THE WAYS
To every man there openeth
A Way, and Ways, and a Way,
And the High Soul climbs the High Way,
And the Low Soul gropes the Low,
And in between, on the misty flats,
The rest drift to and fro.
But to every man there openeth
A High Way, and a Low.
And every man decideth
The Way his soul shall go.
AD FINEM
Britain! Our Britain! uprisen in the splendour
Of your white wrath at treacheries so vile;
Roused from your sleep, become once more defender
Of those high things which make life worth life's while!
Now, God be thanked for even such a wakening
From the soft dreams of peace in selfish ease,
If it but bring about the great heart-quickening,
Of which are born the larger liberties.
Ay, better such a rousing up from slumber;
Better this fight for His High Empery;
Better—e'en though our fair sons without number
Pave with their lives the road to victory.
But—Britain! Britain! What if it be written,
On the great scrolls of Him who holds the ways,
That to the dust the foe shall not be smitten
Till unto Him we pledge redeemèd days?—
Till unto Him we turn—in deep soul-sorrow,
For all the past that was so stained and dim,
For all the present ills—and for a morrow
Founded and built and consecrated to Him.
Take it to heart! This ordeal has its meaning;
By no fell chance has such a horror come.
Take it to heart!—nor count indeed on winning,
Until the lesson has come surely home.
Take it to heart!—nor hope to find assuagement
Of this vast woe, until, with souls subdued,
Stripped of all less things, in most high engagement,
We seek in Him the One and Only Good.
Not of our own might shall this tribulation
Pass, and once more to earth be peace restored;
Not till we turn, in solemn consecration,
Wholly to Him, our One and Sovereign Lord.
EVENING BRINGS US HOME
Evening brings us home,—
From our wanderings afar,
From our multifarious labours,
From the things that fret and jar;
From the highways and the byways,
From the hill-tops and the vales;
From the dust and heat of city street,
And the joys of lonesome trails,—
Evening brings us home at last,
To Thee.
From plough and hoe and harrow, from the burden of the day,
From the long and lonely furrow in the stiff reluctant clay,
From the meads where streams are purling,
From the moors where mists are curling,—
Evening brings us home at last,
To rest, and warmth, and Thee.
From the pastures where the white lambs to their dams are ever crying,
From the byways where the Night lambs Thy
Love are crucifying,
From the labours of the lowlands,
From the glamour of the glowlands,—
Evening brings us home at last,
To the fold, and rest, and Thee.
From the Forests of Thy Wonder, where the mighty giants grow,
Where we cleave Thy works asunder, and lay the mighty low,
From the jungle and the prairie,
From the realms of fact and faerie,—
Evening brings us home at last,
To rest, and cheer, and Thee.
From our wrestlings with the spectres of the dim and dreary way,
From the vast heroic chances of the never-ending fray,
From the Mount of High Endeavour,
In the hope of Thy For Ever,—
Evening brings us home at last,
To trust and peace, and Thee.
From our toilings and our moilings, from the quest of daily bread,
From the worship of our idols, and the burying of our dead,
Like children, worn and weary
With the way so long and dreary,—
Evening brings us home at last,
To rest, and love, and Thee.
From our journeyings oft and many over strange and stormy seas,
From our search the wide world over for the larger liberties,
From our labours vast and various,
With our harvestings precarious,—
Evening brings us home at last,
To safety, rest, and Thee.
From the yet-untrodden No-Lands, where we sought Thy secrets out,
From the blizzards of the Nightlands, and the
blazing White-Lands' drought,
From the undiscovered country
Where our IS is yet to be,—
Evening brings us home at last,
To welcome cheer, and Thee.
From the temples of our living, all empurpled with Thy giving,
From the warp of life thick-threaded with the gold of Thine inweaving,
From the days so full of splendour,
From the visions rare and tender,—
Evening brings us home at last,
To quiet rest in Thee.
From the Dim-Lands, from the Grim-Lands,
from the Lands of High Emprise,
From the Lands of Disillusion to the Truth that never dies;
With rejoicing and with singing,
Each his rightful sheaves home-bringing,—
Evening brings us all at last,
To Harvest-Home with Thee.
From the fields of fiery trying, where our bravest and our best,
By their living and their dying their souls' high faith attest,
From these dread, red fields of sorrow,
From the fight for Thy To-morrow,—
Evening brings each one at last,
To GOD'S own Peace in Thee.
THE REAPER
All through the blood-red Autumn,
When the harvest came to the full;
When the days were sweet with sunshine,
And the nights were wonderful,—
The Reaper reaped without ceasing.
All through the roaring Winter,
When the skies were black with wrath,
When earth alone slept soundly,
And the seas were white with froth,—
The Reaper reaped without ceasing.
All through the quick of the Spring-time,
When the birds sang cheerily,
When the trees and the flowers were burgeoning,
And men went wearily,—
The Reaper reaped without ceasing.
All through the blazing Summer,
When the year was at its best,
When Earth, subserving God alone,
In her fairest robes was dressed,—
The Reaper reaped without ceasing.
So, through the Seasons' roundings,
While nature waxed and waned,
And only man by thrall of man
Was scarred and marred and stained,—
The Reaper reaped without ceasing.
