Chapter III (1)

But what of you? Who took the mother’s place
When sweet expanding love its object sought?
Was there a voice to tell her tragic lot,
And did you ever look upon her face?
Was yours a cloistered seeking after grace?
Or in the flame of adolescent thought
Were Abelard’s departed passions caught
To burn again in you and leave their trace?

Conceived in nature’s bold primordial way
(As in their revolutions, suns create),
You came to earth, a soul immaculate,
Baptized in fire, with some great part to play.
What was that part, and wherefore hid from us,
Immortal mystery, Astrolabius!

COMPLETION

When I shall meet God’s generous dispensers
Of all the riches in the heavenly store,
Those lesser gods, who act as Recompensers
For loneliness and loss upon this shore,
Methinks abashed, and somewhat hesitating,
My soul its wish and longing will declare.
Lest they reply: ‘Here are no bounties waiting:
We gave on earth, your portion and your share.’

Then shall I answer: ‘Yea, I do remember
The many blessings to my life allowed;
My June was always longer than December,
My sun was always stronger than my cloud,
My joy was ever deeper than my sorrow,
My gain was ever greater than my loss,
My yesterday seemed less than my to-morrow,
The crown looked always larger than the cross.

‘I have known love, in all its radiant splendour,
It shone upon my pathway to the end.
I trod no road that did not bloom with tender
And fragrant blossoms, planted by some friend.
And those material things we call successes,
In modest measure, crowned my earthly lot.
Yet was there one sweet happiness that blesses
The life of woman, which to me came not.

‘I knew the hope of motherhood; a season
I felt a fluttering heart beat ’neath my own;
A little cry—then silence. For that reason
I dare, to you, my only wish make known.
The babe who grew to angelhood in heaven,
I never watched unfold from child to man.
And so I ask, that unto me be given
That motherhood, which was God’s primal plan.

‘All womankind He meant to share its glories;
He meant us all to nurse our babes to rest.
To croon them songs, to tell them sleepy stories,
Else why the wonder of a woman’s breast?
He must provide for all earth’s cheated mothers
In His vast heavens of shining sphere on sphere,
And with my son, there must be many others—
My spirit children who will claim me here.

‘Fair creatures by my loving thoughts created—
Too finely fashioned for a mortal birth—
Between the borders of two worlds they waited
Until they saw my spirit leave the earth.
In God’s great nursery they must be waiting
To welcome me with many an infant wile.
Now let me go and satisfy this longing
To mother children for a little while.’

SLEEP’S TREACHERY

As the grey twilight, tiptoed down the deep
And shadowy valley, to the day’s dark end,
She whom I thought my ever-faithful friend,
Fair-browed, calm-eyed and mother-bosomed Sleep,
Met me with smiles. ‘Poor longing heart, I keep
Sweet joy for you,’ she murmured. ‘I will send
One whom you love, with your own soul to blend
In visions, as the night hours onward creep.’

I trusted her; and watched by starry beams,
I slumbered soundly, free from all alarms.
Then not my love, but one long banished came,
Led by false Sleep, down secret stairs of dreams
And clasped me, unresisting in fond arms.
Oh, treacherous sleep—to sell me to such shame!

ART _VERSUS_ CUPID

[_A room in a private house_. _A maiden sitting before a fire meditating_.]

MAIDEN

Now have I fully fixed upon my part.
Good-bye to dreams; for me a life of art!
Beloved art! Oh, realm serene and fair,
Above the mean and sordid world of care,
Above earth’s small ambitions and desires!
Art! art! the very word my soul inspires!
From foolish memories it sets me free.
Not what has been, but that which is to be
Absorbs me now. Adieu to vain regret!
The bow is tensely drawn—the target set.

[_A knock at the door_.]

MAID (_aside_)

The night is dark and chill; the hour is late.

(_Aloud_)

Who knocks upon my door?

_A Voice Outside_

’Tis I, your fate!

MAID

Thou dost deceive, not me, but thine own self.
My fate is not a wandering, vagrant elf.
My fate is here, within this throbbing heart
That beats alone for glory, and for art.

_Voice_

[_Another knock at door_.]

Pray, let me in; I am so faint and cold.

[_Door is pushed ajar_. _Enter_ CUPID, _who approaches the fire with outstretched hands_.]

MAID (_indignantly_)

Methinks thou art not faint, however cold,
But rather too courageous, and most bold;
Surprisingly ill-mannered, sir, and rude,
Without an invitation to intrude
Into my very presence.

CUPID (_warming his hands_)

But, you see,
Girls never mind a little chap like me.
They’re always watching for me on the sly,
And hoping I will call.

MAID (_haughtily_)

Indeed, not I!
My heart has listened to a sweeter voice,
A clarion call that gives command—not choice.
And I have answered to that call, ‘I come’;
To other voices shall my ears be dumb.
To art alone I consecrate my life—
Art is my spouse, and I his willing wife.

CUPID (_slowly_, _gazing in the grate_)

Art is a sultan, and you must divide
His love with many another ill-fed bride.
Now I know one who worships you alone.

MAID (_impatiently_)

I will not listen! for the dice is thrown
And art has won me. On my brow some day
Shall rest the laurel wreath—

CUPID (_sitting down and looking at_ MAID _critically_)

Just let me say
I think sweet orange blossoms under lace
Are better suited to your type of face.

MAID (_ignoring interruption_)

I yet shall stand before an audience
That listens as one mind, absorbed, intense,
And with my genius I shall rouse its cheers,
Still it to silence, soften it to tears,
Or wake its laughter. Oh, the play! the play!
The play’s the thing! My boy, _the play_!!

CUPID (_suddenly clapping his hands_)

Oh, say!
I know a splendid role for you to take,
And one that always keeps the house awake—
And calls for pretty dressing. Oh, it’s great!

MAID (_excitedly_)

Well, well, what is it? Wherefore make me wait?

