(Written on the day of Queen Victoria’s funeral)

The Queen is taking a drive to-day,
They have hung with purple the carriage-way,
They have dressed with purple the royal track
Where the Queen goes forth and never comes back.

Let no man labour as she goes by
On her last appearance to mortal eye;
With heads uncovered let all men wait
For the Queen to pass in her regal state.
Army and Navy shall lead the way
For that wonderful coach of the Queen’s to-day.

Though in royal splendour she drives through town,
Her robes are simple, she wears no crown:
And yet she wears one, for widowed no more,
She is crowned with the love that has gone before,
And crowned with the love she has left behind
In the hidden depths of each mourner’s mind.

Bow low your heads—lift your hearts on high—
The Queen in silence is driving by!

Born in the flesh, and bred in the bone,
   Some of us harbour still
A New World pride: and we flaunt or hide
   The Spirit of Bunker Hill.
We claim our place, as a separate race,
   Or a self-created clan;
Till there comes a day when we like to say,
   ‘We are kin of the Englishman.’

For under the front that seems so cold,
   And the voice that is wont to storm,
We are certain to find, a big, broad mind
   And a heart that is soft and warm.
And he carries his woes in a lordly way,
   As only the great souls can:
And it makes us glad when in truth we say,
   We are kin of the Englishman.’

   England, father and mother in one,
   Look on your stalwart son.
Sturdy and strong, with the valour of youth,
Where is another so lusty?
Coated and mailed, with the armour of truth,
Where is another so trusty?
Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone,
He is yours alone.

   England, father and mother in one,
   See the wealth of your son.
Forests primeval, and virginal sod,
Wheat-fields golden and splendid:
Riches of nature and opulent God
For the use of his children intended.
A courage that dares, and a hope that endures,
And a soul all yours.

   England, father and mother in one,
   Heed the voice of your son.
Proffer him place in your councils of state:
Let him sit near, and attend you.
Ponder his words in the hour of debate,
Strong is his arm to defend you.
Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone,
Give him his own.

In the banquet hall of Progress
God has bidden to a feast
All the women in the East.

Some have said ‘We are not ready,—
   We must wait another day.’
Some, with voices clear and steady,
   ‘Lord, we hear, and we obey.’

Others, timid and uncertain,
   Step forth trembling in the light,
Many hide behind the curtain
   With their faces hid from sight.

In the banquet hall of Progress
All must gather soon or late,
And the patient Host will wait.

The world has crowned a thousand kings:
   But destiny has kept
Her weightiest hour of kingly power
   To offer England’s son.
The rising bell of Progress rings;
   And Truths which long have slept,
Like prophets strange, predicting change,
   Before Time’s chariot run.

The greatest Empire of the Earth.
   Old England proudly stands.
Like arteries her Colonies
   Reach out from sea to sea.
She clasps all races in her girth;
   Her gaze the world commands;
And far and wide where strong ships ride,
   The British Flag floats free.

This is a crucial hour, when Fate
   Tries Monarchs as by fire.
All rulers must be more than just—
   Men starve on bread alone.
Old England’s sense of right is great:
   But now let her aspire
To feel more love, and build thereof
   An everlasting Throne.

The dreaming East, awake at last,
   Is asking ‘when’ and ‘why’;
Wait not too long nor answer wrong,
   Nor in too stern a voice.
Let England profit by her past,
   And with her wise reply
Rouse hearts, within her foster kin
   To hope, and to rejoice.

For now has dawned the People’s day:
   A day of great unrest.
Nor king nor creed can still man’s need
   Of time and space to grow.
All lands must shape a wider way,
   For this eternal quest;
And Leisure yield a larger field
   Where work-worn feet may go.

The Universe is all a-thrill
   With changes imminent.
The World in faith, with bated breath,
   Holds free the Leader’s place.
And wise is he whose heart and will
   At one with Time’s intent,
Shall open wide doors long denied
   To mothers of the race.

Kings have been kings by accident,
   By favour and by force,
But right of birth and moral worth,
   And Empires rich and broad
For England’s King to-day are blent
   Like rivers on one course.
But, ah! the light falls searching white
   Down from the Throne of God.

Lord of the Earth and heavenly-spheres,
   Creator of all things,
Thou who hast wrought great worlds from naught,
   Give strength to England’s son.
Give courage to dispel those fears
   That come to even kings,
And for his creed give Love’s full mead;
   Amen.  Thy Will be done.

VIRTUE

O wanton one, O wicked one, how was it that you came,
Down from the paths of purity, to walk the streets of shame?
And wherefore was that precious wealth, God gave to you in trust,
Flung broadcast for the feet of men to trample in the dust?

