Chapter 3

Yet the sea's depths are also mine, And in the old days I used to dive Into the caves, where corals shine And where the shimmering mer-folk live. I am the master of the sea In deeps where fairy flowers uncurl; That treasure-house belongs to me, Those amber halls, those stairs of pearl.

But now thereto I go no more, Because of all the argosies, Deep sunk upon the ocean floor, Where all the world's lost treasure lies. Where loveless laughter curls the lips Of wild sea creatures at their sport About the bones of noble ships, My ships, that never came to port.

"AND THE RAINS DESCENDED AND THE FLOODS CAME."

NOW the far waves roll nearer and more near, The wind's awake, the pitiless wind's awake, It shrieks the menace that I dare not hear, Soon at my feet the angry waves will break In desolating wrath--and here I stand Helpless my house is built upon the sand.

O you, whose house upon a rock is set, Laugh, safe and sure, at threatening wave and wind. You chose the better part and yet--and yet, There was no other ground that I could find, And I was weary and I longed to raise A house to guard my shivering nights and days.

And it was pleasant in the house I made, While still the floods and winds were held asleep. I blessed it at the dawn, at night I prayed As though its dear foundations had been deep Sunk in the rock. I whispered in surmise, "What if winds never wake, floods never rise?"

And now the waves are near and very near, And here I wait and wonder which may be The wave in which my house will disappear, My little house that loved and sheltered me, Where joy still sings, her garland in her hand, Built on the sand, oh God, built on the sand!

THE STAR.

I HAD a star to sing by, a beautiful star that led, But when I sang of its splendour the world in its wisdom said: "Sweet are your songs, yet the singer sings but in madness when He hymns but stars unbeholden of us his fellows of men; Glow-worms we see and marshlights; sing us sweet songs of those For the guerdons we have to give you, laurel and gold and rose; Or if you must sing of stars, unseen of your brother man, Go, starve with your eyes on your vision; your star may save if it can!"

So I said, "If I starve and die I never again shall see The glory, the high white radiance that hallows the world for me; I will sing their songs, if it must be, and when I have golden store, I will turn from the marsh and the glow-worms, and sing of my star once more." So I walked in the warm wet by-ways, not daring to lift my eyes Lest love should drive me to singing my star supreme in the skies, And the world cried out, "We will crown him, he sings of the lights that are, Glories of marshlight and glow-worms, not visions vain of a star!"

I said, "Now my brows are laurelled, my hands filled full of their gold, I will sing the starry songs that these earthworms bade withhold. It is time to sing of my star!" for I dreamed that my star still shone, Then I lifted my eyes in my triumph. Night! night! and my star was gone.

VII.

THE PRODIGAL SON.

COME home, come home, for your eyes are sore With the glare of the noonday sun, And nothing looks as it did before, And the best of the day is done.

You have played your match, and ridden your race, You have fought in your fight--and lost; And life has set its claws in your face, And you know what the scratches cost.

Out there the world is cruel and loud, It strikes at the beaten man; Come out of the press of the stranger crowd To the place where your life began.

The best robe lies in the cedar chest, And your father's ring is here; You have known the worst, come home to the best-- You will pay for it, never fear!

In every kiss of your sister's mouth, In each tear from your mother's eyes, You will pay the price of the days in the South Where the far-off country lies.

DESPAIR.

SMILE on me, mouth of red--so much too red, Shine on me, eyes which darkened lashes shade, Turn, turn my way, oh glorious golden head, My soul is lost, then let the price be paid! Amid rich flowers your rosy lamplight gleams, Amid rich hangings pass your scented hours, And woods and fields are green but in my dreams, And only in my dreams grow meadow-flowers.

I have forgotten everything but you-- The apple orchard where the whitethroat sings, The quiet fields, the moonlight, and the dew, The virgin's bower that in wet hedgerow clings. I have forgotten how the cool grass waves Where clean winds blow, and where good women pray For happy, honest men, safe in their graves; And--oh, my God! I would I were as they!

THE TEMPTATION.