How long, O Lord, shall the Reaper
Harry the growing field?
Stretch out Thy Hand and stay him,
Lest the future no fruit yield!—
And the Gleaner find nought for His gleaning.
Thy Might alone can end it,—
This fratricidal strife.
Our souls are sick with the tale of death,
Redeem us back to life!—
That the Gleaner be glad in His gleaning.
NO MAN GOETH ALONE
Where one is,
There am I,—
No man goeth alone!
Though he fly to earth's remotest bound,
Though his soul in the depths of sin be drowned,—
No man goeth alone!
Though he take him the wings of fear, and flee
Past the outermost realms of light;
Though he weave him a garment of mystery,
And hide in the womb of night,—
No man goeth alone!
Though apart in the city's heart he dwell,
Though he wander beyond the stars,
Though he bury himself in his nethermost hell,
And vanish behind the bars,—
No man goeth alone!
For I, God, am the soul of man,
And none can Me dethrone.
Where one is,
There am I,—
No man goeth alone!
ROSEMARY
Singing, she washed
Her baby's clothes,
And, one by one,
As they were done,
She hung them in the sun to dry,
She hung them on a bush hard by,
Upon a waiting bush hard by,
A glad expectant bush hard by,
To dry in the sweet of the morning.
The while, her son,
Her little son,
Lay kicking, gleeful,
In the sun,—
Her little, naked, Virgin son.
O wondrous sight! Amazing sight!—
The Lord, who did the sun create,
Lay kicking with a babe's delight,
Regardless of His low estate,
In joy of nakedness elate,
In His own sun's fair light!
And all the sweet, sweet, sweet of Him
Clave to the bush, and still doth cleave,
And doth forever-more outgive
The fragrant holy sweet of Him.
Where'er it thrives
That bush forthgives
The faint, rare, sacred sweet of Him.
So—ever sweet, and ever green,
Shall Rosemary be queen.
EASTER SUNDAY, 1916
The sun shone white and fair,
This Eastertide,
Yet all its sweetness seemed but to deride
Our souls' despair;
For stricken hearts, and loss and pain,
Were everywhere.
We sang our Alleluias,—
We said, "The Christ is risen!
From this His earthly prison,
The Christ indeed is risen.
He is gone up on high,
To the perfect peace of heaven."
Then, with a sigh,
We wondered…
Our minds evolved grim hordes of huns,
Our bruised hearts sank beneath the guns,
On our very souls they thundered.
Can you wonder?—Can you wonder,
That we wondered,
As we heard the huns' guns thunder?
That we looked in one another's eyes
And wondered,—
"Is Christ indeed then risen from the dead?
Hath He not rather fled
For ever from a world where He
Meets such contumely?"
Our hearts were sick with pain,
As they beat the sad refrain,—
"How shall the Lord Christ come again?
How can the Lord Christ come again?
Nay,—will He come again?
Is He not surely fled
For ever from a world where He
Is still so buffeted?"
But the day's glory all forbade
Such depth of woe. Came to our aid
The sun, the birds, the springing things,
The winging things, the singing things;
And taught us this,—
After each Winter cometh Spring,—
God's hand is still in everything,—
His mighty purposes are sure,—
His endless love doth still endure,
And will not cease, nor know remiss,
Despite man's forfeiture.
The Lord is risen indeed!
In very truth and deed
The Lord is risen, is risen, is risen;
He will supply our need.
So we took heart again,
And built us refuges from pain
Within His coverture,—
Strong towers of Love, and Hope, and Faith,
That shall maintain
Our souls' estate
Too high and great
For even Death to violate.
THE CHILD OF THE MAID
On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;—
—To tread the long way, lone and lorn,
—To wear the bitter crown of thorn,
—To break the heart by man's sins torn,
—To die at last the Death of Scorn.
For this The Child of The Maid was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning.
But that first day when He was born,
Among the cattle and the corn,
The sweet Maid-Mother wondering,
And sweetly, deeply, pondering
The words that in her heart did ring,
Unto her new-born king did sing,—
"My baby, my baby,
My own little son,
Whence come you,
Where go you,
My own little one?
Whence come you?
Ah now, unto me all alone
That wonder of wonders is properly known.
Where go you?
Ah, that now, 'tis only He knows,
Who sweetly on us, dear, such favour bestows.
In us, dear, this day is some great work begun,—
Ah me, little son dear, I would it were done!
I wonder … I wonder …
And—wish—it—were—done!
"O little, little feet, dears.
So curly, curly sweet!—
How will it be with you, dears,
When all your work's complete?
O little, little hands, dears,
That creep about my breast!—
What great things you will do, dears,
Before you lie at rest!
O softest little head, dear,
It shall have crown of gold,
For it shall have great honour
Before the world grows old!
O sweet, white, soft round body,
It shall sit upon a throne!
My little one, my little one,
Thou art the Highest's son!
All this the angel told me,
And so I'm sure it's true,
For he told me who was coming,—
And that sweet thing is YOU."