VICE

O prudent one, O spotless one, now listen well to me.
The ways that led to where I tread these paths of sin, were three:
And God, and good folks, all combined to make them fair to see.

VIRTUE

O wicked one, blasphemous one, now how could that thing be?

The first was Nature’s lovely road, whereon my life was hurled.
I felt the stirring in my blood, which permeates the world.
I thrilled like willows in the spring, when sap begins to flow,
It was young passion in my veins, but how was I to know?

The second was the silent road, where modest mothers dwell,
And hide from eager, curious minds, the truth they ought to tell.
That misnamed road called ‘Innocence’ should bear the sign ‘to Hell.’
With song and dance in ignorance I walked that road and fell.

VIRTUE

O fallen one, unhappy one, but why not rise and go
Back to the ways you left behind, and leave your sins below,
Nor linger in this sink of sin, since now you see, and know.

The third road was the fair high way, trod by the good and great.
I cried aloud to that vast crowd, and told my hapless fate.
They hurried all through door and wall and shut Convention’s gate.
I beat it with my bleeding hands: they must have heard me knock.
They must have heard wild sob and word, yet no one turned the lock.

Oh, it is very desolate, on Virtue’s path to stand,
And see the good folks flocking by, withholding look and hand.

And so with hungry heart and soul, and weary brain and feet,
I left that highway whence you came, and sought the sinful street.

O prudent one, O spotless one, when good folks speak of me,
Go, tell them of the roads I came; the road ways fair, and three.

They walked the valley of the dead;
   Lit by a weird half light;
No sound they made, no word they said;
   And they were pale with fright.
Then suddenly from unseen places came
Loud laughter, that was like a whip of flame.

They looked, and saw, beyond, above,
   A land where wronged souls wait;
(Those spirits called to earth by love,
   And driven back by hate).
And each one stood in anguish dumb and wild,
As she beheld the phantom of her child.

And God’s Great Angel, who provides
   Souls for our mortal land,
Laughed, with the laughter that derides,
   At that fast fleeing band
Of self-made barren women of the earth.
(Hell has no curse that withers like such mirth.)

‘O Angel, tell us who were they,
   That down below us fared;
Those shapes with faces strained and grey,
   And eyes that stared and stared;
Something there was about them, gave us fear;
Yet are we lonely, now they are not here.’

Thus spake the spectral children; thus
   The Angel made reply:
‘They have no part or share with us;
   They were but passers-by.’
‘But may we pray for them?’ the phantoms plead.
‘Yea, for they need your prayers,’ the Angel said.

The Truth Teller lifts the curtain,
   And shows us the people’s plight;
And everything seems uncertain,
   And nothing at all looks right.
Yet out of the blackness groping,
   My heart finds a world in bloom;
For it somehow is fashioned for hoping,
   And it cannot live in the gloom.

He tells us from border to border,
   That race is warring with race;
With riot and mad disorder,
   The earth is a wretched place;
And yet ere the sun is setting
   I am thinking of peace, not strife;
For my heart has a way of forgetting
   All things save the joy of life.

The years have been going, going,
   A mixture of pleasure and pain;
But the Truth Teller’s books are showing
   That evil is on the gain.
And I know that I ought to be grieving,
   And I should be too sad to sing;
But somehow I keep on believing
   That life is a glorious thing.

All the selfish joys of earth,
   I am getting through.
That which used to lure and lead
   Now I pass and give no heed;
Only one thing seems of worth—
      Just you.

Not for me the lonely height,
   And the larger view;
Lowlier ways seem fair and wide,
   While we wander side by side.
One thing makes the whole world bright—
      Just you.

Not for distant goals I run,
   No great aim pursue;
Most of earth’s ambitions seem
   Like the shadow of a dream.
All the world to me means one—
      Just you.

Twice have I seen God’s full reflected grace.
   Once when the wailing of a child at birth
   Proclaimed another soul had come to earth,
That look shone on, and through the mother’s face.

And once when silence, absolute and vast,
   Followed the final indrawn mortal breath,
   Sudden upon the countenance of death
That supreme glory of God’s grace was cast.

I

When first we met (the Sea and I),
   Like one before a King,
I stood in awe; nor felt nor saw
The sun, the winds, the earth, the sky
   Or any other thing.
      God’s Universe, to me,
         Was just the Sea.

When next we met, the lordly Main
   Played but a courtier’s part;
Crowned Queen was I; and earth and sky,
And sun and sea were my domain,
   Since love was in my heart.
      Before, beyond, above,
         Was only Love.

