statue like the wife of Lot.

IN ENGLAND

In England there are wrongs, no doubt, Which should be righted; so men say, Who seek to weed earth’s garden out And give the roses right of way. Yes, right of way to fruit and rose, Where now but poison ivy grows.

In England there is wide unrest They tell me, who should know. And yet I saw but hedges gaily dressed, And eyes, where love and kindness met. Yes, love and kindness, met and made Soft sunshine, even in the shade.

In England there are haunting things Which follow one to other lands; Like some pervading scent that clings To laces, touched by vanished hands. Yes, touched by vanished hands, that gave A fragrance which defies the grave.

In England, centuries of art Give common things a mellow tone, And wake old memories in the heart Of other lives the soul has known. Yes, other lives in some past age Start forth from canvas, or from page.

In England there are simple joys The modern world has left all sweet; In London’s heart are nooks, where noise Has entered but with slippered feet; Yes, entered softly. Friend, believe, To part from England is to grieve.

KARMA

I

We cannot choose our sorrows. One there was Who, reverent of soul, and strong with trust, Cried, ‘God, though Thou shouldst bow me to the dust, Yet will I praise thy everlasting laws. Beggared, my faith would never halt or pause, But sing Thy glory, feasting on a crust. Only one boon, one precious boon I must Demand of Thee, O opulent great Cause. Let Love stay with me, constant to the end, Though fame pass by and poverty pursue.’ With freighted hold her life ship onward sailed; The world gave wealth, and pleasure, and a friend, Unmarred by envy, and whose heart was true. But ere the sun reached midday, Love had failed.

II

Then from the depths, in bitterness she cried, ‘Hell is on earth, and heaven is but a dream; And human life a troubled aimless stream; And God is nowhere. Would God so deride A loving creature’s faith?’ A voice replied, ‘The stream flows onward to the Source Supreme, Where things that ARE replace the things that SEEM, And where the deeds of all past lives abide. Once at thy door Love languished and was spurned. Who sorrow plants, must garner sorrow’s sheaf. No prayers can change the seedling in the sod. By thine own heart Love’s anguish must be learned. Pass on, and know, as one made wise by grief, That in thyself dwells heaven and hell and God.’

THE GOSSIPS

A rose in my garden, the sweetest and fairest, Was hanging her head through the long golden hours; And early one morning I saw her tears falling, And heard a low gossiping talk in the bowers.

The yellow Nasturtium, a spinster all faded, Was telling a Lily what ailed the poor Rose: ‘That wild, roving Bee, who was hanging about her Has jilted her squarely, as every one knows.

‘I knew when he came, with his singing and sighing, His airs and his speeches, so fine and so sweet, Just how it would end; but no one would believe me, For all were quite ready to fall at his feet.’

‘Indeed, you are wrong,’ said the Lilybelle proudly, ‘I cared nothing for him. He called on me once And would have come often, no doubt, if I’d asked him. But though he was handsome, I thought him a dunce.’

‘Now, now, that’s not true,’ cried the tall Oleander. ‘He has travelled and seen every flower that grows; And one who has supped in the garden of princes, We all might have known would not wed with the Rose.’

‘But wasn’t she proud when he showed her attention? And she let him caress her,’ said sly Mignonette. ‘And I used to see it and blush for her folly. The silly thing thinks he will come to her yet.’

‘I thought he was splendid,’ said pretty, pert Larkspur. ‘So dark and so grand, with that gay cloak of gold; But he tried once to kiss me, the impudent fellow, And I got offended; I thought him too bold.’

‘Oh, fie!’ laughed the Almond. ‘That does for a story. Though I hang down my head, yet I see all that goes; And I saw you reach out, trying hard to detain him, But he just tapped your cheek and flew by to the Rose.

‘He cared nothing for her, he only was flirting To while away time, as every one knew; So I turned a cold shoulder to all his advances, Because I was certain his heart was untrue.’