YOU bring your love too late, dear, I have no love to buy it, I spent my love on worthless toys, at fairs you do not know; I am a bankrupt trader--dear eyes, do not deny it, I could have bought your love, dear, but that was long ago.

My soul has left me widowed, my heart has made me orphan, Leave me--all good things, dear, have left me--leave me too! For here is ice no tears of yours, no smiles of yours can soften: Leave me, leave me, leave me, I have no love for you!

I have no flowers to give you, they grow not in my garden; I have no songs to sing you, my songs have all been sung; I have no hope of heaven, no faith in any pardon, I might have loved you once, dear, when I was good and young.

I will not steal, nor cheat you; take back the heart you lent me. O God, whom I have outraged, now teach me how to pray, That love come never again so near me to torment me, Lest I be found less faithful than, by Thy grace, to-day.

SECOND NATURE.

WHEN I was young how fair the skies, Such folly of cloud, such blue depths wise, Such dews of morn, such calms of eve, So many the lure and the reprieve-- Life seemed a toy to break and mend And make a charm of in the end.

Then slowly all the dew dried up And only dust lay in the cup; And since, to slake his thirst, man must, I sought a cup that had no dust, And found it at the Goat and Vine-- Mingled of brandy, beer and wine.

The goat-cup, straight, drew down the skies And lit them in lunatick wise: What had been rose went scarlet red, And the pearl tints grew like the dead. And the fresh primrose of the morn Was the wet red of rain-spoiled corn.

Now, with a head that aches and nods I hold weak hands out to the gods; And oh! forgiving gods and kind, They give me healing to my mind, And show me once again the lawn Green and clear-gemmed with dews of dawn.

O gods, who look down from above Upon our tangle of lust and love, And, in your purity, perceive The worth of what our follies leave: Give us but this, and sink the rest-- To know that dew and dawn are best.

DE PROFUNDIS.

NOW I am cast into the serpent pit And, catching difficult breath From the writhing, loathsome, ceaseless stir of it, The venomous whispers of curling, clasping Death, I lift my soul out of the pit to Thee And reaching with my soul to where Thou art Look down, seeing with free heart The beast God gave my soul for company Lie with companions fit; And bid, with a good will, The serpent-fangs of ill Take their foul fill Of the foul fell it wore. Though a thousand serpent heads were raised to slay, A thousand twisting coils writhed where it lay, There lies the beast, there let it lie for me And agonize and rave; For Thou has raised my soul, Thy soul, to Thee! Thy soul, dear Lord, Thou hast been strong to save!

VIII.

AT THE GATE.

THE monastery towers, as pure and fair As virgin vows, reached up white hands to Heaven; The walls, to guard the hidden heart of prayer, Were strong as sin, and white as sin forgiven; And there came holy men, by world's woe driven; And all about the gold-green meadows lay Flower-decked, like children dear that keep May-holiday.

"Here," said the Abbot, "let us spend our days, Days sweetened by the lilies of pure prayer, Hung with white garlands of the rose of praise; And, lest the World should enter with her snare-- Enter and laugh and take us unaware With her red rose, her purple and her gold-- Choose we a stranger's hand the porter's keys to hold."

They chose a beggar from the world outside To keep their worldward door for them, and he, Filled with a humble and adoring pride, Built up a wall of proud humility Between the monastery's sanctity And the poor, foolish, humble folk who came To ask for love and care, in the dear Saviour's name.

For when the poor crept to the guarded gate To ask for succour, when the tired asked rest, When weary souls, bereft and desolate, Craved comfort, when the murmur of the oppressed Surged round the grove where prayer had made her nest, The porter bade such take their griefs away, And at some other door their bane and burden lay.

"For this," he said, "is the white house of prayer, Where day and night the holy voices rise Through the chill trouble of our earthly air, And enter at the gate of Paradise. Trample no more our flower-fields in such wise, Nor crave the alms of our deep-laden bough; The prayers of holy men are alms enough, I trow."

So, seeing that no sick or sorrowing folk Came ever to be healed or comforted, The Abbot to his brothers gladly spoke: "God has accepted our poor prayers," he said; "Over our land His answering smile is spread. He has put forth His strong and loving hand, And sorrow and sin and pain have ceased in all the land.

