Chapter 4

"For behold, the kingdom of God is within you."

Thy kingdom here? Lord, can it be? Searching and seeking everywhere For many a year, "Thy kingdom come" has been my prayer. Was that dear kingdom all the while so near?

Blinded and dull With selfish sin, Have I been sitting at the gates Called Beautiful, Where Thy fair angel stands and waits, With hand upon the lock to let me in?

Was I the wall Which barred the way, Darkening the glory of Thy grace, Hiding the ray Which, shining out as from Thy very face, Had shown to other men the perfect day?

Was I the bar Which shut me out From the full joyance which they taste Whose spirits are Within Thy Paradise embraced,-- Thy blessed Paradise, which seemed so far?

The vision swells: I seem to catch Celestial breezes, rustling low, The asphodels, Where, singing softly ever to and fro, Moves each fair saint who in Thy presence dwells.

Let me not sit Another hour, Idly awaiting what is mine to win, Blinded in wit, Lord Jesus, rend these walls of self and sin; Beat down the gate, that I may enter it.

A HOME.

What is a home? A guarded space, Wherein a few, unfairly blest, Shall sit together, face to face, And bask and purr and be at rest?

Where cushioned walls rise up between Its inmates and the common air, The common pain, and pad and screen From blows of fate or winds of care?

Where Art may blossom strong and free, And Pleasure furl her silken wing, And every laden moment be A precious and peculiar thing?

And Past and Future, softly veiled In hiding mists, shall float and lie Forgotten half, and unassailed By either hope or memory,

While the luxurious Present weaves Her perfumed spells untried, untrue, Broiders her garments, heaps her sheaves, All for the pleasure of a few?

Can it be this, the longed-for thing Which wanderers on the restless foam, Unsheltered beggars, birds on wing, Aspire to, dream of, christen "Home"?

No. Art may bloom, and peace and bliss; Grief may refrain and Death forget; But if there be no more than this, The soul of home is wanting yet.

Dim image from far glory caught, Fair type of fairer things to be, The true home rises in our thought, A beacon set for men to see.

Its lamps burn freely in the night, Its fire-glows unchidden shed Their cheering and abounding light On homeless folk uncomforted.

Each sweet and secret thing within Gives out a fragrance on the air,-- A thankful breath, sent forth to win A little smile from others' care.

The few, they bask in closer heat; The many catch the farther ray. Life higher seems, the world more sweet, And hope and Heaven less far away.

So the old miracle anew Is wrought on earth and proved good, And crumbs apportioned for a few, God-blessed, suffice a multitude.

THE LEGEND OF KINTU.

When earth was young and men were few, And all things freshly born and new Seemed made for blessing, not for ban, Kintu, the god, appeared as man. Clad in the plain white priestly dress, He journeyed through the wilderness, His wife beside. A mild-faced cow They drove, and one low-bleating lamb; He bore a ripe banana-bough, And she a root of fruitful yam: This was their worldly worth and store, But God can make the little more. The glad earth knew his feet; her mould Trembled with quickening thrills, and stirred. Miraculous harvests spread and rolled, The orchards shone with ruddy gold; The flocks increased, increased the herd, And a great nation spread and grew From the swift lineage of the two, Peopling the solitary place; A fair and strong and fruitful race, Who knew not pain nor want nor grief, And Kintu reigned their lord and chief.

So sped three centuries along, Till Kintu's sons waxed fierce and strong; They learned to war, they loved to slay; Cruel and dark grew all their faces; Discordant death-cries scared the day, Blood stained the green and holy places; And drunk with lust, with anger hot, His sons mild Kintu heeded not. At last the god arose in wrath, His sandals tied, and down the path, His wife beside him, as of yore, He went. A cow, a single lamb They took; one tuber of the yam; One yellow-podded branch they bore Of ripe banana,--these, no more, Of all the heaped-up harvest store. They left the huts, they left the tent, Nor turned, nor cast a backward look: Behind, the thick boughs met and shook. They vanished. Long with wild lament Mourned all the tribe, in vain, in vain; The gift once given was given no more, The grieved god came not again.

