Part 3

Spirit of Beauty, mother of delight, Thou fairest offspring of Omnipotence Inhabiting this lofty lone abode, Speak to my heart again and set me free From all these doubts that darken earth and heaven! Who sent thee forth into the wilderness To bless and comfort all who see thy face? Who clad thee in this more than royal robe Of rainbows? Who designed these jewelled thrones For thee, and wrought these glittering palaces? Who gave thee power upon the soul of man To lift him up through wonder into joy? God! let the radiant cliffs bear witness, God! Let all the shining pillars signal, God! He only, on the mystic loom of light. Hath woven webs of loveliness to clothe His most majestic works: and He alone Hath delicately wrought the cactus-flower To star the desert floor with rosy bloom.

O Beauty, handiwork of the Most High, Where'er thou art He tells his Love to man, And lo, the day breaks, and the shadows flee!

Now, far beyond all language and all art In thy wild splendour, Canyon marvellous, The secret of thy stillness lies unveiled In wordless worship! This is holy ground; Thou art no grave, no prison, but a shrine. Garden of Temples filled with Silent Praise, If God were blind thy Beauty could not be!

February 24-26, 1913.

THE HEAVENLY HILLS OF HOLLAND

The heavenly hills of Holland,-- How wondrously they rise Above the smooth green pastures Into the azure skies! With blue and purple hollows, With peaks of dazzling snow, Along the far horizon The clouds are marching slow.

No mortal foot has trodden The summits of that range, Nor walked those mystic valleys Whose colours ever change; Yet we possess their beauty, And visit them in dreams, While ruddy gold of sunset From cliff and canyon gleams.

In days of cloudless weather They melt into the light; When fog and mist surround us They're hidden from our sight; But when returns a season Clear shining after rain, While the northwest wind is blowing, We see the hills again.

The old Dutch painters loved them, Their pictures show them fair,-- Old Hobbema and Ruysdael, Van Goyen and Vermeer. Above the level landscape, Rich polders, long-armed mills, Canals and ancient cities,-- Float Holland's heavenly hills.

The Hague, November, 1916.

FLOOD-TIDE OF FLOWERS

IN HOLLAND

The laggard winter ebbed so slow With freezing rain and melting snow, It seemed as if the earth would stay Forever where the tide was low, In sodden green and watery gray.

But now from depths beyond our sight, The tide is turning in the night, And floods of colour long concealed Come silent rising toward the light, Through garden bare and empty field.

And first, along the sheltered nooks, The crocus runs in little brooks Of joyance, till by light made bold They show the gladness of their looks In shining pools of white and gold.

The tiny scilla, sapphire blue, Is gently seeping in, to strew The earth with heaven; and sudden rills Of sunlit yellow, sweeping through, Spread into lakes of daffodils.

The hyacinths, with fragrant heads, Have overflowed their sandy beds, And fill the earth with faint perfume, The breath that Spring around her sheds. And now the tulips break in bloom!

A sea, a rainbow-tinted sea, A splendour and a mystery, Floods o'er the fields of faded gray: The roads are full of folks in glee, For lo,--to-day is Easter Day!

April, 1916.

ODE

GOD OF THE OPEN AIR

I

Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair With flowers below, above with starry lights And set thine altars everywhere,-- On mountain heights, In woodlands dim with many a dream, In valleys bright with springs, And on the curving capes of every stream: Thou who hast taken to thyself the wings Of morning, to abide Upon the secret places of the sea, And on far islands, where the tide Visits the beauty of untrodden shores, Waiting for worshippers to come to thee In thy great out-of-doors! To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer, God of the open air.

II

Seeking for thee, the heart of man Lonely and longing ran, In that first, solitary hour, When the mysterious power To know and love the wonder of the morn Was breathed within him, and his soul was born; And thou didst meet thy child, Not in some hidden shrine, But in the freedom of the garden wild, And take his hand in thine,-- There all day long in Paradise he walked, And in the cool of evening with thee talked.