‘The Rose it served right for her folly in trusting An oily-tongued stranger,’ quoth proud Columbine. ‘I knew what he was, and thought once I would warn her. But, of course, the affair was no business of mine.’

‘Oh, well,’ cried the Peony, shrugging her shoulders, ‘I saw all along that the Bee was a flirt; But the Rose has been always so praised and so petted, I thought a good lesson would do her no hurt.’

Just then came a sound of a love-song sung sweetly; I saw my proud Rose lifting up her bowed head; And the talk of the gossips was hushed in a moment, And the whole garden listened to hear what was said.

And the dark, handsome Bee, with his cloak o’er his shoulder, Came swift through the sunlight and kissed the sad Rose, And whispered: ‘My darling, I’ve roved the world over, And you are the loveliest blossom that grows.’

TOGETHER

We two in the fever and fervour and glow Of life’s high tide have rejoiced together; We have looked out over the glittering snow, And known we were dwelling in Summer weather, For the seasons are made by the heart I hold, And not by outdoor heat or cold.

We two, in the shadows of pain and woe, Have journeyed together in dim, dark places, Where black-robed Sorrow walked to and fro, And Fear and Trouble, with phantom faces, Peered out upon us and froze our blood, Though June’s fair roses were all in bud.

We two have measured all depths, all heights, We have bathed in tears, we have sunned in laughter! We have known all sorrows and delights— They never could keep us apart hereafter. Whether your spirit went high or low, My own would follow, and find you, I know.

If they took my soul into Paradise, And told me I must be content without you, I would weary them so with my lonesome cries, And the ceaseless questions I asked about you, They would open the gates and set me free, Or else they would find you and bring you to me.

PETITION

God, may Thy loving Spirit work, In heart of Russian, and of Turk, Until throughout each clime and land, Armenian and Jew may stand, And claim the right of every soul To seek by its own path, the goal. Parts of the Universal Force, Rills from the same eternal Source Back to that Source, all races go. God, help Thy world to see it so.

A WAFT OF PERFUME

A waft of perfume from a bit of lace Moved lightly by a passing woman’s hand; And on the common street, a sensuous grace Shone suddenly from some lost time and land.

Tall structures changed to dome and parapet; The stern-faced Church an oracle became; In sheltered alcoves marble busts were set; And on the wall frail Lais wrote her name.

Phryne before her judges stood at bay, Fearing the rigour of Athenian laws; Till Hyperides tore her cloak away, And bade her splendid beauty plead its cause.

Great Alexander walking in the dusk, Dreamed of the hour when Greek with Greek should meet; From Thais’ window attar breathed, and musk: His footsteps went no farther down the street.

Faint and more faint the pungent perfume grew; Of wall and parapet remained no trace. Temple and statue vanished from the view: The city street again was commonplace.

THE PLOUGH

If you listen you will hear, from east to west, Growing sounds of discontent and deep unrest. It is just the progress-driven plough of God, Tearing up the well-worn custom-bounded sod; Shaping out each old tradition-trodden track Into furrows, fertile furrows, rich and black. Oh, what harvests they will yield When they widen to a field.

They will widen, they will broaden, day by day, As the Progress-driven plough keeps on its way. It will riddle all the ancient roads that lead Into palaces of selfishness and greed; It will tear away the almshouse and the slum That the little homes and garden plots may come. Yes, the gardens green and sweet Shall replace the stony street.

Let the wise man hear the menace that is blent In this ever-growing sound of discontent. Let him hear the rising clamour of the race That the few shall yield the many larger space. For the crucial hour is coming when the soil Must be given to, or taken back by Toil Oh, that mighty plough of God; Hear it breaking through the sod!

GO PLANT A TREE

God, what a joy it is to plant a tree, And from the sallow earth to watch it rise, Lifting its emerald branches to the skies In silent adoration; and to see Its strength and glory waxing with each spring. Yes, ’tis a goodly, and a gladsome thing To plant a tree.