CUPID (_tapping his brow_, _thoughtfully_)

How is it those lines run—oh, now I know;
You make a stately entrance—measured—slow—
To stirring music, then you kneel and say
Something about—to honour and obey—
For better and for worse—till death do part.

MAID (_angrily_)

Be still, you foolish boy; that is not _art_.

CUPID (_seriously_)

She needs great skill who takes the role of wife
In God’s stupendous drama human life.

MAID (_suddenly becoming serious_)

So I once thought! Oh, once my very soul
Was filled and thrilled with dreaming of that role.
Life seemed so wonderful; it held for me
No purpose, no ambition, but to be
Loving and loved. My highest thought of fame
Was some day bearing my dear lover’s name.
Alone, I ofttimes uttered it aloud,
Or wrote it down, half timid, and all proud
To see myself lost utterly in him:
As some small star might joy in growing dim
When sinking in the sun; or as the dew,
Forgetting the brief little life it knew
In space, might on the ocean’s bosom fall
And ask for nothing—only to give all.

CUPID (_aside_)

Now, _that’s_ the talk—it’s music to my ear
After that stuff on ‘art’ and a ‘career.’
I hope she’ll keep it up.

MAIDEN (_continuing her reverie_)

Again my dream
Shaped into changing pictures. I would seem
To see myself in beautiful array
Move down the aisle upon my wedding day;
And then I saw the modest living-room
With lighted lamp, and fragrant plants in bloom,
And books and sewing scattered all about,
And just we two alone.

CUPID (_in glee aside_)

There’s not a doubt
I’ll land her yet!

MAIDEN

My dream kaleidoscope
Changed still again, and framed love’s dearest hope—
The trinity of home; and life was good
And all its deepest meaning understood.

[_Sits lost in a dream_. _Behind scenes a voice sings a lullaby_, ‘_Beautiful Land of Nod_.’ CUPID _in ecstasy tiptoes about and clasps his hands in delight_.]

Another scene! a matron in her prime,
I saw myself glide peacefully with time
Into the quiet middle years, content
With simple joys the dear home circle lent.
My sons and daughters made my diadem;
I saw my happy youth renewed in them.
The pain of growing old lost all its sting,
For Love stood near—in Winter, as in Spring.

[CUPID _tiptoes to door and makes a signal_. MAIDEN _starts up dramatically_.]

’Twas but a dream! I woke all suddenly.
The world had changed! And now life means to me
My art—the stage—excitement and the crowd—
The glare of many foot-lights—and the loud
Applause of men, as I cry in rage,
‘Give me the dagger!’ or creep down the stage
In that sleep-walking scene. Oh, art like mine
Will send the chills down every listener’s spine!
And when I choose, salt tears shall freely flow
As in the moonlight I cry, ‘Romeo! Romeo!
Oh, wherefore art thou, Romeo?’
Ay, ’tis done
My dream of home life.

CUPID

It is but begun.

MAIDEN

The heart but once can dream a dream so fair,
And so henceforth love thoughts I do forswear;
Since faith in love has crumbled to the dust,
In fame alone, I put my hope and trust.

[CUPID _at the door beckons excitedly_. _Enter lover with outstretched arms_.]

CUPID

Here’s one who will explain yourself to you
And make that old sweet dream of love come true.
Fix up your foolish quarrel; time is brief—
So waste no more of it in doubt or grief.

[_The lovers meet and embrace_.]

CUPID (_in doorway_)

Warm lip to lip, and heart to beating heart,
The cast is made—My Lady has her part.

CURTAIN

THE REVOLT OF VASHTI (FROM THE DRAMA OF MIZPAH)

AHASUERAS

Is this the way to greet thy loving spouse,
But now returned from scenes of blood and strife?
I pray thee raise thy veil and let me gaze
Upon that beauty which hath greater power
To conquer me than all the arts of war!

VASHTI

My beauty! Ay, my _beauty_! I do hold,
In thy regard, no more an honoured place
Than yonder marble pillar, or the gold
And jewelled wine-cup which thy lips caress.
Thou wouldst degrade me in the people’s sight!

AHASUERAS

Degrade thee, Vashti? Rather do I seek
To show my people who are gathered here
How, as the consort of so fair a queen,
I feel more pride than as the mighty king:
For there be many rulers on the earth,
But only _one_ such queen. Come, raise thy veil!

VASHTI

Ay! only _one_ such queen! A queen is one
Who shares her husband’s greatness and his throne.
I am no more than yonder dancing girl
Who struts and smirks before a royal court!
But I will loose my veil and loose my tongue!
Now listen, sire—my master and my king;
And let thy princes and the court give ear!
’Tis time all heard how Vashti feels her shame.

AHASUERAS

Shame is no word to couple with thy name!
Shame and a spotless woman may not meet,
Even in a sentence. Choose another word.

VASHTI

Ay, _shame_, my lord—there is no synonym
That can give voice to my ignoble state.
To be a thing for eyes to gaze upon,
Yet held an outcast from thy heart and mind;
To hear my beauty praised but not my worth;
To come and go at Pleasure’s beck and call,
While barred from Wisdom’s conclaves! Think ye _that_
A noble calling for a noble dame?
Why, any concubine amongst thy train
Could play my royal part as well as I—
Were she as fair!

AHASUERAS

Queen Vashti, art thou _mad_?
I would behead another did he dare
To so besmirch thee with comparison.

VASHTI (_to the court_)

Gaze now your fill! Behold Queen Vashti’s eyes!
How large they gleam beneath her inch of brow!
How like a great white star, her splendid face
Shines through the midnight forest of her hair!
And see the crushed pomegranate of her mouth!
Observe her arms, her throat, her gleaming breasts,
Whereon the royal jewels rise and fall!—
And note the crescent curving of her hips,
And lovely limbs suggested ’neath her robes!
Gaze, gaze, I say, for these have made her queen!
She hath no mind, no heart, no dignity,
Worth royal recognition and regard;
But her fair body approbation meets
And whets the sated appetite of kings!
Now ye have seen what she was bid to show.
The queen hath played her part and begs to go.