To what far paradise they fared, That heavenly pair, what wilderness Their gentle rule next owned and shared, Knoweth no man,--no man can guess. On secret roads, by pathways blind, The gods go forth, and none may find; But sad the world where God is not! By man was Kintu soon forgot, Or named and held as legend dim, But the wronged earth, remembering him, By scanty fruit and tardy grain And silent song revealed her pain. So centuries came, and centuries went, And heaped the graves and filled the tent. Kings rose, and fought their royal way To conquest over heaps of slain, And reigned a little. Then, one day, They vanished into dust again. And other kings usurped their place, Who called themselves of Kintu's race, And worshipped Kintu; not as he, The mild, benignant deity, Who held all life a holy thing, Be it of insect or of king, Would have ordained, but with wild rite, With altars heaped, and dolorous cries, And savage dance, and bale-fires light, An unaccepted sacrifice. At last, when thousand years were flown, The great Ma-anda filled the throne: A prince of generous heart and high, Impetuous, noble, fierce, and true; His wrath like lightning hurtling by, His pardon like the healing dew. And chiefs and sages swore each one He was great Kintu's worthiest son.

One night, in forests still and deep, A shepherd sat to watch his sheep, And started, as through darkness dim A strange voice rang and calmed to him: "Wake! there are wonders waiting thee! Go where the thick mimosas be, Fringing a little open plain, Honor and power wouldest thou gain? Go, foolish man, to fortune blind; Follow the stream, and thou shall find." Three several nights the voice was heard, Louder and more emphatic grown. Then, at the thrice-repeated word, The shepherd rose and went alone, Threading the mazes of the stream Like one who wanders in a dream. Long miles he ran, the stream beside, Which this way, that way, turned and sped, And called and sang, a noisy guide. At last its vagrant dances led To where the thick mimosas' shade Circled and fringed an open glade; There the wild streamlet danced away, The moon was shining strangely white, And by its fitful, gleaming ray The shepherd saw a wondrous sight; In the glade's midst, each on his mat, A group of armed warriors sat, White-robed, majestic, with deep eyes Fixed on him with a stern surprise; And in their midst an aged chief Enthroned sat, whose beard, like foam, Caressed his mighty knees. As leaf Shakes in the wind the shepherd shook, And veiled his eyes before that look, And prayed, and thought upon his home, Nor spoke, nor moved, till the old man, In voice like waterfall, began: "Shepherd, how names himself thy king?" "Ma-anda," answered, shuddering, The shepherd. "Good, thou speakest well. And now, my son, I bid thee tell Thy first king's name." "It was Kintu." "'Tis rightly said, thou answerest true. Hark! To Ma-anda, Kintu's son, Hasten, and bid him, fearing naught, Come hither, taking thee for guide; Thou and he, not another one, Not even a dog may run beside! Long has Ma-anda Kintu sought With spell and conjuration dim, Now Kintu has a word for him. Go, do thy errand, haste thee hence, Kintu insures thy recompense." All night the shepherd ran, star-led, All the hot day he hastened straight, Nor stopped for sleep, nor stopped for bread, Until he reached the city gate, And saw red rays of evening fall On the leaf-hutted capital. He sought the king, his tale he told. Ma-anda faltered not, nor stayed. He seized his spear, he left the tent: Shook off the brown arms of his queens, Who clasped his knees with wailing screams; On pain of instant death forbade That man should spy or follow him; And down the pathway, arching dim, Fearless and light of heart and bold Followed the shepherd where he went.