On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;—
—He trod the long way, lone and lorn,
—He wore the bitter crown of thorn,
—His hands and feet and heart were torn,
—He died at last the Death of Scorn.
But through His coming Death was slain,
That you and I might live again.
For this The Child of The Maid was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning.
WASTED?
Think not of any one of them as wasted,
Or to the void like broken tools outcasted,—
Unnoticed, unregretted, and unknown.
Not so is His care shown.
Know this!—
In God's economy there is no waste,
As in His Work no slackening, no haste;
But noiselessly, without a sign,
The measure of His vast design
Is all fulfilled, exact as He hath willed.
And His good instruments He tends with care,
Lest aught their future usefulness impair,—
As Master-craftsman his choice tools doth tend,
Respecting each one as a trusty friend,
Cleans them, and polishes, and puts away,
For his good usage at some future day;—
So He unto Himself has taken these,
Not to their loss but to their vast increase.
To us,—the loss, the emptiness, the pain;
But unto them—all high eternal gain.
SHORTENED LIVES
To us it seemed his life was too soon done,
Ended, indeed, while scarcely yet begun;
God, with His clearer vision, saw that he
Was ready for a larger ministry.
Just so we thought of Him, whose life below
Was so full-charged with bitterness and woe,
Our clouded vision would have crowned Him King,
He chose the lowly way of suffering.
Remember, too, how short His life on earth,—
But three-and-thirty years 'twixt death and birth.
And of those years but three whereof we know,
Yet those three years immortal seed did sow.
It is not tale of years that tells the whole
Of Man's success or failure, but the soul
He brings to them, the songs he sings to them,
The steadfast gaze he fixes on the goal.
LAGGARD SPRING
Winter hung about the ways,
Very loth to go.
Little Spring could not get past him,
Try she never so.
This side,—that side, everywhere,
Winter held the track.
Little Spring sat down and whimpered,
Winter humped his back.
Summer called her,—"Come, dear, come!
Why do you delay?"
"Come and help me, Sister Summer,
Winter blocks my way."
Little Spring tried everything,
Sighs and moans and tears,
Winter howled with mocking laughter,
Covered her with jeers.
Winter, rough old surly beggar,
Practised every vice,
Pelted her with hail and snow storms,
Clogged her feet with ice.
But, by chance at last they caught him
Unawares one day,
Tied his hands and feet, and dancing,
Sped upon their way.
LONELY BROTHER
Art thou lonely, O my brother?
Share thy little with another!
Stretch a hand to one unfriended,
And thy loneliness is ended.
So both thou and he
Shall less lonely be.
And of thy one loneliness
Shall come two's great happiness.
COMFORT YE!
"Comfort ye, my people!" Saith your God,— "And be ye comforted! And—be—ye—comforted!"
Roughly my plough did plough you,
Sharp were my strokes, and sore,
But nothing less could bow you,
Nothing less could your souls restore
To the depths and the heights of my longing,
To the strength you had known before.
For—you were falling, falling,
Even the best of you,
Falling from your high calling;
And this, My test of you,
Has been for your souls' redemption
From the little things of earth,
What seemed to you death's agony
Was but a greater birth.
And now you shall have gladness
For the years you have seen ill;
Give up to Me your sadness,
And I your cup will fill.
S. ELIZABETH'S LEPER
"My lord, there came unto the gate
One, in such pitiful estate,
So all forlorn and desolate,
Ill-fed, ill-clad, of ills compact;
A leper too,—his poor flesh wracked
And dead, his very bones infect;
Of all God's sons none so abject.
I could not, on the Lord's own day,
Turn such a stricken one away.
In pity him I took, and fed,
And happed him in our royal bed."
"A leper!—in our bed!—Nay then,
My Queen, thy charities do pass
The bounds of sense at times! A bane
On such unwholesome tenderness!
Dost nothing owe to him who shares
Thy couch, and suffers by thy cares?
He could have slept upon the floor,
And left you still his creditor.
A leper!—in my bed!—God's truth!
Out upon such outrageous ruth!"
He strode in anger towards the bed,
And lo!—
The Christ, with thorn-crowned head,
Lay there in sweet sleep pillowed.
VOX CLAMANTIS
(THE PLEA OF THE MUNITION-WORKER)
"Rattle and clatter and clank and whirr,"— And it's long and long the day is. From earliest morn to late at night, And all night long, the selfsame song,—- "Rattle and clank and whirr." Day in, day out, all day, all night,— "Rattle and clank and whirr;" With faces tight, with all our might,— "Rattle and clank and whirr;" We may not stop and we dare not err; Our men are risking their lives out there, And we at home must do our share;— But it's long and long the day is. We'll break if we must, but we cannot spare A thought for ourselves, or the kids, or care, For it's "Rattle and clatter and clank and whirr;" Our men are giving their lives out there And we'll give ours, we will do our share,— "Rattle and clank and whirr."
Are our faces grave, and our eyes intent?
Is every ounce that is in us bent
On the uttermost pitch of accomplishment?
Though it's long and long the day is!
Ah—we know what it means if we fool or slack;
—A rifle jammed,—and one comes not back;
And we never forget,—it's for us they gave;
And so we will slave, and slave, and slave,
Lest the men at the front should rue it.