"So make we yet more rich our hymns of praise, Warm we our prayers against our happy heart. Since God hath taken the gift of all our days To make a spell that bids all wrong depart, Has turned our praise to balm for the world's smart, Fulfilled of prayer and praise be every hour, For God transfigures praise, and transmutes prayer, to power."

So went the years. The flowers blossomed now Untrampled by the dusty, weary feet; Unbroken hung the green and golden bough, For none came now to ask for fruit or meat, For ghostly food, or common bread to eat; And dreaming, praying, the monks were satisfied, Till, God remembering him, the beggar-porter died.

When they had covered up the foolish head, And on the foolish loving heart heaped clay, "Which of us, brothers, now," the Abbot said, "Will face the world, to keep the world away?" But all their hearts were hard with prayer, and "Nay," They cried, "ah, bid us not our prayers to leave; Ah, father, not to-day, for this is Easter Eve".

And, while they murmured, to their midst there came A beggar saying, "Brothers, peace, be still! I am your Brother, in our Father's name, And I will be your porter, if ye will, Guarding your gate with what I have of skill". So all they welcomed him and closed the door, And gat them gladly back unto their prayers once more.

But, lo! no sooner did the prayer arise, A golden flame athwart the chancel dim, Then came the porter crying, "Haste, arise! A sick old man waits you to tend on him; And many wait--a knight whose wound gapes grim, A red-stained man, with red sins to confess, A mother pale, who brings her child for you to bless".

The brothers hastened to the gate, and there With unaccustomed hand and voice they tried To ease the body's pain, the spirit's care; But ere the task was done, the porter cried: "Behold, the Lord sets your gate open wide, For here be starving folk who must be fed, And little ones that cry for love and daily bread!"

And, with each slow-foot hour, came ever a throng Of piteous wanderers, sinful folk and sad, And still the brothers ministered, but long The day seemed, with no prayer to make them glad; No holy, meditative joys they had, No moment's brooding-place could poor prayer find, Mid all those heart to heal and all those wounds to bind.

And when the crowded, sunlit day at last Left the field lonely with its trampled flowers, Into the chapel's peace the brothers passed To quell the memory of those hurrying hours. "Our holy time," they said, "once more is ours! Come, let us pay our debt of prayer and praise, Forgetting in God's light the darkness of man's ways!"

But, ere their voices reached the first psalm's end, They heard a new, strange rustling round their house; Then came the porter: "Here comes many a friend, Pushing aside your budding orchard boughs; Come, brothers, justify your holy vows. Here be God's patient, poor, four-footed things Seek healing at God's well, whence loving-kindness springs."

Then cried the Abbot in a vexed amaze, "Our brethren we must aid, if 'tis God's will; But the wild creatures of the forest ways Himself God heals with His Almighty skill. And charity is good, and love--but still God shall not look in vain for the white prayers We send on silver feet to climb the starry stairs;

"For, of all worthy things, prayer has most worth, It rises like sweet incense up to heaven, And from God's hand falls back upon the earth, Being of heavenly bread the accepted leaven. Through prayer is virtue saved and sin forgiven; In prayer the impulse and the force are found That bring in purple and gold the fruitful seasons round.

"For prayer comes down from heaven in the sun That giveth life and joy to all things made; Prayer falls in rain to make broad rivers run And quickens the seeds in earth's brown bosom laid; By prayer the red-hung branch is earthward weighed, By prayer the barn grows full, and full the fold, For by man's prayer God works his wonders manifold."

The porter seemed to bow to the reproof; But when the echo of the night's last prayer Died in the mystery of the vaulted roof, A whispered memory in the hallowed air, The Abbot turned to find him standing there. "Brother," he said, "I have healed the woodland things And they go happy and whole--blessing Love's ministerings,

"And, having healed them, I shall crave your leave To leave you--for to-night I journey far. But I have kept your gate this Easter Eve, And now your house to heaven shines like a star To show the Angels where God's children are; And in this day your house has served God more Than in the praise and prayer of all its years before.