AHASUERAS

Ay, Vashti, go and never more return!
Not only hast thou wronged thine own true lord,
And mocked and shamed me in the people’s eyes,
But thou hast wronged all princes and all men
By thy pernicious and rebellious ways.
Queens act and subjects imitate. So let
Queen Vashti weigh her conduct and her words,
Or be no more called ‘queen!’

VASHTI

I was a princess ere I was a queen,
And worthy of a better fate than this!
There lies the crown that made me queen in name!
Here stands the woman—wife in name alone!
Now, no more queen—nor wife—but woman still—
Ay, and a woman strong enough to be
Her own avenger.

THE CHOOSING OF ESTHER (FROM THE DRAMA OF MIZPAH)

AHASUERAS

Tell me thy name!

ESTHER

My name, great sire, is Esther.

AHASUERAS

So thou art Esther? Esther! ’tis a name
Breathed into sound as softly as a sigh.
A woman’s name should melt upon the lips
Like Love’s first kisses, and thy countenance
Is fit companion for so sweet a name!

ESTHER

Thou art most kind. I would my name and face
Were mine own making and not accident.
Then I might feel elated at thy praise,
Where now I feel confusion.

AHASUERAS

Thou hast wit
As well as beauty, Esther. Both are gems
That do embellish woman in man’s sight.
Yet they are gems of second magnitude!
Dost _thou_ possess the one great perfect gem—
The matchless jewel of the world called _love_?

ESTHER

Sire, in the heart of every woman dwells
That wondrous perfect gem!

AHASUERAS

Then, Esther, speak!
And tell me what is _love_! I fain would know
Thy definition of that much-mouthed word,
By woman most employed—least understood.

ESTHER

What can a humble Jewish maiden know
That would instruct a warrior and a king?
I have but dreamed of love as maidens will
While thou hast known its fulness. All the world
Loves Great Ahasueras!

AHASUERAS

All the world
_Fears great_ Ahasueras! Kings, my child,
Are rarely loved as anything but kings.
Love, as I see it in the court and camp,
Means seeking royal favour. I would know
How love is fashioned in a maiden’s dreams.

ESTHER

Sire, love seeks nothing that kings can bestow.
Love is the king of all kings here below;
Love makes the monarch but a bashful boy,
Love makes the peasant monarch in his joy;
Love seeks not place, all places are the same,
When lighted by the radiance of love’s flame.
Who deems proud love could fawn to power and splendour
Hath known not love, but some base-born pretender.

AHASUERAS

If this be love, I would know more of it.
Speak on, fair Esther! What is love beside?

ESTHER

Love is in all things, all things are in love.
Love is the earth, the sea, the skies above;
Love is the bird, the blossom, and the wind;
Love hath a million eyes, yet love is blind;
Love is a tempest, awful in its might;
Love is the silence of a moon-lit night;
Love is the aim of every human soul;
And he who hath not loved hath missed life’s goal!

AHASUERAS

But tell me of thyself, of thine own dreams!
How wouldst thou love, and how be loved again?

ESTHER

Who most doth love thinks least of love’s return;
She is content to feel the passion burn
In her own bosom, and its sacred fire
Consumes each selfish purpose and desire.
’Tis in the giving, love’s best rapture lies,
Not in the counting of the things it buys.

AHASUERAS

Yet, is there not vast anguish and despair
In love that finds no answering word or smile?

ESTHER

So radiant is love, it lends a glow
To each dark sorrow and to every woe.
To love completely is to part with pain,
Nor is there mortal who can love in vain.
Love is its own reward, it pays full measure,
And in love’s sharpest grief lies subtlest pleasure.

AHASUERAS

Methinks, a mighty warrior, lord or king
Must in thy fancy play the lover’s part;
None else could wake such reverential thought.

ESTHER

When woman loves one born of lowly state,
Her thought gives crown and sceptre to her mate;
Yet be he king, or chief of some great clan,
She loves him but as woman loves a man.
Monarch or peasant, ’tis the same, I wis
When once she gives him love’s surrendering kiss.

HONEYMOON SCENE (FROM THE DRAMA OF MIZPAH)

AHASUERAS

What were thy thoughts, sweet Esther? Something passed
Across thy face, that for a moment veiled
Thy soul from mine, and left me desolate.
Thy thoughts were not of me?

ESTHER

Ay, _all_ of thee!
I wondered, if in truth, thou wert content
With me—thy choice. Was there no other one
Of all who passed before thee at thy court
Whose memory pursues thee with regret?

AHASUERAS

I do confess I much regret that day
And wish I could relive it.

ESTHER

Oh! My lord!

AHASUERAS

Yea! I regret those hours I wasted on
The poor procession that preceded thee.
Hadst thou come first, then all the added wealth

Of one long day of loving thee were mine—
A boundless fortune squandered. Though I live
To three score years and ten, as I do hope,
In wedded love beside thee, that one day
Was filched from me and cannot be restored.

ESTHER

And then to think how frightened and abashed
I hung outside thy gates from early morn,
Not daring to go in and meet thine eyes,
Till pitying twilight clothed me in her veil,
And evening walked beside me to thy door.

AHASUERAS

So it was thou, fair thief, who stole that day,
And made me poorer, by—how many hours?

ESTHER

Full eight, I think. They seemed a hundred then,
And now time flies a hundred times too fast.

AHASUERAS

Then eight more kisses do I claim from thee,
This very hour—first tithes of many due.
I shall exact these payments as I will,
And if they be not ready on demand,
I’ll lock thee in the prison of my arms,
Like this—and take them so—and so—and so!