Their all they gave, and their lives we'll save,
If the hardest of work can do it;—
But it's long and long the day is.
Eight hours', ten hours', twelve hours' shift;— Oh, it's long and long the day is! Up before light, and home in the night, That is our share in the desperate fight;— And it's long and long the day is! Backs and arms and heads that ache, Eyes over-tired and legs that shake, And hearts full nigh to burst and break;— Oh, it's long and long the day is! Week in, week out, not a second to spare, But though it should kill us we'll do our share, For the sake of the lads, who have gone out there For the sake of us others, to do and dare;— But it's long and long the day is!
"Rattle and clatter and clank and whirr,"
And thousands of wheels a-spinning,—
Spinning Death for the men of wrath,
Spinning Death for the broken troth,
—And Life, and a New Beginning.
Was there ever, since ever the world was made,
Such a horrible trade for a peace-loving maid,
And such wonderful, terrible spinning?
Oh, it's dreary work and it's weary work,
But none of us all will fall or shirk.
FLORA'S BIT
Flora, with wondrous feathers in her hat,
Rain-soaked, and limp, and feeling very flat,
With flowers of sorts in her full basket, sat,
Back to the railings, there by Charing Cross,
And cursed the weather and a blank day's loss.
"Wevver!" she cried, to P. C. E. 09,—
"Wevver, you calls it?—Your sort then, not mine!
I calls it blanky 'NO.' So there you are,—
Bit of Old Nick's worstest particular.
Wevver indeed! Not much, my little son,
It's just old London's nastiest kind of fun.
"Vi'lets, narcissus, primroses and daffs,—
See how they sits up in their beds an' laughs!
Buy, Pretty Ladies—for your next at 'ome!
Gents!—for the gells now—buy a pretty bloom!
"Gosh!—but them 'buses is a fair disgrace,
Squirting their dirty mud into one's face,
Robert, my son, you a'n't half worth your salt,
Or you'd arrest 'em for a blank assault!
"Primroses, narcissus, daffs and violets,—
First come is first served, and pick o' basket gets.
"Garn then and git! Ain't none o' you no good!
Cawn't spare a copper to'rds a pore gell's food.
Gives one the 'ump it does, to see you all go by,
An' me a-sittin' 'ere all day,
An' none o' you won't buy.
Vi'lets, narcissus,— … Blimy! Strike me dumb!
Garn! What's the good o' you?—lot o' dirty scum!
Silly blokes!—stony brokes!—I'm a-goin' 'ome!"
And then, from out the "Corner-House,"
Came two, and two, and two,
Three pretty maids, three little Subs,
Doing as young Subs do,
When four days' leave gives them the chance
Of a little bill and coo.
"What ho!" they cried, as they espied
Flora's bright flower-pot.
"Hi!—you there with the last year's hat!—
Let's see what you have got!
And if they're half as nice as you,
We'll buy the blooming lot."
But, as they stood there chaffering,
Out from the station came
A string of cautious motor-cars,
Packed full of lean, brown men,—
The halt, the maimed, the blind, the lame,—
The wreckage of the wars,—
Their faces pinched and full of pain,
Their eyes still dazed with stress and strain,—
The nation's creditors.
The Subs, the girls, and Flora stood,
There in the pouring rain,
And shouted hearty welcomes to
The broken, lean-faced men.
And when they'd passed, the little Subs
Turned to their fun again.
But the biggest heart among them all
Beat under the feathered hat;—
"Not me!" she cried, and up, and sped
After the boys who had fought and bled,—
"Here's a game worth two o' that!"
She caught the cars, and in she flung
Her wares with lavish hand.
"Narcissus!—vi'lets!—here, you chaps!
Primroses! dafs!—for your rumply caps!
My! Ain't you black-an'-tanned!
Narcissus! vi'lets!—all abloom,—
We're glad to see you back.
Primroses!—dafs! Thenk Gawd you laughs,
If it's on'y crooked smiles.
We're glad, my lads, to see you home,
If your faces are like files."
They thanked her with their crooked smiles,
Their bandaged hands they waved,
Narcissus, vi'lets, prims, and daffs,
They welcomed them with twisted laughs,
Quite proper they behaved.
And one said, "You're a Daisy, dear,
And if you'd stop the 'bus
We'd every one give you a kiss,
And so say all of us.
A Daisy, dear, that's what you are."
And the rest,—"You are! You are!"
Then Flora swung her basket high,
And tossed her feathered head;
To the boys she gave one final wave,
And to herself she said,—
"What kind of a silly old fool am I,
Playin' the goat like that?—
Chuckin' of all my stock awye,
And damaging me 'at?
But them poor lads did look so thin,
I couldn't ha' slept if I 'adn't a-bin
An' gone an' done this foolish thing.
An' it done them good, an' it done me good,
So what's the odds if I does go lean,
For a day or two, till the nibs comes in?
A gell like me can always live,
An' the bit I had I had to give.
An' he called me a Daisy!—aw—'Daisy dear!'
An' I—tell—you, it made me queer,—
With a lump in me throat and a swell right here.