Nature has many marvels; but a tree Seems more than marvellous. It is divine. So generous, so tender, so benign. Not garrulous like the rivers; and yet free In pleasant converse with the winds and birds; Oh! privilege beyond explaining words, To plant a tree.

Rocks are majestic; but, unlike a tree, They stand aloof, and silent. In the roar Of ocean billows breaking on the shore There sounds the voice of turmoil. But a tree Speaks ever of companionship and rest. Yea, of all righteous acts, this, this is best, To plant a tree.

There is an oak (oh! how I love that tree) Which has been thriving for a hundred years; Each day I send my blessing through the spheres To one who gave this triple boon to me, Of growing beauty, singing birds, and shade. Wouldst thou win laurels that shall never fade? Go plant a tree.

PAIN’S PURPOSE

How blind is he who prays that God will send All pain from earth. Pain has its use and place; Its ministry of holiness and grace. The darker tones upon the canvas blend With light and colour; and their shadows lend The painting half its dignity. Efface The sombre background, and you lose all trace Of that perfection which is true art’s trend.

Life is an artist seeking to reveal God’s majesty and beauty in each soul. If from the palette mortal man could steal The precious pigment, pain, why then the scroll Would glare with colours meaningless and bright, Or show an empty canvas, blurred with light.

MEMORY’S MANSION

In Memory’s Mansion are wonderful rooms, And I wander about them at will; And I pause at the casements, where boxes of blooms Are sending sweet scents o’er the sill. I lean from a window that looks on a lawn: From a turret that looks on the wave. But I draw down the shade, when I see on some glade, A stone standing guard, by a grave.

To Memory’s attic I clambered one day, When the roof was resounding with rain. And there, among relics long hidden away, I rummaged with heart-ache and pain. A hope long surrendered and covered with dust, A pastime, out-grown, and forgot, And a fragment of love, all corroded with rust, Were lying heaped up in one spot.

And there on the floor of that garret was tossed A friendship too fragile to last, With pieces of dearly bought pleasures, that cost Vast fortunes of pain in the past. A fabric of passion, once ardent and bright, As tropical sunsets in spring, Was spread out before me—a terrible sight— A moth-eaten rag of a thing.

Then down the steep stairway I hurriedly went, And into fair chambers below. But the mansion seemed filled with the old attic scent, Wherever my footsteps would go. Though in Memory’s House I still wander full oft, No more to the garret I climb; And I leave all the rubbish heaped there in the loft To the hands of the Housekeeper, Time.

OLD RHYTHM AND RHYME

They tell me new methods now govern the Muses, The modes of expression have changed with the times; That low is the rank of the poet who uses The old-fashioned verse with intentional rhymes. And quite out of date, too, is rhythmical metre; The critics declare it an insult to art. But oh! the sweet swing of it, oh! the clear ring of it, Oh the great pulse of it, right from the heart, Art or no art.

I sat by the side of that old poet, Ocean, And counted the billows that broke on the rocks; The tide lilted in with a rhythmical motion; The sea-gulls dipped downward in time-keeping flocks. I watched while a giant wave gathered its forces, And then on the gray granite precipice burst; And I knew as I counted, while other waves mounted, I knew the tenth billow would rhyme with the first.

Below in the village a church bell was chiming, And back in the woodland a little bird sang; And, doubt it who will, yet those two sounds were rhyming, As out o’er the hill-tops they echoed and rang.

The Wind and the Trees fell to talking together; And nothing they said was didactic or terse; But everything spoken was told in unbroken And beautiful rhyming and rhythmical verse.

So rhythm I hail it, though critics assail it, And hold melting rhymes as an insult to art, For oh! the sweet swing of it, oh! the dear ring of it, Oh! the strong pulse of it, right from the heart, Art or no art.

ALL IN A COACH AND FOUR

The quality folk went riding by, All in a coach and four, And pretty Annette, in a calico gown (Bringing her marketing things from town), Stopped short with her Sunday store, And wondered if ever it should betide That she in a long plumed hat would ride Away in a coach and four.