ESTHER

But kings must think of other things than love
And live for other aims than happiness.
I would not drag thee from thy altitude
Of mighty ruler and great conqueror
To chain thee by my side.

AHASUERAS

Such slavery
Would please me better than to conquer earth
Without thee, Esther. I have stood on heights
And heard the cheers of multitudes below;
Have known the loneliness of being great.
Now, let me live and love thee, like a man,
Forgetting I am king—
I am content.

ESTHER

Content is not the pathway to great deeds.
As man, I hold thee higher than all kings;
As king, thou must stand higher than all men
In other eyes. Let no one say of me:
‘She spoiled his greatness by her littleness;
She made a languorous lover of a king,
And silenced war-cries on commanding lips—
With honeyed kisses; made her woman’s arms
Preferred to armour, and her couch to tents,
Until the kingdom, with no guiding hand,
Plunged down to ruin.’

AHASUERAS

Thou wouldst have me go—
So soon thy heart hath wearied?

ESTHER

My heart is bursting with its love for thee!
Canst thou not feel its fervour? But great men
Need wiser guidance than a woman’s heart.
My pride in thee is equal to my love,
And I would have thee greater than thou art—
Ay, greater than all other men on earth—
Though forced long years to feed my hungry heart
On food of memories and wine of tears,
Wert thou but winning glory and renown.

AHASUERAS

Thou art most noble, Esther; thou art fit
To be the consort of a king of kings.
But I have chewed upon ambition’s husks
And starved for love through all my manhood’s years;
And now the mighty gods have seen it fit
To spread love’s banquet and to name thee host,
May I not feast my fill? O Esther, take
The tempting nectar of those lips away
And give me wine to rouse the brute in me,
To make me thirst for blood instead of love!
Wine! Wine! I say!

ESTHER

Ahasueras, wait!
Methinks good music is wine turned to sound.
Here comes thy minstrel with an offering
Pressed from the ripened fruit of my fond heart.
Mine own the words and mine the melody
And may it linger longer in thine ear
Than on thy lip would stay the taste of wine.
Sing on!

MINSTREL

When from the field returning,
Love is a warrior’s yearning,
Love in his heart is burning,
Love is his dream.
Talk not to him of glory,
Speak not of faces gory,
Sing of love’s tender story,
Make it thy theme.
Sing of his lady’s tresses,
Sing of the smile that blesses,
Sing of the sweet caresses,
And yet again
Sing of fair children’s faces,
Sing of the dear home graces,
Sing till the vacant places,
Ring with thy strain.
Yet as the days go speeding,
Shall he arise unheeding
Love songs or words of pleading,
Strong in his might!
Helmet and armour wearing,
Hies he to deeds of daring,
Forth to the battle faring,
Back to the fight.
Sing now of ranks contending,
Sing of loud voices blending,
Sing of great warriors sending
Death to their foes!
Sing of war missiles humming,
Strike into martial drumming,
Sing of great victory coming,
As forth he goes.
Back to the battle faring,
Back into deeds of daring,
Back to the fight.

AHASUERAS

No less a lover but a greater man,
A better warrior and a nobler king,
I will be from this hour for thy dear sake.

THE COST

God finished woman in the twilight hour
And said, ‘To-morrow thou shalt find thy place:
Man’s complement, the mother of the race—
With love the motive power—
The one compelling power.’

All night she dreamed and wondered. With the light
Her lover came—and then she understood
The purpose of her being. Life was good
And all the world seemed right—
And nothing was, but right.

She had no wish for any wider sway:
By all the questions of the world unvexed,
Supremely loving and superbly sexed,
She passed upon her way—
Her feminine fair way.

But God neglected, when He fashioned man,
To fuse the molten splendour of his mind
With that sixth sense He gave to womankind.
And so He marred His plan—
Ay, marred His own great plan.

She asked so little, and so much she gave,
That man grew selfish: and she soon became,
To God’s great sorrow and the whole world’s shame,
Man’s sweet and patient slave—
His uncomplaining slave.

Yet in the nights (oh! nights so dark and long)
She clasped her little children to her breast
And wept. And in her anguish of unrest
She thought upon her wrong;
She knew how great her wrong.

And one sad hour, she said unto her heart,
‘Since thou art cause of all my bitter pain,
I bid thee abdicate the throne: let brain
Rule now, and do his part—
His masterful, strong part.’

She wept no more. By new ambition stirred
Her ways led out, to regions strange and vast.
Men stood aside and watched, dismayed, aghast,
And all the world demurred—
Misjudged her, and demurred.

Still on and up, from sphere to widening sphere,
Till thorny paths bloomed with the rose of fame.
Who once demurred, now followed with acclaim:
The hiss died in the cheer—
The loud applauding cheer.

She stood triumphant in that radiant hour,
Man’s mental equal, and competitor.
But ah! the cost! from out the heart of her
Had gone love’s motive power—
Love’s all-compelling power.

THE VOICE

I dreamed a Voice, of one God-authorised,
Cried loudly thro’ the world, ‘Disarm! Disarm!’
And there was consternation in the camps;
And men who strutted under braid and lace
Beat on their medalled breasts, and wailed, ‘Undone!’
The word was echoed from a thousand hills,
And shop and mill, and factory and forge,
Where throve the awful industries of death,
Hushed into silence. Scrawled upon the doors,
The passer read, ‘Peace bids her children starve.’
But foolish women clasped their little sons
And wept for joy, not reasoning like men.

Again the Voice commanded: ‘Now go forth
And build a world for Progress and for Peace.
This work has waited since the earth was shaped;
But men were fighting, and they could not toil.
The needs of life outnumber needs of death.
Leave death with God. Go forth, I say, and build.’

And then a sudden, comprehensive joy
Shone in the eyes of men; and one who thought
Only of conquests and of victories
Woke from his gloomy reverie and cried,
‘Ay, come and build! I challenge all to try.
And I will make a world more beautiful
Than Eden was before the serpent came.’
And like a running flame on western wilds,
Ambition spread from mind to listening mind,
And lo! the looms were busy once again,
And all the earth resounded with men’s toil.