Fust time ever any one called me that,
An', I swear, it's better'n a bran new hat."
RED BREAST
I saw one hanging on a tree,
And O his face was sad to see,—
Misery, misery me!
There were berries red upon his head,
And in his hands, and on his feet,
But when I tried to pick and eat,
They were his blood, and he was dead;—
Misery, misery me!
It broke my heart to see him there,
So lone and sad in his despair;
The nails of woe were through his hands,
And through his feet,—ah, misery me!
With beak and claws I did my best
To loose the nails and set him free,
But they were all too strong for me;—
Misery, misery me!
I picked and pulled, and did my best,
And his red blood stained all my breast;
I bit the nails, I pecked the thorn,
O, never saw I thorn so worn;
But yet I could not get him free;—
Misery, misery me!
And never since have I feared man,
But ever I seek him when I can,
And let him see the wish in me
To ease him of his misery.
OUR HEARTS FOR YOU
By the grace of God and the courage
Of the peoples far and wide,
By the toil and sweat of those who lived,
And the blood of those who died,
We have won the fight, we have saved the Right,
For the Lord was on our side.
We have come through the valley of shadows,
We have won to the light again,
We have smitten to earth the evil thing,
And our sons have proved them men.
But not alone by our might have we won,
For the Lord fought in our van.
When the night was at its darkest,
And never a light could we see,—
When earth seemed like to be enslaved
In a monstrous tyranny;—
Then the flaming sword of our Over-Lord
Struck home for liberty.
All the words in the world cannot tell you
What brims in our hearts for you;
For the lives you gave our lives to save
We offer our hearts to you;
We can never repay, we can only pray,—
God fulfil our hearts for you!
THE BURDENED ASS
(AN ALLEGORY)
One day, as I travelled the highway alone,
I heard, on in front, a most dolorous groan;
And there, round the corner, a weary old ass
Was nuzzling the hedge for a mouthful of grass.
The load that he carried was piled up so high
That it blocked half the road and threatened the sky.
Indeed, of himself I could see but a scrap,
And expected each minute to see that go snap;
For beneath all his load I could see but his legs,
And they were as thin as the thinnest clothes-pegs.
I said, "O most gentle and innocent beast,
Say,—why is your burden so greatly increased?
Who loads you like this, beyond reason and right?
Is it done for a purpose, or just out of spite?
Is it all your own treasures you have in your pack,
That crumples your backbone and makes your ribs crack?
It is really too much for an old ass's back."
"Treasures!"—he groaned, through a lump of chewed grass,
"Are they treasures? I don't know. I'm only the ass
That carries whatever they all like to pack
On my load, without thought of my ribs or my back.
I know there are heaps of things there that I hate,
But it's always been so. I guess it's my fate."
And he flicked his long ears, and switched his thin tail,
And rasped his rough neck with a hinder-foot nail.
"There are fighting-men somewhere up there, and some fools,
And talking-men—heaps—who have quitted their stools
To manage the state and direct its affairs,
And see, I suppose, that we all get our shares,—
And ladies and lords, and their offspring and heirs,
And their flunkeys and toadies, and merchants and wares.—
And parsons and lawyers,—O heaps,—in that box,
And big folk and small folk, and all kinds of crocks.
"That mighty big bale?—Poison, that,—for the people;
Whatever else lacks they must still have their tipple.
That's The Trade, don't you know, that no one can shackle,—
'Vested Int'rests,' they call it, and that kind of cackle.
Why the Bishops themselves dare not tackle the tipple,
For it props up the church and at times builds a steeple."
(A strangely ingenuous old ass, you perceive,
Whom any shrewd rascal could easily deceive.)
"That other big bale?—What I said,—fighting things,—
Ammunition and guns and these new things with wings,
O yes, they bulk big, but we need them,—for why?—
If we hadn't as much as the others have—why,
They say we might just as well lie down and die.
"Yon big bale on top?—Ah! that is a big weight.
And that's just the one of the lot I most hate.
That's Capital, that is,—and landlords and such;
And there seems to me sometimes a bit over-much
In that bale. But there,—I'm perhaps wrong again,
Such matters are outside an old ass's ken.
"My fodder? Oh well, you see,—no room for that.
I pick as I go, and no chance to get fat.
That poison bulks large,—and the landlords, you see;—
And that Capital's heavy as heavy can be.
Some one's bound to go short, and of course that one's ME."
He kicked up one heel with a snort of disgust,
And—sudden as though by a giant hand thrust,
The top-heavy pack on his lean back revolved,
Came crashing to earth, and in fragments dissolved.
Much surprised,—the old ass, thus set free from his load,
Picked out a soft spot in the nice dusty road,
And laid him down on it and rolled in high glee,
And, as he kicked this way and that, said to me,—
"Say, Man, I have never enjoyed such a roll
Since the day I was born, a silly young foal.
Seems to me, if I'd had half the sense of an ass,
I'd have long since got rid of that troublesome mass.
But now that it's down, why—down it shall stop.
All my life's been down under, but now I'm on top."
Then he came right-side up, pranced about on his load,
And kicked it to pieces all over the road.