III

Lost, long ago, that garden bright and pure, Lost, that calm day too perfect to endure, And lost the child-like love that worshipped and was sure! For men have dulled their eyes with sin, And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt, And built their temple walls to shut thee in, And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out. But not for thee the closing of the door, O Spirit unconfined! Thy ways are free As is the wandering wind, And thou hast wooed thy children, to restore Their fellowship with thee, In peace of soul and simpleness of mind.

IV

Joyful the heart that, when the flood rolled by, Leaped up to see the rainbow in the sky; And glad the pilgrim, in the lonely night, For whom the hills of Haran, tier on tier, Built up a secret stairway to the height Where stars like angel eyes were shining clear. From mountain-peaks, in many a land and age, Disciples of the Persian seer Have hailed the rising sun and worshipped thee; And wayworn followers of the Indian sage Have found the peace of God beneath a spreading tree.

V

But One, but One,--ah, Son most dear, And perfect image of the Love Unseen,-- Walked every day in pastures green, And all his life the quiet waters by, Reading their beauty with a tranquil eye. To him the desert was a place prepared For weary hearts to rest; The hillside was a temple blest; The grassy vale a banquet-room Where he could feed and comfort many a guest. With him the lily shared The vital joy that breathes itself in bloom; And every bird that sang beside the nest Told of the love that broods o'er every living thing. He watched the shepherd bring His flock at sundown to the welcome fold, The fisherman at daybreak fling His net across the waters gray and cold, And all day long the patient reaper swing His curving sickle through the harvest-gold. So through the world the foot-path way he trod, Breathing the air of heaven in every breath; And in the evening sacrifice of death Beneath the open sky he gave his soul to God. Him will I trust, and for my Master take; Him will I follow; and for his dear sake, God of the open air, To thee I make my prayer.

VI

From the prison of anxious thought that greed has builded, From the fetters that envy has wrought and pride has gilded, From the noise of the crowded ways and the fierce confusion, From the folly that wastes its days in a world of illusion, (Ah, but the life is lost that frets and languishes there!) I would escape and be free in the joy of the open air.

By the breadth of the blue that shines in silence o'er me, By the length of the mountain-lines that stretch before me, By the height of the cloud that sails, with rest in motion, Over the plains and the vales to the measureless ocean, (Oh, how the sight of the greater things enlarges the eyes!) Draw me away from myself to the peace of the hills and skies.

While the tremulous leafy haze on the woodland is spreading, And the bloom on the meadow betrays where May has been treading; While the birds on the branches above, and the brooks flowing under, Are singing together of love in a world full of wonder, (Lo, in the magic of Springtime, dreams are changed into truth!) Quicken my heart, and restore the beautiful hopes of youth.

By the faith that the wild-flowers show when they bloom unbidden, By the calm of the river's flow to a goal that is hidden, By the strength of the tree that clings to its deep foundation, By the courage of birds' light wings on the long migration, (Wonderful spirit of trust that abides in Nature's breast!) Teach me how to confide, and live my life, and rest.

For the comforting warmth of the sun that my body embraces, For the cool of the waters that run through the shadowy places, For the balm of the breezes that brush my face with their fingers, For the vesper-hymn of the thrush when the twilight lingers, For the long breath, the deep breath, the breath of a heart without care,-- I will give thanks and adore thee, God of the open air!

VII

These are the gifts I ask Of thee, Spirit serene: Strength for the daily task, Courage to face the road, Good cheer to help me bear the traveller's load, And, for the hours of rest that come between, An inward joy in all things heard and seen. These are the sins I fain Would have thee take away: Malice, and cold disdain, Hot anger, sullen hate, Scorn of the lowly, envy of the great, And discontent that casts a shadow gray On all the brightness of the common day. These are the things I prize And hold of dearest worth: Light of the sapphire skies, Peace of the silent hills, Shelter of forests, comfort of the grass, Music of birds, murmur of little rills, Shadows of cloud that swiftly pass, And, after showers, The smell of flowers And of the good brown earth,-- And best of all, along the way, friendship and mirth. So let me keep These treasures of the humble heart In true possession, owning them by love; And when at last I can no longer move Among them freely, but must part From the green fields and from the waters clear, Let me not creep Into some darkened room and hide From all that makes the world so bright and dear; But throw the windows wide To welcome in the light; And while I clasp a well-belovèd hand, Let me once more have sight Of the deep sky and the far-smiling land,-- Then gently fall on sleep, And breathe my body back to Nature's care, My spirit out to thee, God of the open air.