But one there was who loved his king Too well to suffer such strange thing,-- The chieftain of the host was he, Next to the monarch in degree; And, fearing wile or stratagem Menaced the king, he followed them With noiseless tread and out of sight. So on they fared the forest through, From evening shades to dawning light, From damning to the dusk and dew,-- The unseen follower and the two. Ofttimes the king turned back to scan The path, but never saw he man. At last the forest-guarded space They reached, where, ranged in order, sat, Each couched upon his braided mat, The white-robed warriors, face to face With their majestic chief. The king, Albeit unused to fear or awe, Bowed down in homage, wondering, And bent his eyes, as fearing to be Blinded by rays of deity. Then asked the mighty voice and calm, "Art thou Ma-anda called?" "I am." "And art thou king?" "The king am I," The bold Ma-anda made reply. "Tis rightly spoken; but, my son, Why hast thou my command forgot, That no man with thee to this spot Should come, except thy guide alone?" "No man has come," Ma-anda said.

"Alone we journeyed, he and I; And often have I turned my head, And never living thing could spy. None is there, on my faith as king." "A king's word is a weighty thing," The old man answered. "Let it be,-- But still a man HAS followed thee! Now answer, Ma-anda, one more thing: Who, first of all thy line, was king?" "Kintu the god." "'Tis well, my son, All creatures Kintu loved,--not one Too pitiful or weak or small; He knew them and he loved them all; And never did a living thing, Or bird in air or fish in lake, Endure a pang for Kintu's sake. Then rose his sons, of differing mind, Who gorged on cruel feasts each day, And bathed in blood, and joyed to slay, And laughed at pain and suffering. Then Kintu sadly went his way. The gods long-suffering are and kind, Often they pardon, long they wait; But men are evil, men are blind. After much tarriance, much debate, The good gods leave them to their fate; So Kintu went where none may find.

Each king in turn has sought since then, From Chora down, the first in line, To win lost Kintu back to men. Vain was his search, and vain were thine, Save that the gods have special grace To thee, Ma-anda. Face to face With Kintu thou shall stand, and he Shall speak the word of power to thee; Clasped to his bosom, thou shall share His knowledge of the earth, the air, And deep things, secret things, shall learn. But stay,"--the old man's voice grew stern,-- "Before I further speak, declare Who is that man in ambush there!" "There is no man,--no man I see." "Deny no longer, it is vain. Within the shadow of the tree He lurketh; lo, behold him plain!" And the king saw;--for at the word From covert stole the hidden spy, And sought his monarch's side. One cry, A lion's roar, Ma-anda gave, Then seized his spear, and poised and drave. Like lightning bolt it hissed and whirred, A flash across the midnight blue. A single groan, a jet of red, And, pierced and stricken through and through, Upon the ground the chief fell dead; But still with love no death could chase, His eyes sought out his master's face.

Blent with Ma-anda's a wild cry Of many voices rose on high, A shriek of anguish and despair. Which shook and filled the startled air; And when the king, his wrath still hot, Turned him, the little grassy plain All lonely in the moonlight lay: The chiefs had vanished all away As melted into thin, blue wind; Gone was the old man. Stunned and blind, For a long moment stood the king; He tried to wake; he rubbed his eyes, As though some fearful dream to end. It was no dream, this fearful thing: There was the forest, there the skies, The shepherd--and his murdered friend. With feverish haste, bewildered, mazed, This way and that he vainly sped, Beating the air like one half crazed; With prayers and cries unnumbered, Searching, imploring,--vain, all vain. Only the echoing woods replied, With mocking booms their long aisles through, "Come back, Kintu, Kintu, Kintu!" And pitiless to all his pain The unanswering gods his suit denied. At last, as dawning slowly crept To day, the king sank down and wept A space; then, lifting as they could The lifeless burden, once a man, He and the shepherd-guide began Their grievous journey through the wood, The long and hard and dreary way, Trodden so lightly yesterday; And the third day, at evening's fall, Gained the leaf-hutted capital. There burial rites were duly paid:

Like bridegroom decked for banqueting, The chief adorned his funeral-pyre; Rare gums and spices fed the fire, Perfumes and every precious thing; And songs were sung, and prayers were prayed, And priests danced jubilant all day. But prone the king Ma-anda lay, With ashes on his royal crest, And groaned, and beat upon his breast, And called on Kintu loud and wild: "Father, come back, forgive thy child!" Bitter the cry, but vain, all vain; The grieved god came not again.