And what all this means, I really can't say.
It may not mean much. But—again,—why, it may.
WINNERS OR LOSERS?
Unless our Souls win back to Thee,
We shall have lost this fight.
Yes, though we win on field and sea,
Though mightier still our might may be,
We still shall lose if we win not Thee.
Help us to climb, as in Thy sight,
The Great High Way of Thy Delight.
It is the world-old strife again,—
The fight 'twixt good and ill.
Since first the curse broke out in Cain,
Each age has worn the grim red chain,
And ill fought good for sake of gain.
Help us, through all life's conflict, still
To battle upwards to Thy Will.
Are we to be like all the rest,
Or climb we loftier height?
Can we our wayward steps arrest?—
All life with nobler life invest?—
And so fulfil our Lord's behest?
Help us, through all the world's dark night,
To struggle upwards to the Light.
If not,—we too shall pass, as passed
The older peoples in their time.
God's pact is sure, His word stands fast,—
Those who His sovereignty outcast
Outcast themselves shall be at last.
So,—lest we pass in this our prime,
Lord, set us to the upward climb!
CHRIST AT THE BAR
Christ stands at the bar of the world to-day,
As He stood in the days of old.
And still, as then, we do betray
Our Lord for greed of gold.
When our every deed and word and thought
Should our fealty proclaim,
Full oft we bring His name to nought
And cover Him with shame.
Not alone did Judas his Master sell,
Nor Peter his Lord deny,
Each one who doth His love repel,
Or at His guidance doth rebel,
Doth the Lord Christ crucify.
Like the men of old, we vote His death,
Lest His life should interfere
With the things we have, or the things we crave,
Or the things we hold more dear.
Christ stands at the bar of the world to-day,
As He stood in the days of old.
Let each man tax his soul and say,—
"Shall I again my Lord betray
For my greed, or my goods, or my gold?"
MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?
(A WARNING)
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
Yes, of a truth!
Thine asking is thine answer.
That self-condemning cry of Cain
Has been the plea of every selfish soul since then,
Which hath its brother slain.
God's word is plain,
And doth thy shrinking soul arraign.
Thy brother's keeper?
Yea, of a truth thou art!
For if not—who?
Are ye not both,—both thou and he
Of God's great family?
How rid thee of thy soul's responsibility?
For every ill in all the world
Each soul is sponsor and account must bear.
And He, and he thy brother of despair,
Claim, of thy overmuch, their share.
Thou hast had good, and he the strangled days;
But now,—the old things pass.
No longer of thy grace
Is he content to live in evil case
For the anointing of thy shining face.
The old things pass.—Beware lest ye pass with them,
And your place
Become an emptiness!
Beware! Lest, when the "Have-nots" claim,
From those who have, their rightful share,
Thy borders be swept bare
As by the final flame.
Better to share before than after.
"After?" … For thee may be no after!
Only the howl of mocking laughter
At thy belated care. Make no mistake!—
"After" will be too late.
When once the "Have-nots" claim … they take.
"After!" … When that full claim is made,
You and your golden gods may all lie dead.
Set now your house in order,
Ere it be too late!
For, once the storm of hate
Be loosed, no man shall stay it till
Its thirst has slaked its fill,
And you, poor victims of this last "too late,"
Shall in the shadows mourn your lost estate.
A TELEPHONE MESSAGE (TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN)
Hello! Hello!
Are you there? Are you there?
Ah! That you? Well,—
This is just to tell you
That there's trouble in the air…
Trouble,—
T-R-O-U-B-L-E—Trouble!
Where?
In the air.
Trouble in the air!
Got that? … Right!
Then—take a word of warning,
And … Beware!
What trouble?
Every trouble,—everywhere,
Every wildest kind of nightmare
That has ridden you is there,
In the air.
And it's coming like a whirlwind,
Like a wild beast mad with hunger,
To rend and wrench and tear,—
To tear the world in pieces maybe,
Unless it gets its share.
Can't you see the signs and portents?
Can't you feel them in the air?
Can't you see,—you unbeliever?
Can't you see?—or don't you care,—
That the Past is gone for ever,
Past your uttermost endeavour,—
That To-day is on the scrap-heap,
And the Future—anywhere?
Where?
Ah—that's beyond me!—
But it lies with those who dare
To think of big To-morrows,
And intend to have their share.
All the things you've held and trusted
Are played-out, decayed, and rusted;
Now, in fiery circumstance,
They will all be readjusted.
If you cling to those old things,
Hoping still to hold the strings,
And, for your ungodly gains,
Life to bind with golden chains;—
Man! you're mightily mistaken!
From such dreams you'd best awaken
To the sense of what is coming,
When you hear the low, dull booming
Of the far-off tocsin drums.
—Such a day of vast upsettings,
Dire outcastings and downsettings!—
You have held the reins too long,—
Have you time to heal the wrong?
What's wrong? What's amiss?
Man alive! If you don't know that—
There's nothing more to be said!
—You ask what's amiss when your destinies
Hang by a thread in the great abyss?
What's amiss? What's amiss?—
Well, my friend, just this,—
There's a bill to pay and it's due to-day,
And before it's paid you may all be dead.