1904.

NARRATIVE POEMS

THE TOILING OF FELIX

A LEGEND ON A NEW SAYING OF JESUS

In the rubbish heaps of the ancient city of Oxyrhynchus, near the River Nile, a party of English explorers, in the winter of 1897, discovered a fragment of a papyrus book, written in the second or third century, and hitherto unknown. This single leaf contained parts of seven short sentences of Christ, each introduced by the words, "Jesus says." It is to the fifth of these Sayings of Jesus that the following poem refers.

THE TOILING OF FELIX

I

PRELUDE

Hear a word that Jesus spake Nineteen hundred years ago, Where the crimson lilies blow Round the blue Tiberian lake: There the bread of life He brake, Through the fields of harvest walking With His lowly comrades, talking Of the secret thoughts that feed Weary souls in time of need. Art thou hungry? Come and take; Hear the word that Jesus spake! 'Tis the sacrament of labour, bread and wine divinely blest; Friendship's food and sweet refreshment, strength and courage, joy and rest.

But this word the Master said Long ago and far away, Silent and forgotten lay Buried with the silent dead, Where the sands of Egypt spread Sea-like, tawny billows heaping Over ancient cities sleeping, While the River Nile between Rolls its summer flood of green Rolls its autumn flood of red: There the word the Master said, Written on a frail papyrus, wrinkled, scorched by fire, and torn, Hidden by God's hand was waiting for its resurrection morn.

Now at last the buried word By the delving spade is found, Sleeping in the quiet ground. Now the call of life is heard: Rise again, and like a bird, Fly abroad on wings of gladness Through the darkness and the sadness, Of the toiling age, and sing Sweeter than the voice of Spring, Till the hearts of men are stirred By the music of the word,-- Gospel for the heavy-laden, answer to the labourer's cry: "_Raise the stone, and thou shall find me; cleave the wood and there am I._"

II

LEGEND

Brother-men who look for Jesus, long to see Him close and clear, Hearken to the tale of Felix, how he found the Master near.

Born in Egypt, 'neath the shadow of the crumbling gods of night, He forsook the ancient darkness, turned his young heart toward the Light.

Seeking Christ, in vain he waited for the vision of the Lord; Vainly pondered many volumes where the creeds of men were stored;

Vainly shut himself in silence, keeping vigil night and day; Vainly haunted shrines and churches where the Christians came to pray.

One by one he dropped the duties of the common life of care, Broke the human ties that bound him, laid his spirit waste and bare,

Hoping that the Lord would enter that deserted dwelling-place, And reward the loss of all things with the vision of His face.

Still the blessed vision tarried; still the light was unrevealed; Still the Master, dim and distant, kept His countenance concealed.

Fainter grew the hope of finding, wearier grew the fruitless quest; Prayer and penitence and fasting gave no comfort, brought no rest.

Lingering in the darkened temple, ere the lamp of faith went out, Felix knelt before the altar, lonely, sad, and full of doubt.

"Hear me, O my Lord and Master," from the altar-step he cried, "Let my one desire be granted, let my hope be satisfied!

"Only once I long to see Thee, in the fulness of Thy grace: Break the clouds that now enfold Thee, with the sunrise of Thy face!

"All that men desire and treasure have I counted loss for Thee; Every hope have I forsaken, save this one, my Lord to see.

"Loosed the sacred bands of friendship, solitary stands my heart; Thou shalt be my sole companion when I see Thee as Thou art.

"From Thy distant throne in glory, flash upon my inward sight, Fill the midnight of my spirit with the splendour of Thy light.