"Yet I must leave you, though I fain would stay, For there are other gates I go to keep Of houses round whose walls, long day by day, Shut out of hope and love, poor sinners weep-- Barred folds that keep out God's poor wandering sheep-- I must teach these that gates where God comes in Must not be shut at all to pain, or want, or sin.

"The voice of prayer is very soft and weak, And sorrow and sin have voices very strong; Prayer is not heard in heaven when those twain speak, The voice of prayer faints in the voice of wrong By the just man endured--oh, Lord, how long?-- If ye would have your prayers in heaven be heard, Look that wrong clamour not with too intense a word.

"But when true love is shed on want and sin, Their cry is changed, and grows to such a voice As clamours sweetly at heaven to be let in-- Such sound as makes the saints in heaven rejoice; Pure gold of prayer, purged of the vain alloys Of idleness--that is the sound most dear Of all the earthly sounds God leans from heaven to hear.

"Oh, brother, I must leave thee, and for me The work is heavy, and the burden great. Thine be this charge I lay upon thee: See That never again stands barred thy abbey gate; Look that God's poor be not left desolate; Ah me! that chidden my shepherds needs must be When my poor wandering sheep have so great need of me.

"Brother, forgive thy Brother if he chide, Thy Brother loves thee--and has loved--for see The nails are in my hands, and in my side The spear-wound; and the thorns weigh heavily Upon my brow--brother, I died for thee-- For thee, and for my sheep that are astray, And rose to live for thee, and them, on Easter Day!"

"My Master and my Lord!" the Abbot cried. But, where that face had been, shone the new day; Only on the marble by the Abbot's side, Where those dear feet had stood, a lily lay-- A lily white for the white Easter Day. He sought the gate--no sorrow clamoured there-- And, not till then, he dared to sink his soul in prayer.

And from that day himself he kept the gate Wide open; and the poor from far and wide, The weary, and wicked, and disconsolate, Came there for succour and were not denied; The sick were healed, the repentant sanctified; And from their hearts rises more prayer and praise Than ever the abbey knew in all its prayer-filled days.

And there the Heavenly vision comes no more, Only, each Easter now, a lily sweet Lies white and dewy on the chancel floor Where once had stood the beloved wounded feet; And the old Abbot feels the nearing beat Of wings that bring him leave at last to go And meet his Master, where the immortal lilies grow.

VIA AMORIS.

I.

IT is not Love, this beautiful unrest, This tremor of longing that invades my breast: For Love is in his grave this many a year, He will not rise--I do not wish him here. It is not memory, for your face and eyes Are not reflected where that dark pool lies: It is not hope, for life makes no amends, And hope and I are long no longer friends: It is a ghost out of another Spring It needs but little for its comforting-- That I should hold your hand and see your face And muse a little in this quiet place, Where, through the silence, I can hear you sigh And feel you sadden, O Virgin Mystery, And know my thought has in your thought begot Sadness, its child, and that you know it not.

II.

If this were Love, if all this bitter pain Were but the birth-pang of Love born again, If through the doubts and dreams resolved, smiled The prophetic promise of the holy child, What should I gain? The Love whose dream-lips smiled Could never be my own and only child, But to Love's birth would come, with the last pain, Renunciation, also born again.

III.

If this were Love why should I turn away? Am I not, too, made of the common clay? Is life so fair, am I so fortunate, I can refuse the capricious gift of Fate, The sudden glory, the unhoped-for flowers, The transfiguration of my earthly hours?

Come, Love! the house is garnished and is swept, Washed clean with all the tears that I have wept, Washed from the stain of my unworthy fears, Hung with the splendid spoils of wasted years, Lighted with lamps of hope, and curtained fast Against the gathered darkness of the past.

I draw the bolts! I throw the portals wide, The darkness rushes shivering to my side, Love is not here--the darkness creeps about My house wherein the lamps of hope die out. Ah Love! it was not then your hand that came Beating my door? your voice that called my name?

IV.