Vast palaces of Science graced the world;
Their banquet tables spread with feasts of truth
For all who hungered. Music kissed the air,
Once rent with boom of cannons. Statues gleamed
From wooded ways, where ambushed armies hid
In times of old. The sea and air were gay
With shining sails that soared from land to land.
A universal language of the world
Made nations kin, and poverty was known

But as a word marked ‘obsolete,’ like war.
The arts were kindled with celestial fire;
New poets sang so Homer’s fame grew dim;
And brush and chisel gave the wondering race
Sublimer treasures than old Greece displayed.
Men differed still; fierce argument arose,
For men are human in this human sphere;
But unarmed Arbitration stood between
And Reason settled in a hundred hours
What War disputed for a hundred years.

Oh, that a Voice, of one God-authorised
Might cry to all mankind, Disarm! Disarm!

GOD’S ANSWER

Once in a time of trouble and of care
I dreamed I talked with God about my pain;
With sleepland courage, daring to complain
Of what I deemed ungracious and unfair.
‘Lord, I have grovelled on my knees in prayer
Hour after hour,’ I cried; ‘yet all in vain;
No hand leads up to heights I would attain,
No path is shown me out of my despair.’

Then answered God: ‘Three things I gave to thee—
Clear brain, brave will, and strength of mind and heart,
All implements divine, to shape the way.
Why shift the burden of thy toil on Me?
Till to the utmost he has done his part
With all his might, let no man _dare_ to pray.’

THE EDICT OF THE SEX

Two thousand years had passed since Christ was born,
When suddenly there rose a mighty host
Of women, sweeping to a central goal
As many rivers sweep on to the sea.
They came from mountains, valleys, and from coasts,
And from all lands, all nations, and all ranks,
Speaking all languages, but thinking one.
And that one language—Peace.

‘Listen,’ they said,
And straightway was there silence on the earth,
For men were dumb with wonder and surprise.
‘Listen, O mighty masters of the world,
And hear the edict of all womankind:
Since Christ His new commandment gave to men,
_Love one another_, full two thousand years
Have passed away, yet earth is red with blood.
The strong male rulers of the world proclaim
Their weakness, when we ask that war shall cease.
Now will the poor weak women of the world
Proclaim their strength, and say that war shall end.
Hear, then, our edict: Never from this day
Will any woman on the crust of earth
Mother a warrior. We have sworn the oath
And will go barren to the waiting tomb
Rather than breed strong sons at war’s behest,
Or bring fair daughters into life, to bear
The pains of travail, for no end but war.
Ay! let the race die out for lack of babes
Better a dying race than endless wars!
Better a silent world than noise of guns
And clash of armies.

‘Long we asked for peace,
And oft you promised—but to fight again.
At last you told us, war must ever be
While men existed, laughing at our plea
For the disarmament of all mankind.
Then in our hearts flamed such a mad desire
For peace on earth, as lights the world at times
With some great conflagration; and it spread
From distant land to land, from sea to sea,
Until all women thought as with one mind
And spoke as with one voice; and now behold!
The great Crusading Syndicate of Peace,
Filling all space with one supreme resolve.
Give us, O men, your word that war shall end:
Disarm the world, and we will give you sons—
Sons to construct, and daughters to adorn
A beautiful new earth, where there shall be
Fewer and finer people, opulence
And opportunity and peace for all.
Until you promise peace no shrill birth-cry
Shall sound again upon the aging earth.
We wait your answer.’

And the world was still
While men considered.

THE WORLD-CHILD

At times I am the mother of the world;
And mine seem all its sorrows, and its fears.
That rose, which in each mother-heart is curled,
The rose of pity, opens with my tears,
And, waking in the night, I lie and hark
To the lone sobbing, and the wild alarms,
Of my World-child, a wailing in the dark:
The child I fain would shelter in my arms.
I call to it (as from another room
A mother calls, what time she cannot go):
‘Sleep well, dear world; Love hides behind this gloom.
There is no need for wakefulness or woe,
The long, long night is almost past and gone,
The day is near.’ And yet the world weeps on.

Again I follow it, throughout the day.
With anxious eyes I see it trip and fall,
And hurt itself in many a foolish way:
Childlike, unheeding warning word or call.
I see it grasp, and grasping, break the toys
It cried to own, then toss them on the floor
And, breathless, hurry after fancied joys
That cease to please, when added to its store.
I see the lacerations on its hands,
Made by forbidden tools; but when it weeps,
I also weep, as one who understands;
And having been a child, the memory keeps.
Ah, my poor world, however wrong thy part,
Still is there pity in my mother-heart.

THE HEIGHTS

I cried, ‘Dear Angel, lead me to the heights,
And spur me to the top.’
The Angel answered, ‘Stop
And set thy house in order; make it fair
For absent ones who may be speeding there.
Then will we talk of heights.’

I put my house in order. ‘Now lead on!’
The Angel said, ‘Not yet;
Thy garden is beset
By thorns and tares; go weed it, so all those
Who come to gaze may find the unvexed rose;
Then will we journey on.’

I weeded well my garden. ‘All is done.’
The Angel shook his head.
‘A beggar stands,’ he said,
‘Outside thy gates; till thou hast given heed
And soothed his sorrow, and supplied his need,
Say not that all is done.’

The beggar left me singing. ‘Now at last—
At last the path is clear.’
‘Nay, there is one draws near
Who seeks, like thee, the difficult highway.
He lacks thy courage; cheer him through the day
Then will we cry, “At last!”’

I helped my weaker brother. ‘Now the heights;
Oh, Guide me, Angel, guide!’
The Presence at my side,
With radiant face, said, ‘Look, where are we now?’
And lo! we stood upon the mountain’s brow—
The heights, the shining heights!