"All Thine other gifts and blessings, common mercies, I disown; Separated from my brothers, I would see Thy face alone.

"I have watched and I have waited as one waiteth for the morn: Still the veil is never lifted, still Thou leavest me forlorn.

"Now I seek Thee in the desert, where the holy hermits dwell; There, beside the saint Serapion, I will find a lonely cell.

"There at last Thou wilt be gracious; there Thy presence, long-concealed, In the solitude and silence to my heart shall be revealed.

"Thou wilt come, at dawn or twilight, o'er the rolling waves of sand; I shall see Thee close beside me, I shall touch Thy pierced hand.

"Lo, Thy pilgrim kneels before Thee; bless my journey with a word; Tell me now that if I follow, I shall find Thee, O my Lord!"

Felix listened: through the darkness, like a murmur of the wind, Came a gentle sound of stillness: "Never faint, and thou shalt find."

Long and toilsome was his journey through the heavy land of heat, Egypt's blazing sun above him, blistering sand beneath his feet.

Patiently he plodded onward, from the pathway never erred, Till he reached the river-headland called the Mountain of the Bird.

There the tribes of air assemble, once a year, their noisy flock, Then, departing, leave a sentinel perched upon the highest rock.

Far away, on joyful pinions, over land and sea they fly; But the watcher on the summit lonely stands against the sky.

There the eremite Serapion in a cave had made his bed; There the faithful bands of pilgrims sought his blessing, brought him bread.

Month by month, in deep seclusion, hidden in the rocky cleft, Dwelt the hermit, fasting, praying; once a year the cave he left.

On that day a happy pilgrim, chosen out of all the band, Won a special sign of favour from the holy hermit's hand.

Underneath the narrow window, at the doorway closely sealed, While the afterglow of sunset deepened round him, Felix kneeled.

"Man of God, of men most holy, thou whose gifts cannot be priced! Grant me thy most precious guerdon; tell me how to find the Christ."

Breathless, Felix bent and listened, but no answering voice he heard; Darkness folded, dumb and deathlike, round the Mountain of the Bird.

Then he said, "The saint is silent; he would teach my soul to wait: I will tarry here in patience, like a beggar at his gate."

Near the dwelling of the hermit Felix found a rude abode, In a shallow tomb deserted, close beside the pilgrim-road.

So the faithful pilgrims saw him waiting there without complaint,-- Soon they learned to call him holy, fed him as they fed the saint.

Day by day he watched the sunrise flood the distant plain with gold, While the River Nile beneath him, silvery coiling, sea-ward rolled.

Night by night he saw the planets range their glittering court on high, Saw the moon, with queenly motion, mount her throne and rule the sky.

Morn advanced and midnight fled, in visionary pomp attired; Never morn and never midnight brought the vision long-desired.

Now at last the day is dawning when Serapion makes his gift; Felix kneels before the threshold, hardly dares his eyes to lift.

Now the cavern door uncloses, now the saint above him stands, Blesses him without a word, and leaves a token in his hands.

'Tis the guerdon of thy waiting! Look, thou happy pilgrim, look! Nothing but a tattered fragment of an old papyrus book.

Read! perchance the clue to guide thee hidden in the words may lie: "_Raise the stone, and thou shalt find me; cleave the wood, and there am I._"

Can it be the mighty Master spake such simple words as these? Can it be that men must seek Him at their toil 'mid rocks and trees?

Disappointed, heavy-hearted, from the Mountain of the Bird Felix mournfully descended, questioning the Master's word.

Not for him a sacred dwelling, far above the haunts of men: He must turn his footsteps backward to the common life again.

From a quarry near the river, hollowed out amid the hills, Rose the clattering voice of labour, clanking hammers, clinking drills.

Dust, and noise, and hot confusion made a Babel of the spot: There, among the lowliest workers, Felix sought and found his lot.

Now he swung the ponderous mallet, smote the iron in the rock-- Muscles quivering, tingling, throbbing--blow on blow and shock on shock;

Now he drove the willow wedges, wet them till they swelled and split, With their silent strength, the fragment, sent it thundering down the pit.