Love built me, on a little rock,
   A little house of pine,
      At first, the Sea
      Beat angrily
About that house of mine;
(That dear, dear home of mine).

But when it turned to go away
   Beyond the sandy track,
      Down o’er its wall
      The house would call,
Until the Sea came back;
(It always hurried back).

And now the two have grown so fond,
   (Oh, breathe no word of this),
      When clouds hang low,
      And east winds blow,
They meet and kiss and kiss:
(At night, I hear them kiss).

III

IV

The Dawn was flying from the Night;
   Swift as the wind she sped;
Her hair was like a fleece of light;
   Her cheeks were warm and red.

All passion pale, the Night pursued;
   She fled away, away;
And in her garments, rainbow hued,
   She gained the peak of day.

Not we who daily walk the City’s street;
Not those who have been cradled in its heart,
Best understand its architectural art,
Or realise its grandeur.  Oft we meet
Some stranger who has stayed his passing feet
And lingered with us for a single hour,
And learned more of cathedral, and of tower,
Than we, who deem our knowledge quite complete.

Not always those we hold most loved and dear,
Not always those who dwell with us, know best
Our greater selves.  Because they stand so near
They cannot see the lofty mountain crest,
The gleaming sun-kissed height, which fair and dear
Stands forth—revealed unto the some-time guest.

In India’s land one listens aghast
To the people who scream and bawl;
For each caste yells at a lower caste,
And the Britisher yells at them all.

Just a changing sea of colour
Surging up and flowing down;
And pagodas shining golden, night and noon;
And a sun-burst-tinted throng
Of young priests that move along
Under sun-burst-hued umbrellas through the town.
   That’s Rangoon.

A changing medley of insistent sounds,
Like broken airs, played on a Samisen,
Pursues me, as the waves blot out the shore.
The trot of wooden heels; the warning cry
Of patient runners; laughter and strange words
Of children, children, children everywhere:
The clap of reverent hands, before some shrine;
And over all the haunting temple bells,
Waking, in silent chambers of the soul,
Dim memories of long-forgotten lives.

But oh! the sorrow of the undertone;
The wail of hopeless weeping in the dawn
From lips that smiled through gilded bars at night.

For oh! the sorrow of that undertone,
The wail of hopeless weeping in the dawn
From lips that smiled through gilded bars at night.

Long have I searched, cathedral shrine, and hall,
To find a symbol, from the hand of art,
That gave the full expression (not a part)
Of that ecstatic peace which follows all
Life’s pain and passion.  Strange it should befall
This outer emblem of the inner heart
Was waiting far beyond the great world’s mart—
Immortal answer, to the mortal call.

Unknown the artist, vaguely known his creed:
But the bronze wonder of his work sufficed
To lift me to the heights his faith had trod.
For one rich moment, opulent indeed,
I walked with Krishna, Buddha, and the Christ,
And felt the full serenity of God.

Now is the time when India is gay
With wedding parties; and the radiant throngs
Seem like a scattered rainbow taking part
In human pleasures.  Dressed in bright array,
They fling upon the bride their wreaths of songs—
The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.

Here is the temple ready for the rite:
The large-eyed bullocks halt; and waiting arms
Lift down the bride.  All India’s curious art
Speaks in the gems with which she is bedight.
And in the robes which hide her sweet alarms—
The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.

Ah, Little Lady!  What will be your fate?
So long, so long, the outward-reaching years:
So brief the joy of this elusive part;
So frail the shoulders for the loads that wait:
So bitter salt the virgin widow’s tears—
O Little Lady of the Bullock cart.

The Day has never understood the Gloaming or the Night;
Though sired by one Creative Power, and nursed at Nature’s breast;
The White Man ever fails to read the Dark Man’s heart aright;
Though from the self-same Source they came, upon the self-same quest;
So deep and wide, the Great Divide,
Between the East and West.

But like a shadow on a screen, mine eyes behold, above
The yawning gulf, a dim forecast, of structures strong and broad;
Where caste, and colour prejudice, by countless feet down trod,
With old traditions crushed by Time, pave smooth the bridge of Love;
And all the creed that men shall heed
Is consciousness of God.

God gave him passions, splendid as the sun,
Meant for the lordliest purposes; a part
Of nature’s full and fertile mother heart,
From which new systems and new stars are spun.
And now, behold, behold, what he has done!
   In Folly’s court and carnal Pleasures’ mart
   He flung the wealth life gave him at the start.
(This, of all mortal sins, the deadliest one.)