ON SEEING ‘THE HOUSE OF JULIA’ AT HERCULANEUM

Not great Vesuvius, in all his ire,
Nor all the centuries, could hide your shame.
There is the little window where you came,
With eyes that woke the demon of desire,
And lips like rose leaves, fashioned out of fire;
And from the lava leaps the molten flame
Of your old sins. The walls cry out your name—
Your face seems rising from the funeral pyre.

There must have dwelt, within your fated town,
Full many a virtuous dame, and noble wife
Who made your beauty seem as star to sun;
How strange the centuries have handed down
Your name, fair Julia, of immoral life,
And left the others to oblivion.

A PRAYER

Master of sweet and loving lore,
Give us the open mind
To know religion means no more,
No less, than being kind.

Give us the comprehensive sight
That sees another’s need;
And let our aim to set things right
Prove God inspired our creed.

Give us the soul to know our kin
That dwell in flock and herd,
The voice to fight man’s shameful sin
Against the beast and bird.

Give us a heart with love so fraught
For all created things,
That even our unspoken thought
Bears healing on its wings.

Give us religion that will cope
With life’s colossal woes,
And turn a radiant face of hope
On troops of pigmy foes.

Give us the mastery of our fate
In thoughts so warm and white,
They stamp upon the brows of hate
Love’s glorious seal of light.

Give us the strong, courageous faith
That makes of pain a friend,
And calls the secret word of death
‘Beginning,’ and not ‘end.’

WHAT IS RIGHT LIVING?

What is right living? Just to do your best
When worst seems easier. To bear the ills
Of daily life with patient cheerfulness
Nor waste dear time recounting them.
To talk
Of hopeful things when doubt is in the air.
To count your blessings often, giving thanks,
And to accept your sorrows silently,
Nor question why you suffer. To accept
The whole of life as one perfected plan,
And welcome each event as part of it.
To work, and love your work; to trust, to pray
For larger usefulness and clearer sight.
This is right living, pleasing in God’s eyes,
Though you be heathen, heretic or Jew.

JUSTICE

However inexplicable may seem
Event and circumstance upon this earth,
Though favours fall on those whom none esteem,
And insult and indifference greet worth;
Though poverty repays the life of toil,
And riches spring where idle feet have trod,
And storms lay waste the patiently tilled soil—
Yet Justice sways the universe of God.

As undisturbed the stately stars remain
Beyond the glare of day’s obscuring light,
So Justice dwells, though mortal eyes in vain
Seek it persistently by reason’s sight.
But when, once freed, the illumined soul looks out.
Its cry will be, ‘O God, how could I doubt!’

TIME’S GAZE

Time looked me in the eyes while passing by
The milestone of the year. That piercing gaze
Was both an accusation and reproach.
No speech was needed. In a sorrowing look
More meaning lies than in complaining words,
And silence hurts as keenly as reproof.

Oh, opulent, kind giver of rich hours,
How have I used thy benefits! As babes
Unstring a necklace, laughing at the sound
Of priceless jewels dropping one by one,
So have I laughed while precious moments rolled
Into the hidden corners of the past.
And I have let large opportunities
For high endeavour move unheeded by,
While little joys and cares absorbed my strength.

And yet, dear Time, set to my credit this:
_Not one white hour have I made black with hate_,
_Nor wished one living creature aught but good_.

Be patient with me. Though the sun slants west,
The day has not yet finished, and I feel
Necessity for action and resolve
Bear in upon my consciousness. I know
The earth’s eternal need of earnest souls,
And the great hunger of the world for Love.
I know the goal to high achievement lies
Through the dull pathway of self-conquest first;
And on the stairs of little duties done
We climb to joys that stand thy test. O Time,
Be patient with me, and another day,
Perchance, in passing by, thine eyes may smile.

THE WORKER AND THE WORK

In what I do I note the marring flaw,
The imperfections of the work I see;
Nor am I one who rather _do_ than _be_,
Since its reversal is Creation’s law.

Nay, since there lies a better and a worse,
A lesser and a larger, in men’s view,
I would be better than the thing I do,
As God is greater than His universe.

He shaped Himself before He shaped one world:
A million eons, toiling day and night,
He built Himself to majesty and might,
Before the planets into space were hurled.

And when Creation’s early work was done,
What crude beginnings out of chaos came—
A formless nebula, a wavering flame,
An errant comet, a voracious sun.

And, still unable to perfect His plan,
What awful creatures at His touch found birth—
Those protoplasmic monsters of the earth,
That owned the world before He fashioned Man.

And now, behold the poor unfinished state
Of this, His latest masterpiece! Then why,
Seeing the flaws in my own work, should I
Be troubled that no voice proclaims it great?

Before me lie the cycling rounds of years;
With this small earth will die the thing I do:
The thing I am, goes journeying onward through
A million lives, upon a million spheres.

My work I build, as best I can and may,
Knowing all mortal effort ends in dust.
I build myself, not as I may, but must,
Knowing, or good, or ill, that self must stay.

Along the ages, out, and on, afar,
Its journey leads, and must perforce be made.
Likewise its choice, with things of shame and shade,
Or up the path of light, from star to star.

When all these solar systems shall disperse,
Perchance this labour, and this self-control,
May find reward; and my completed soul
Will fling in space, a little universe.

ART THOU ALIVE?

Art thou alive? Nay, not too soon reply,
Tho’ hand, and foot, and lip, and ear, and eye,
Respond, and do thy bidding yet may be
Grim death has done his direst work with thee.
Life, as God gives it, is a thing apart
From active body and from beating heart.
It is the vital spark, the unseen fire,
That moves the mind to reason and aspire;
It is the force that bids emotion roll,
In mighty billows from the surging soul.