Now the groaning tackle raised it; now the rollers made it slide; Harnessed men, like beasts of burden, drew it to the river-side.

Now the palm-trees must be riven, massive timbers hewn and dressed; Rafts to bear the stones in safety on the rushing river's breast.

Axe and auger, saw and chisel, wrought the will of man in wood: 'Mid the many-handed labour Felix toiled, and found it good.

Every day the blood ran fleeter through his limbs and round his heart; Every night he slept the sweeter, knowing he had done his part.

Dreams of solitary saintship faded from him; but, instead, Came a sense of daily comfort in the toil for daily bread.

Far away, across the river, gleamed the white walls of the town Whither all the stones and timbers day by day were floated down.

There the workman saw his labour taking form and bearing fruit, Like a tree with splendid branches rising from a humble root.

Looking at the distant city, temples, houses, domes, and towers, Felix cried in exultation: "All that mighty work is ours.

"Every toiler in the quarry, every builder on the shore, Every chopper in the palm-grove, every raftsman at the oar,

"Hewing wood and drawing water, splitting stones and cleaving sod, All the dusty ranks of labour, in the regiment of God,

"March together toward His triumph, do the task His hands prepare: Honest toil is holy service; faithful work is praise and prayer."

While he bore the heat and burden Felix felt the sense of rest Flowing softly like a fountain, deep within his weary breast;

Felt the brotherhood of labour, rising round him like a tide, Overflow his heart and join him to the workers at his side.

Oft he cheered them with his singing at the breaking of the light, Told them tales of Christ at noonday, taught them words of prayer at night.

Once he bent above a comrade fainting in the mid-day heat, Sheltered him with woven palm-leaves, gave him water, cool and sweet.

Then it seemed, for one swift moment, secret radiance filled the place; Underneath the green palm-branches flashed a look of Jesus' face.

Once again, a raftsman, slipping, plunged beneath the stream and sank; Swiftly Felix leaped to rescue, caught him, drew him toward the bank--

Battling with the cruel river, using all his strength to save-- Did he dream? or was there One beside him walking on the wave?

Now at last the work was ended, grove deserted, quarry stilled; Felix journeyed to the city that his hands had helped to build.

In the darkness of the temple, at the closing hour of day, As of old he sought the altar, as of old he knelt to pray:

"Hear me, O Thou hidden Master! Thou hast sent a word to me; It is written--Thy commandment--I have kept it faithfully.

"Thou hast bid me leave the visions of the solitary life, Bear my part in human labour, take my share in human strife.

"I have done Thy bidding, Master; raised the rock and felled the tree, Swung the axe and plied the hammer, working every day for Thee.

"Once it seemed I saw Thy presence through the bending palm-leaves gleam; Once upon the flowing water--Nay, I know not; 'twas a dream!

"This I know: Thou hast been near me: more than this I dare not ask. Though I see Thee not, I love Thee. Let me do Thy humblest task!"

Through the dimness of the temple slowly dawned a mystic light; There the Master stood in glory, manifest to mortal sight:

Hands that bore the mark of labour, brow that bore the print of care; Hands of power, divinely tender; brow of light, divinely fair.

"Hearken, good and faithful servant, true disciple, loyal friend! Thou hast followed me and found me; I will keep thee to the end.

"Well I know thy toil and trouble; often weary, fainting, worn, I have lived the life of labour, heavy burdens I have borne.

"Never in a prince's palace have I slept on golden bed, Never in a hermit's cavern have I eaten unearned bread.

"Born within a lowly stable, where the cattle round me stood, Trained a carpenter in Nazareth, I have toiled, and found it good.

"They who tread the path of labour follow where my feet have trod; They who work without complaining do the holy will of God.

"Where the many toil together, there am I among my own; Where the tired workman sleepeth, there am I with him alone.

"I, the peace that passeth knowledge, dwell amid the daily strife; I, the bread of heaven, am broken in the sacrament of life.