At dawn he stood, potential, opulent,
   With virile manhood, and emotions keen,
      And wonderful with God’s creative fire.
At noon he stands, with Love’s large fortune spent
   In petty traffic, unproductive, mean—
      A pauper, cursed with impotent desire.

I
BLIND

When first the shadows fell, like prison bars,
And darkness spread before me, like a pall,
I cried out for the sun, the earth, the stars,
And beat the air, as madmen beat a wall,
Till, impotent, and broken with despair,
I turned my vision inward.  Lo, a spark—
A light—a torch; and all my world grew bright;
For God’s dear eyes were shining through the dark.
Then, bringing to me gifts of recompense,
Came keener hearing, finer taste, and touch;
And that oft unappreciated sense,
Which finds sweet odours, and proclaims them such;
And not until my mortal eyes were blind
Did I perceive how kind the world, how kind.

I can recall a time, when on mine ears
There fell chaotic sounds of earthly life,
Shrill cries of triumph, and hoarse shouts of strife;
A medley of despairs, and hopes and fears.
Then silence came, and unavailing tears.
The stillness stabbed me, like a two edged-knife;
Until I found the Universe was rife
With subtle music of the neighbouring spheres.
Such harmonies, such congruous sweet chords,
Wherein each note conveys a healing balm.
And now no more I miss men’s spoken words;
For, in a quiet world of larger thought,
I know the joy that comes from being calm.

III
SHUT-IN

Across my window glass
The moving shadows pass.
But swifter moves my unimpeded thought,
Speeding from spot to spot—
Out and afar—
High as the highest star.

Oh, an ugly thing is an iron rail,
Black, with its face to the dust.
But it carries a message where winged things fail;
It crosses the mountains, and catches the trail,
While the winds and the sea make sport of a sail;
Oh, a rail is a friend to trust.

The iron rail, with its face to the sod,
Is only a bar of ore;
Yet it speeds where never a foot has trod;
And the narrow path where it leads, grows broad;
And it speaks to the world in the voice of God,
That echoes from shore to shore.

Of priest, and warrior, and conquering king,
Of Knights of the Holy Grail,
Of wonders of winter, and glories of spring,
Always and ever the poets sing;
But the great God-Force, in a lowly thing,
I sing, in my song of the rail.

Always at sea I think about the dead.
On barques invisible they seem to sail
The self-same course; and from the decks cry ‘Hail’!
Then I recall old words that they have said,
And see their faces etched upon the mist—
   Dear faces I have kissed.

Always the dead seem very close at sea.
The coarse vibrations of the earth debar
Our spirit friends from coming where we are.
But through God’s ether, unimpeded, free,
They wing their way, the ocean deeps above—
   And find the hearts that love.

There is a little Bungalow
Perched on a granite ledge,
And at its feet two suitors meet;
(I watch them, and I know)
One waits outside the casement edge;
One paces to and fro.

The Patient Rock speaks not a word;
The Sea goes up and down,
And sings full oft, in cadence soft;
(I listen, and have heard)
Again he wears an angry frown
By jealous passion stirred.

This dawn, the Rock was all aglow;
Far out the mad Sea went;
Beyond the raft, like one gone daft;
(I saw them, and I know)
While radiant and well content
Smiled down the Bungalow.

‘Oh life is wonderful,’ she said,
‘And all my world is bright;
Can Paradise show fairer skies,
Or more effulgent light?’
(Speak lower, lower, mortal heart,
The jealous gods may hear.)

She turned for answer; but his gaze
Cut past her like a lance,
And shone like flame on one who came
With radiant glance for glance.
(You spoke too loud, O mortal heart,
The jealous gods were near.)

They walked through green and sunlit ways;
And yet the earth seemed black,
For there were three, where two should be;
So runs the world, alack.
(The listening gods, the jealous gods,
They want no Edens here.)

Into the world’s most high and holy places
   Men carry selfishness, and graft and greed.
The air is rent with warring of the races;
   Loud Dogmas drown a brother’s cry of need.
The Fleet-of-Creeds, upon Time’s ocean lurches;
   And there is mutiny upon her decks;
And in the light of temples, and of churches,
   Against life’s shores drift wrecks and derelicts.
      (God rules, God rules alway.)

For these are but the outward signs of fever;
   Those flaunting signs, which through delirium burn;
And the clear-seeing eye of each Believer
   Can note the coming crisis.  It will turn,
For it has reached its summit.  Convalescing,
   The sick world shall arise to strength and peace,
And earth shall bloom, with each and every blessing
   Life waits to give, when wars and conflicts cease.
      (God rules, God rules alway.)