A lord there was, oh a lonely soul, There in the coach and four. His years were young but his heart was old, And he hated his coaches and hated his gold (Those things which we all adore). And he thought how sweet it would be to trudge Along with the fair little country drudge, And away from his coach and four.

So back he rode the very next day All in his coach and four, And he went each day whether dry or wet, Until he married the sweet Annette (In spite of her lack of lore). But they didn’t trudge off on foot together, For he bought her a hat with a long, long feather, And they rode in the coach and four.

Now a thing like this could happen we know, All in a coach and four; But the fact of it is, ’twixt me and you, There isn’t a word of the story true (Pardon I do implore). It is only a foolish and fanciful song That came to me as I rode along, All in a coach and four.

SONGS OF A COUNTRY HOME

I

Who has not felt his heart leap up, and glow What time the Tulips first begin to blow, Has one sweet joy still left for him to know.

It is like early love’s imagining, That fragile pleasure which the Tulips bring, When suddenly we see them, in the Spring.

Not all the garden’s later royal train, Not great triumphant Roses, when they reign, Can bring that delicate delight again.

II

One of the sweetest hours is this; (Of all I think we like it best); A little restful oasis, Between the breakfast and the post. Just south of coffee and of toast, Just north of daily task and duty; Just west of dreams, this island gleams, A fertile spot of peace and beauty.

We wander out across the lawn; We idle by a bush in bloom; The household pets come following on; Or if the day is one of gloom, We loiter in a pleasant room, Or from a casement lean and chatter. Then comes the mail, like sudden hail, And off we scatter.

III

When Roses die, in languid August days, We leave the garden to its fallen ways, And seek the shelter of wide porticoes, Where Honeysuckle in defiance blows Undaunted by the sun’s too ardent rays.

The matron Summer turns a wistful gaze Across green valleys, back to tender Mays; And something of her large contentment goes, When Roses die; Yet all her subtle fascination stays To lure us into idle, sweet delays. The lowered awning by the hammock shows Inviting nooks for dreaming and repose; Oh, restful are the pleasures of those days When Roses die.

IV

The summer folk, fled back to town; The green woods changed to red and brown; A sound upon the frosty air Of windows closing everywhere.

And then the log, lapped by a blaze— Oh! what is better than these days; With books and friends and love a-near; Go on, gay world, but leave me here.

WORTHY THE NAME OF ‘SIR KNIGHT’

Sir Knight of the world’s oldest order, Sir Knight of the Army of God, You have crossed the strange mystical border, The ground-floor of truth you have trod; You stand on the typical threshold Which leads to the temple above; Where you come as a stone, and a Christ-chosen one, In the Kingdom of Friendship and Love.

As you stand in this new realm of beauty, Where each man you meet is your friend, Think not that your promise of duty In hall, or asylum, shall end. Outside, in the great world of pleasure. Beyond in the clamour of trade, In the battle of life and its coarse daily strife, Remember the vows you have made.

Your service, majestic and solemn, Your symbols, suggestive and sweet, Your uniform phalanx in column On gala-days marching the street; Your sword and your plume and your helmet, Your ‘secrets’ hid from the world’s sight; These things are the small, lesser parts of the all Which are needed to form the true Knight.

The martyrs who perished rejoicing, In Templary’s glorious laws, Who died ’midst the faggots while voicing The glory and worth of their cause— They honoured the title of ‘Templar’ No more than the Knight of to-day, Who mars not the name with one blemish of shame, But carries it clean through life’s fray.

To live for a cause; to endeavour To make your deeds grace it; to try And uphold its precepts for ever, Is harder by far than to die. For the battle of life is unending, The enemy, Self, never tires, And the true Knight must slay that sly foe every day, Ere he reaches the heights he desires.

Sir Knight, have you pondered the meaning Of all you have heard and been told? Have you strengthened your heart for its weaning From vices and faults loved of old? Will you honour, in hours of temptation, Your promises noble and grand? Will your spirit be strong to do battle with wrong, ‘And, having done all, to stand’?