Wake up! Wake up!—or, all too late,
You will find yourselves exterminate.
What's wrong?
Listen here!—
Do you catch a sound like drumming?—
Far-away and distant drumming?
You hear it? What?
The wires humming?
No, my friend, it is not!
It's the tune the prentice-hands are thrumming,—
The tune of the dire red time that's coming,—
The far-away, pregnant, ghostly booming
Of the great red drums' dread drumming.
For they're coming, coming, coming,—
With their dread and doomful drumming,
Unless you…
Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r—click—clack!
THE STARS' ACCUSAL
How can the makers of unrighteous wars
Stand the accusal of the watchful stars?
To stand—
A dust-speck, facing the infinitudes
Of Thine unfathomable dome, a night like this,—
To stand full-face to Thy High Majesties,
Thy myriad worlds in solemn watchfulness,—
Watching, watching, watching all below,
And man in all his wilfulness for woe!
—Dear Lord, one wonders that Thou bearest still
With man on whom Thou didst such grace bestow,
And with his wilful faculty for woe!
Those sleepless sentinels! They may be worlds
All peopled like our own. But, as I stand,
They are to me the myriad eyes of God,—
Watching, watching, watching all below,
And man in all his wilfulness for woe.
And then—to think
What those same piercing eyes look down upon
Elsewhere on this fair earth that Thou hast made!—
Watching, watching, watching all below,
And man in all his wilfulness for woe.
—On all the desolations he hath wrought,
—On all the passioned hatreds he hath taught,
—On all Thy great hopes he hath brought to nought;—
—Man rending man with ruthless bitterness,
—Blasting Thine image into nothingness,
—Hounding Thy innocents to awful deaths,
And worse than deaths! Happy the dead, who sped
Before the torturers their lust had fed!
—On Thy Christ crucified afresh each day,
—On all the horrors of War's grim red way.
And ever, in Thy solemn midnight skies,
Those myriad, sleepless, vast accusing eyes,—
Watching, watching, watching all below,
And man in all his wilfulness for woe.
Dear Lord!—
When in our troubled hearts we ponder this,
We can but wonder at Thy wrath delayed,—
We can but wonder that Thy hand is stayed,—
We can but wonder at Thy sufferance
Of man, whom Thou in Thine own image made,
When he that image doth so sore degrade!
If Thou shouldst blot us out without a word,
Our stricken souls must say we had incurred
Just punishment.
Warnings we lacked not, warnings oft and clear,
But in our arrogance we gave no ear
To Thine admonishment.
And yet,—and yet! O Lord, we humbly pray,—
Put back again Thy righteous Judgment Day!
Have patience with us yet a while, until
Through these our sufferings we learn Thy Will.
NO PEACE BUT A RIGHT PEACE
An inconclusive peace!—
A peace that would be no peace—
Naught but a treacherous truce for breeding
Of a later, greater, baser-still betrayal!—
"No!" …
The spirits of our myriad valiant dead,
Who died to make peace sure and life secure,
Thunder one mighty cry of righteous indignation,—
One vast imperative, unanswerable "No!" …
"Not for that, not for that, did we die!"—
They cry;—
"—To give fresh life to godless knavery!
—To forge again the chains of slavery
Such as humanity has never known!
We gave our lives to set Life free,
Loyally, willingly gave we,
Lest on our children, and on theirs,
Should come like misery.
And now, from our souls' heights and depths,
We cry to you,—"Beware,
Lest you defraud us of one smallest atom of the price
Of this our sacrifice!
One fraction less than that full liberty,
Which comes of righteous and enduring peace,
Will be betrayal of your trust,—
Betrayal of your race, the world, and God."
IN CHURCH. 1916
Where are all the young men?
There are only grey-heads here.
What has become of the young men?
* * * * *
This is the young men's year!
They are gone, one and all, at duty's call,
To the camp, to the trench, to the sea.
They have left their homes, they have left their all,
And now, in ways heroical,—
They are making history.
From bank and shop, from bench and mill,
From the schools, from the tail of the plough,
They hurried away at the call of the fray,
They could not linger a day, and now,—
They are making history,
And we miss them sorely, as we look
At the seats where they used to be,
And try to picture them as they are,—
Then hastily drop the vail:—for, you see,—
They are making history.
* * * * *
And history, in these dread days,
Is sore sore sad in the making;
We are building the future with our dead,
We are binding it sure with the brave blood shed,
Though our hearts are well-nigh breaking.
We can but pray that the coming day
Will reap, of our red sowing,
The harvest meet of a world complete
With the peace of God's bestowing.
So, with quiet heart, we do our part
In the travail of this mystery,
We give of our best, and we leave the rest
To Him Who maketh history.
Some Hymns of Thanksgiving,
Praise, and Petition for use at The
Coming Peace which, please God,
cannot now be long delayed.
TE DEUM
We thank Thee, O our God, for this
Long fought-for, hoped-for, prayed-for peace;
Thou dost cast down, and Thou upraise,
Thy hand doth order all our ways.
Lift all our hearts to nobler life,
For ever freed from fear of strife;
Let all men everywhere in Thee
Possess their souls in liberty.