It is the light that grows from hour to hour,
And floods the brain with consciousness of power;
It is the spirit dominating all,
And reaching God with its imperious call,
Until the shining glory of His face
Illuminates each sorrowful, dark place;

It is the truth that sets the bondsman free,
Knowing he will be what he wills to be.
With its unburied dead the earth is sad.
Art thou alive? proclaim it and be glad.
Perchance the dead may hear thee and arise,
Knowing they live, and _here_ is Paradise.

TO-DAY

I love this age of energy and force,
Expectantly I greet each pregnant hour;
Emerging from the all-creative source,
Supreme with promise, imminent with power.
The strident whistle and the clanging bell,
The noise of gongs, the rush of motored things
Are but the prophet voices which foretell
A time when thought may use unfettered wings.

Too long the drudgery of earth has been
A barrier ’twixt man and his own mind.
Remove the stone, and lo! the Christ within;
For He is there, and who so seeks shall find.
The Great Inventor is the Modern Priest.
He paves the pathway to a higher goal.
Once from the grind of endless toil released
Man will explore the kingdom of his soul.

And all this restless rush, this strain and strife,
This noise and glare is but the fanfarade
That ushers in the more majestic life
Where faith shall walk with science, unafraid.
I feel the strong vibrations of the earth,
I sense the coming of an hour sublime,
And bless the star that watched above my birth
And let me live in this important time.

THE LADDER

Unto each mortal who comes to earth
A ladder is given by God, at birth,
And up this ladder the soul must go,
Step by step, from the valley below;
Step by step, to the centre of space,
On this ladder of lives, to the Starting Place.

In time departed (which yet endures)
I shaped my ladder, and you shaped yours.
Whatever they are—they are what we made:
A ladder of light, or a ladder of shade,
A ladder of love, or a hateful thing,
A ladder of strength, or a wavering string.
A ladder of gold, or a ladder of straw,
Each is the ladder of righteous law.

We flung them away at the call of death,
We took them again with the next life breath.
For a keeper stands by the great birth gates;
As each soul passes, its ladder waits.
Though mine be narrow, and yours be broad,
On my ladder alone can I climb to God.
On your ladder alone can your feet ascend,
For none may borrow, and none may lend.

If toil and trouble and pain are found,
Twisted and corded, to form each round,
If rusted iron or mouldering wood
Is the fragile frame, you must make it good.
You must build it over and fashion it strong,
Though the task be hard as your life is long;
For up this ladder the pathway leads
To earthly pleasures and spirit needs;
And all that may come in another way
Shall be but illusion, and will not stay.

In useless effort, then, waste no time;
Rebuild your ladder, and climb and climb.

WHO IS A CHRISTIAN?

Who is a Christian in this Christian land
Of many churches and of lofty spires?
Not he who sits in soft upholstered pews
Bought by the profits of unholy greed,
And looks devotion, while he thinks of gain.
Not he who sends petitions from the lips
That lie to-morrow in the street and mart.
Not he who fattens on another’s toil,
And flings his unearned riches to the poor,
Or aids the heathen with a lessened wage,
And builds cathedrals with an increased rent.

Christ, with Thy great, sweet, simple creed of love,
How must Thou weary of Earth’s ‘Christian’ clans,
Who preach salvation through Thy saving blood
While planning slaughter of their fellow men.
Who is a Christian? It is one whose life
Is built on love, on kindness and on faith;
Who holds his brother as his other self;
Who toils for justice, equity and PEACE,
And hides no aim or purpose in his heart
That will not chord with universal good.

Though he be pagan, heretic or Jew,
That man is Christian and beloved of Christ.

THE GOAL

All your wonderful inventions,
All your houses vast and tall,
All your great gun-fronted vessels,
Every fort and every wall,
With the passing of the ages,
They shall pass and they shall fall.

As you sit among the idols
That your avarice gave birth,
As you count the hoarded treasures
That you think of priceless worth,
Time is digging tombs to hide them
In the bosom of the earth.

There shall come a great convulsion
Or a rushing tidal wave,
Or a sound of mighty thunders
From a subterranean cave,
And a boasting world’s possessions
Shall be buried in one grave.

From the Centuries of Silence
We are bringing back again
Buried vase and bust and column
And the gods they worshipped then,
In the strange unmentioned cities
Built by prehistoric men.

Did they steal, and lie, and slaughter?
Did they steep their souls in shame?
Did they sell eternal virtues
Just to win a passing fame?
Did they give the gold of honour
For the tinsel of a name?

We are hurrying all together
Toward the silence and the night;
There is nothing worth the seeking
But the sun-kissed moral height—
There is nothing worth the doing
But the doing of the _right_.

THE SPUR

I asked the rock beside the road what joy existence lent.
It answered, ‘For a million years my heart has been content.’

I asked the truffle-seeking swine, as rooting by he went,
‘What is the keynote of your life?’ He grunted out, ‘Content.’

I asked a slave, who toiled and sung, just what his singing meant.
He plodded on his changeless way, and said, ‘I am content.’

I asked a plutocrat of greed, on what his thoughts were bent.
He chinked the silver in his purse, and said, ‘I am content.’

I asked the mighty forest tree from whence its force was sent.
Its thousand branches spoke as one, and said, ‘From discontent.’

I asked the message speeding on, by what great law was rent
God’s secret from the waves of space. It said, ‘From discontent.’

I asked the marble, where the works of God and man were blent,
What brought the statue from the block. It answered, ‘Discontent.’

I asked an Angel, looking down on earth with gaze intent,
How man should rise to larger growth. Quoth he, ‘Through discontent.’

AWAKENED!