Man longs for God.  Before the Christ we wot of,
   With His brief mighty message, came to earth,
Before His life, or creed, or cross were thought of,
   The love of love within man’s breast had birth.
But blindly, through his carnal senses reaching,
   He plucked dead fruit, and nothing has sufficed;
Nor can his soul find rest in any teaching,
   Until he knows that he, himself, is Christ.
      (God rules, God rules alway.)

You may talk of reformations, of the Economic Plan,
   That shall stem the Social Evil in its course;
But the Ancient Sin of nations, must be got at in THE MAN.
   If you want to cleanse a river, seek the source.

Ever since his first beginning, Man has had his way, in lust.
   He has never learned the law of Self-Control;
And the World condones his sinning, and the Doctors say he must,
   And the Churches shut their eyes, and take his toll.

Yes, his leaders, they shall find him.  On the highways at each turn,
   (Since you did not choose to counsel or to warn,)
They shall tempt him, then shall bind him; they shall blight, and they shall burn,
   Down to offspring and descendants yet unborn.

It can never end through preaching; it can never end through laws;
   This social sore, no punishment can heal.
It must be the mother’s teaching of the purpose, and the cause,
   And God’s glory, lying under sex appeal.

She must feel no fear to name it to the children it has brought;
   She must speak of it as sacred, and sublime;
She must beautify, not shame it, by her speech and by her thought;
   Till they listen, and respect it, for all time.

Oh, the world has made its devil, and the Mothers let it grow;
   And the Man has dragged their thoughts down to the earth.
There will be no Social Evil, when each waking mind shall know
   All the grandeur and the beauty hid in birth.

When each Mother sets the fashion to win confidence, and trust,
   And to teach the mighty lesson, Self-Control,
We can lift the great Sex passion from the darkness and the dust,
   And enshrine it on the altar of the soul.

It may be that I dreamed a dream; it may be that I saw
The forecast of a time to come by some supernal law.

It may be that I dreamed a dream; it may be that I saw
The forecast of a time to come by some supernal law.

Whether you frolic with comrade boys,
Or sit at your studies, or play with toys,
Whatever your station, or place, or sphere,
For just one purpose God sent you here;
And always and ever, you are to me—
Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.

So would I guard you from all mean things;
From the dwarfing of wealth, and from poverty’s stings.
And from silly mothers of fuss and show,
And from dissolute fathers whose aims are low,
I would take you, and shield you, and set you free,
Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.

It is only a dream; but the world grows wise,
And a mighty truth in the dream seed lies
That shall gladden the earth, in its time and place.
We must better the mothers to better the race.
A dream? nay, a vision, which all must see,
Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.

Alone I climb the steep ascending path
Which leads to knowledge.  In the babbling throngs
That hurry after, shouting to the world
Small fragments of large truths, there is not one
Who comprehends my purpose, or who sees
The ultimate great goal.  Why, even she,
My heaven intended Spouse, my other self,
Religion, turns her beauteous face on me
With hatred in the eyes, where love should dwell.
While those who call me Master blindly run,
Wounding the ear of Faith with blasphemies,
And making useless slaughter in my name.

To fit the better world my toil ensures,
Time will impregnate with a better race
The Future’s womb: and when the hour is ripe,
To ready eyes of men, the alien spheres
Shall seem as friendly neighbours: and my skill
Shall make their music audible to ears
Which will be tuned to those high harmonies.

I

To build a house, with love for architect,
Ranks first and foremost in the joys of life.
And in a tiny cabin, shaped for two,
The space for happiness is just as great
As in a palace.  What a world were this
If each soul born received a plot of ground;
A little plot, whereon a home might rise,
And beauteous green things grow!
         We give the dead,
The idle vagrant dead, the Potter’s Field;
Yet to the living not one inch of soil.
Nay, we take from them soil, and sun, and air,
To fashion slums and hell-holes for the race.
And to our poor we say, ‘Go starve and die
As beggars die; so gain your heritage.’

That was a most uncanny dream; I thought the wraiths of those
Long buried in the Potter’s Field, in shredded shrouds arose;
   They said, ‘Against the will of God
   We have usurped the fertile sod,
   Now will we make it yield.’

Oh! but it was a gruesome sight, to see those phantoms toil;
Each to his own small garden bent; each spaded up the soil;
   (I never knew Ghosts laboured so.)
   Each scattered seed, and watched, till lo!
   The Graves were opulent.

Then all among the fragrant greens, the silent, spectral train
Walked, as if breathing in the breath of plant, and flower, and grain.
   (I never knew Ghosts loved such things;
   Perchance it brought back early springs
   Before they thought of death.)