EASTER.

When dawns on earth the Easter sun The dear saints feel an answering thrill. With whitest flowers their hands they fill; And, singing all in unison,

Unto the battlements they press-- The very marge of heaven--how near! And bend, and look upon us here With eyes that rain down tenderness.

Their roses, brimmed with fragrant dew, Their lilies fair they raise on high; "Rejoice! The Lord is risen!" they cry; "Christ is arisen; we prove it true!

"Rejoice, and dry those faithless tears With which your Easter flowers are stained; Share in our bliss, who have attained The rapture of the eternal years;

"Have proved the promise which endures, The Love that deigned, the Love that died; Have reached our haven by His side-- Are Christ's, but none the less are yours;

"Yours with a nearness never known While parted by the veils of sense; Infinite knowledge, joy intense, A love which is not love alone,

"But faith perfected, vision free, And patience limitless and wise-- Beloved, the Lord is risen, arise! And dare to be as glad as we!"

We do rejoice, we do give thanks, O blessed ones, for all your gain, As dimly through these mists of pain We catch the gleaming of your ranks.

We will arise, with zeal increased, Blending, the while we strive and grope, Our paler festival of Hope With your Fruition's perfect feast.

Bend low beloved, against the blue; Lift higher still the lilies fair, Till, following where our treasures are, We come to join the feast with you.

BIND-WEED.

In the deep shadow of the porch A slender bind-weed springs, And climbs, like airy acrobat, The trellises, and swings And dances in the golden sun In fairy loops and rings.

Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed with dew, Like pearly chalices, Hold cooling fountains, to refresh The butterflies and bees; And humming-birds on vibrant wings Hover, to drink at ease.

And up and down the garden-bed, Mid box and thyme and yew, And spikes of purple lavender, And spikes of larkspur blue, The bind-weed tendrils win their way, And find a passage through.

With touches coaxing, delicate, And arts that never tire, They tie the rose-trees each to each, The lilac to the brier, Making for graceless things a grace, With steady, sweet desire.

Till near and far the garden growths. The sweet, the frail, the rude, Draw close, as if with one consent, And find each other good, Held by the bind-weed's pliant loops, In a dear brotherhood.

Like one fair sister, slender, arch, A flower in bloom and poise, Gentle and merry and beloved, Making no stir or noise, But swaying, linking, blessing all A family of boys.

APRIL.

Hark! upon the east-wind, piping, creeping, Comes a voice all clamorous with despair; It is April, crying sore and weeping, O'er the chilly earth, so brown and bare.

"When I went away," she murmurs, sobbing, "All my violet-banks were starred with blue; Who, O, who has been here, basely robbing Bloom and odor from the fragrant crew?

"Who has reft the robin's hidden treasure,-- All the speckled spheres he loved so well? And the buds which danced in merry measure To the chiming of the hyacinth's bell?

"Where are all my hedge-rows, flushed with Maying? And the leafy rain, that tossed so fair, Like the spray from silver fountains playing, Where the elm-tree's column rose in air?

"All are vanished, and my heart is breaking; And my tears they slowly drip and fall; Only death could listen without waking To the grief and passion of my call!"

Thus she plaineth. Then ten million voices. Tiny, murmurous, like drops of rain, Raised in song as when the wind rejoices, Ring the answer, "We are here again.

"We were hiding, April. Did you miss us? None of us were really gone away; Stoop thy pretty head and gently kiss us Once before we all come out to play.

"Here are all the clustering burls of roses, And the dandelion's mimic sun; Of thy much-beloved and vanished posies None are missing, not a single one!"

Little points of green push out to greet her, Little creepers grasp her garment's hem, Hidden sweetnesses grow ever sweeter As she bends and brightly smiles at them.