Slowly the People waken; they have been,
Like weary soldiers, sleeping in their tents,
While traitors tiptoed through the silent camp
Intent on plunder. Suddenly a sound—
A careless movement of too bold a thief—
Starts one dull sleeper; then another stirs,
A third cries out a warning, and at last
The people are awake! Oh, when as one
The many rise, united and alert,
With Justice for their motto, they reflect
The mighty force of God’s Omnipotence.
And nothing stands before them. Lusty Greed,
Tyrannical Corruption long in power,
And smirking Cant (whose right hand robs and slays
So that the left may dower Church and School),
Monopoly, whose mandate took from Toil
The Mother Earth, that Idleness might loll
And breed the Monster of Colossal Wealth—
All these must fall before the gathering Force
Of public indignation. That old strife
Which marks the progress of each century,
The war of Right with Might, is on once more,
And shame to him who does not take his stand.

This is the weightiest moment of all time,
And on the issues of the present hour
A nation’s honour and a country’s peace,
A People’s future, ay, a World’s, depends.

Until the vital questions of the day
Are solved and settled, and the spendthrift thieves
Who rob the coffers of the saving poor
Are led from fashion’s feasts to prison fare,
And taught the saving grace of honest work—
Till Labour claims the privilege of toil
And toil the proceeds of its labour shares—
Let no man sleep, let no man dare to sleep!

SHADOWS

I am sorry in the gladness
Of the joys that crown my days,
For the souls that sit in sadness
Or walk uninviting ways.

On the radiance of my labour
That a loving fate bestowed,
Falls the shadow of my neighbour,
Crushed beneath a thankless load.

As the canticle of pleasure
From my lovelit altar rolls,
There is one discordant measure,
As I think of homeless souls.

And I know that grim old story,
Preached from pulpits, is not so,
For no God could sit in glory
And see sinners writhe below.

In that great eternal Centre
Where all human life has birth,
Boundless love and pity enter
And flow downward to the earth.

And all souls in sin or sorrow
Are but passing through the night,
And I know on some to-morrow
God will love them into light.

THE NEW COMMANDMENT

‘_Let go the Cross_’—GERTRUDE RUNSHON.

I heard a strange voice in the distance calling
As from a star an echo might be falling.

It spoke four syllables, concise and brief,
Charged with a God-sent message of relief:

_Let go the cross_! Oh, you who cling to sorrow,
Hark to the new command and comfort borrow.

Even as the Master left His cross below
And rose to Paradise, let go, let go.

Forget your wrongs, your troubles and your losses,
For with the tools of thought we build our crosses.

Forget your griefs, all grudges and all fear
And enter Paradise—its gates are near.

Heaven is a realm by loving souls created,
And hell was fashioned by the hearts that hated.

Love, hope and trust; believe all joys are yours,
Life pays the soul whose confidence endures,

The blows of adverse fate, by larger pleasures,
As after storms the soil yields fuller measures.

Let go the cross; roll self—the stone—away
And dwell with Love in Paradise to-day.

SUMMER DREAMS

When the Summer sun is shining,
And the green things push and grow,
Oft my heart runs over measure,
With its flowing fount of pleasure,
As I feel the sea winds blow;
Ah, then life is good, I know.

And I think of sweet birds building,
And of children fair and free;
And of glowing sun-kissed meadows,
And of tender twilight shadows,
And of boats upon the sea.
Oh, then life seems good to me!

Then unbidden and unwanted,
Come the darker, sadder sights;
City shop and stifling alley,
Where misfortune’s children rally;
And the hot crime-breeding nights,
And the dearth of God’s delights.

And I think of narrow prisons
Where unhappy songbirds dwell,
And of cruel pens and cages
Where some captured wild thing rages
Like a madman in his cell,
In the Zoo, the wild beasts’ hell.

And I long to lift the burden
Of man’s selfishness and sin;
And to open wide earth’s treasures
Of God’s storehouse, full of pleasures,
For my dumb and human kin,
And to ask the whole world in.

THE BREAKING OF CHAINS

Between the ringing of bells and the musical clang of chimes
I hear a sound like the breaking of chains, all through these
Christmas times.
For the thought of the world is waking out of a slumber deep and long,
And the race is beginning to understand how Right can master Wrong.

And the eyes of the world are opening wide, and great are the truths
they see;
And the heart of the world is singing a song, and its burden is ‘Be
free!’
Now the thought of the world and the wish of the world and the song of
the world will make
A force so strong that the fetters forged for a million years must
break.

Fetters of superstitious fear have bound the race to creeds
That hindered the upward march of man to the larger faith he needs.
Fetters of greed and pride have made the race bow down to kings;
But the pompous creed and the costly throne must yield to simpler
things.

The thought of the world has climbed above old paths for centuries
trod;
And cloth and crown no longer mean the ‘vested power of God.’
The race no longer bends beneath the weight of Adam’s sin,
But stands erect and knows itself the Maker’s first of kin.

And the need of the world and the wish of the world and the song of
the world I hear,
All through the clanging and clashing of bells, this Christmas time o’
the year;
And I hear a sound like the breaking of chains, and it seems to say to
me,
In the voice of One who spoke of old, ‘The Truth shall make men free.’

DECEMBER

Upon December’s windy portico
The Old Year stood, and looked out where the sun
Went wading down the West, through drifting clouds.
‘I, too, shall sink full soon to rest,’ he sighed,
‘And follow where my children’s feet have trod;
Brave January, beauteous May and June,
My lovely daughters, and my valiant sons,
All, all save one, have left me for that bourne
Men call the Past. It seems but yesterday
I saw fair August, laughing with the Sea,
Snaring the Earth with her seductive wiles,
And making conquest, even of the Sun.
Yet has she gone, and left me here to mourn.’
Then spake December, from an open door:
‘Father, the night grows cold; come in and rest.
Sit with me here beside this glowing grate;
I have not left thee; thou art not alone;
My house is thine; all warm with love and light,
And bright with holly and with cedar sweet.
My stalwart arm is thine to lean upon;
The feast is spread, I only wait for thee;
God smiles upon thy dead, smile thou on me.’
Then through the open door the Old Year passed
And darkness settled on the outer world.

‘THE WAY’