"It is not Love, it is not Love," I said, And bowed in fearful hope my trembling head. "It is not Love, for Love could never rise Out of the rock-hewn grave wherein he lies." But as I spake, the heavenly form drew near Where close I clasped a hope grown keen as fear, Upon my head His very hand He laid And whispered, "It is I, be not afraid!"

V.

And this is Love, no rose-crowned laughing guest By whom my passionate heart should be caressed, But one re-risen from the grave; austere, Cold as the grave, and infinitely dear, To follow whom I lay the whole world down, Take up the cross, bind on the thorny crown; And, following whom, my bleeding pilgrim feet Find the rough pathway sure and very sweet. The august environment of mighty wings Shuts out the snare of vain imaginings, For by my side, crowned with Love's death-white rose, The Angel of Renunciation goes.

RETRO SATHANAS.

"REFUSE, refrain: for this is not the love The Annunciation Angel warned you of; This is the little candle, not the sun; It burns, but will not warm, unhappy one!"

"But ah! suppose the sun should never shine, Then what an anguish of regret were mine To know that even from this I turned away! Candles may serve, if there should be no day."

"Nay, better to go cold your whole life long Than do the sun, than do your soul such wrong: And if the sun shine not, be life's the blame And yours the pride, who scorned the meaner flame."

THE OLD DISPENSATION.

O THOU, who, high in heaven, To man hast given This clouded earthly life All storm and strife, Blasted with ice and fire, Love and desire, Filled with dead faith, and love That change is master of--

O Thou, who mightest have given To all Thy heaven, But who, instead, didst give This life we live-- Who feedest with blood and tears The hungry years-- I make one prayer to Thee, O Great God! grant it me.

Some day when summer shows Her leaf, her rose, God, let Thy sinner lie Under Thy sky, And feel Thy sun's large grace Upon his face; Then grant him this, that he May not believe in Thee!

THE NEW DISPENSATION.

OUT in the sun the buttercups are gold, The daisies silver all the grassy lane, And spring has given love a flower to hold, And love lays blindness on the eyes of pain.

Within are still, chill aisles and blazoned panes And carven tombs where memory weeps no more. And from the lost and holy days remains One saint beside the long-closed western door.

Outside the world goes laughing lest it weep, With here and there some happy child at play; A mother worshipping the babe asleep, Or two young lovers dreaming 'neath the May.

Within, the soul of love broods o'er the place; The carven saint forgotten many a year Still lifts to heaven his rapt adoring face To pray, for those who leave him lonely here,

That once again the silent church may ring With songs of joy triumphant over pain-- Ah! God, who makest the miracle of spring Make Thou dead faith and love to rise again.

THE THREE KINGS.

WHEN the star in the East was lit to shine The three kings journeyed to Palestine;

They came from the uttermost parts of earth With long trains laden with gifts of worth.

The first king rode on a camel's back, He came from the land where the kings are black,

Bringing treasures desired of kings, Rubies and ivory and precious things.

An elephant carried the second king, He came from the land of the sun-rising,

And gems and gold and spices he bare With broidered raiment for kings to wear.

The third king came without steed or train From the misty land where the white kings reign.

He bore no gifts save the myrrh in his hand, For he came on foot from a far-off land.

Now when they had travelled a-many days Through tangled forests and desert ways,

By angry seas and by paths thorn-set On Christmas Vigil the three kings met.

And over their meeting a shrouded sky Made dark the star they had travelled by.

Then the first king spake and he frowned and said: "By some ill spell have our feet been led,

"Now I see in the darkness the fools we are To follow the light of a lying star.

"Let us fool no more, but like kings and men Each get him home to his land again!"

Then the second king with the weary face, Gold-tinct as the sun of his reigning place,

Lifted sad eyes to the clouds and said, "It was but a dream and the dream is sped.

"We dreamed of a star that rose new and fair, But it sets in the night of the old despair.

"Yet night is faithful though stars betray, It will lead to our kingdoms far away."

Then spake the king who had fared alone From the far-off kingdom, the white-hung throne:

"O brothers, brothers, so very far Ye have followed the light of the radiant star,

"And because for a while ye see it not Shall its faithful shining be all forgot?