Every tear is answered by a blossom, Every high with songs and laughter blent, Apple-blooms upon the breezes toss them. April knows her own, and is content.

MAY.

New flowery scents strewed everywhere, New sunshine poured in largesse fair, "We shall be happy now," we say. A voice just trembles through the air, And whispers, "May."

Nay, but we MUST! No tiny bud But thrills with rapture at the flood Of fresh young life which stirs to-day. The same wild thrill irradiates our blood; Why hint of "May"?

For us are coming fast and soon The delicate witcheries of June; July, with ankles deep in hay; The bounteous Autumn. Like a mocking tune Again sounds, "May."

Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet, Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet, And golden locks in breezy play, Half teasing and half tender, to repeat Her song of "May."

Ah, month of hope! all promised glee, All merry meanings, lie in thee; Surely no cloud can daunt thy day. The ripe lips part in smiling mockery, And murmur, "May."

Still from the smile a comfort may we glean; Although our "must-be's," "shall-be's," idle seem, Close to our hearts one little word we lay: We may not be as happy as we dream, But then we--may.

SECRETS.

In the long, bright summer, dear to bird and bee, When the woods are standing in liveries green and gay, Merry little voices sound from every tree, And they whisper secrets all the day.

If we knew the language, we should hear strange things; Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, deep in private chat. "How are all your nestlings, dear? Do they use their wings? What was that sad tale about a cat?"

"Where is your new cottage?" "Hush! I pray you, hush". Please speak very softly, dear, and make no noise. It is on the lowest bough of the lilac bush. And I am so dreadfully afraid of boys.

"Mr. Chirry chose the spot, without consulting me; Such a very public place, and insecure for it, I can scarcely sleep at night for nervousness; but he Says I am a silly thing and doesn't mind a bit."

"So the Bluebirds have contracted, have they, for a house? And a nest is under way for little Mr. Wren? Hush, dear, hush! Be quiet, dear; quiet as a mouse. These are weighty secrets, and we must whisper them."

Close the downy dowagers nestle on the bough While the timorous voices soften low with dread, And we, walking underneath, little reckon their Mysteries are couching in the tree-tops overhead.

Ah, the pretty whisperers! It was very well When the leaves were thick and green, awhile ago-- Leaves are secret-keepers; but since the last leaf fell There is nothing hidden from the eyes below.

Bared are the brown tenements, and all the world may see What Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, hid so close that day. In the place of rustling wings, cold winds rustling be, And thickly lie the icicles where once the warm brood lay.

Shall we tease the birdies, when they come back in spring,-- Tease and tell them we have fathomed all their secrets small, Every secret hiding-place and dear and precious, thing, Which they left behind the leaves, the red leaves, in the fall?

They would only laugh at us and wink their saucy eyes, And answer, "Last year's secrets are all past and told. New years bring new happenings and fresh mysteries, You are very welcome to the stale ones of the old!"

HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN.

I'll tell you how the leaves came down. The great Tree to his children said, "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red; It is quite time you went to bed."

"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer May; Dear Father Tree, behold our grief, 'Tis such a very pleasant day We do not want to go away."

So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whispering all their sports among,

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget And let us stay until the spring If we all beg and coax and fret." But the great Tree did no such thing; He smiled to hear their whispering.

"Come, children all, to bed," he cried; And ere the leaves could urge their prayer He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. "Good-night, dear little leaves" he said; And from below each sleepy child Replied "Good-night," and murmured, "It is so nice to go to bed."

BARCAROLES.

I.

Over the lapsing lagune all the day Urging my gondola with oar-strokes light, Always beside one shadowy waterway I pause and peer, with eager, jealous sight, Toward the Piazza where Pepita stands, Wooing the hungry pigeons from their flight.

Dark the canal; but she shines like the sun, With yellow hair and dreaming, wine-brown eyes. Thick crowd the doves for food. She gives ME none. She sees and will not see. Vain are my sighs. One slow, reluctant stroke. Aha! she turns, Gestures and smiles, with coy and feigned surprise.