Safe in Thy Love we leave our dead;
Heal all the wounds that war has made.
And help us to uproot each wrong,
Which still among us waxeth strong.
Break all the bars that hold apart
All men of nobler mind and heart;
Let all men find alone in Thee
Their one and only sovereignty!
TUNE—Old Hundredth.
THROUGH ME ONLY
Out of all the reek and turmoil
Of the dreadful battle-plain,
Came a voice insistent, calling,
Calling, calling, but in vain;—
"Through Me only
Shall the world have peace again."
But our hearts were too sore-burdened,
Fighting foes and fighting pain,
And we heeded not the clear voice,
Calling, calling all in vain;—
"Through Me only
Shall the world have peace again."
Now, at last, the warfare ended,
Dead the passion, loosed the strain,
Louder still that voice is calling;
Shall it call and call in vain?
"Through Me only
Shall the world have peace again."
Now we hear it; now we hearken,
In the silence of our slain,
Broken hearts new homes would build them
Of the fragments that remain.
"Through Me only
Shall the world have peace again."
Lord, we know it by our sorrows,
Might of man can ne'er attain
That Thou givest. Now we offer
Thee the Kingship. Come and reign!
Through Thee only
Shall our loss be turned to gain.
Show us, Lord, all Thou would'st have us
Do to garner all Thy grain.
Thy deep ploughing, Thy sure sowing
Richest harvest shall obtain.
Only come Thou,
Come and dwell with us again!
TUNE—Abbeycombe.
PRINCE OF PEACE
O Thou who standest both for God and Man,
O King of Kings, who wore no earthly crown,
O Prince of Peace, unto Thy feet we come,
And lay our burden down.
The weight had grown beyond our strength to bear,
Thy Love alone the woful thrall can break,
Thy Love, reborn into this world of care,
Alone can life remake.
How shall we turn to good this weight of ill?
How of our sorrows build anew to Thee?
"Of your own selves ye cannot stand or build,—
Only through Me,—through Me!"
O, turn once more to Thee the hearts of men,
Work through the leaven of our grief and pain,
Let not these agonies be all in vain,
Come, dwell with us again!
The world has nailed itself unto its cross;
O, tender to Thy hands its heart will prove,
For Thou alone canst heal its dreadful loss,—
Come Thou and reign in love!
Peace and the sword, Lord, Thou didst come to bring;
Too long the sword has drunk to Thy decrease.
Come now, by this high way of suffering,
And reign, O Prince of Peace!
TUNE—Artavia.
"And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee?"
THE WINNOWING
Lord, Thou hast stricken us, smitten us sore,
Winnowed us fine on the dread threshing-floor.
"Had I not reason?—far you had strayed,
Vain was My calling, you would not be stayed."
Low in the dust, Lord, our hearts now are bowed,
Roughly Thy share through our boasting has ploughed.
"So as My ploughing prepares for the seed,
So shall the harvest our best hopes exceed."
Lord, we have lost of our dearest and best,
Flung to the void and cast out to the waste.
"Nay then, not one of them fell from My hand,
Here at My side in their glory they stand."
How shall we start, Lord, to build life again,
Fairer and sweeter, and freed from its pain?
"Build ye in Me and your building shall be
Builded for Time and Eternity."
TUNE—Theodora.
"Rest of the weary, joy of the sad."
TO THIS END
And hast Thou help for such as me,
Sin-weary, stained, forlorn?
"Yea then,—if not for such as thee
To what end was I born?"
But I have strayed so far away,
So oft forgotten Thee.
"No smallest thing that thou hast done
But was all known to Me."
And I have followed other gods,
And brought Thy name to scorn.
"It was to win thee back from them
I wore the crown of thorn."
And, spite of all, Thou canst forgive,
And still attend my cry?
"Dear heart, for this end I did live,
To this end did I die."
And if I fall away again,
And bring Thy Love to shame?
"I'll find thee out where'er thou art,
And still thy love will claim."
All this for me, whose constant lack
Doth cause Thee constant pain?
"For this I lived, for this I died,
For this I live again."
[Transcriber's note: The first two verses of this poem were inside the book's front cover, and its last two verses were inside its back cover.]
ALL'S WELL!
Is the pathway dark and dreary?
God's in His heaven!
Are you broken, heart-sick, weary?
God's in His heaven!
Dreariest roads shall have an ending,
Broken hearts are for God's mending.
All's well! All's well!
All's … well!
Is the burden past your bearing?
God's in His heaven!
Hopeless?—Friendless?—No one caring?
God's in His heaven!
Burdens shared are light to carry,
Love shall come though long He tarry.
All's well! All's well!
All's … well!
Is the light fur ever failing?
God's in His heaven!
Is the faint heart ever quailing?
God's in His heaven!
God's strong arms are all around you,
In the dark He sought and found you.
All's well! All's well!
All's … well!
Is the future black with sorrow?
God's in His heaven!
Do you dread each dark to-morrow?
God's in His heaven!
Nought can come without His knowing,
Come what may 'tis His bestowing.
All's well! All's well!
All's … well!