Part 5
So when the Master questioned, "Dost thou hear?" She answered, "Yea, at last I hear." And then He asked her once again, "What hearest thou? What means the voice of Life?" She answered, "Love! For love is life, and they who do not love Are not alive. But every soul that loves, Lives in the heart of God and hears Him speak."
1898.
ANOTHER CHANCE
A DRAMATIC LYRIC
Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death! Uncrook your fingers from my throat, and let me draw my breath. You do me wrong to take me now--too soon for me to die-- Ah, loose me from this clutching pain, and hear the reason why.
I know I've had my forty years, and wasted every one; And yet, I tell you honestly, my life is just begun; I've walked the world like one asleep, a dreamer in a trance; But now you've gripped me wide awake--I want another chance.
My dreams were always beautiful, my thoughts were high and fine; No life was ever lived on earth to match those dreams of mine. And would you wreck them unfulfilled? What folly, nay, what crime! You rob the world, you waste a soul; give me a little time.
You'll hear me? Yes, I'm sure you will, my hope is not in vain: I feel the even pulse of peace, the sweet relief from pain; The black fog rolls away from me; I'm free once more to plan: Another chance is all I need to prove myself a man!
* * * * *
The world is full of warfare 'twixt the evil and the good; I watched the battle from afar as one who understood The shouting and confusion, the bloody, blundering fight-- How few there are that see it clear, how few that wage it right!
The captains flushed with foolish pride, the soldiers pale with fear, The faltering flags, the feeble fire from ranks that swerve and veer, The wild mistakes, the dismal doubts, the coward hearts that flee-- The good cause needs a nobler knight to win the victory.
A man whose soul is pure and strong, whose sword is bright and keen, Who knows the splendour of the fight and what its issues mean; Who never takes one step aside, nor halts, though hope be dim, But cleaves a pathway thro' the strife, and bids men follow him.
No blot upon his stainless shield, no weakness in his arm; No sign of trembling in his face to break his valour's charm: A man like this could stay the flight and lead the wavering line; Ah, give me but a year of life--I'll make that glory mine!
* * * * *
Religion? Yes, I know it well; I've heard its prayers and creeds, And seen men put them all to shame with poor, half-hearted deeds. They follow Christ, but far away; they wander and they doubt. I'll serve him in a better way, and live his precepts out.
You see, I waited just for this; I could not be content To own a feeble, faltering faith with human weakness blent. Too many runners in the race move slowly, stumble, fall; But I will run so straight and swift I shall outstrip them all.
Oh, think what it will mean to men, amid their foolish strife, To see the clear, unshadowed light of one true Christian life, Without a touch of selfishness, without a taint of sin,-- With one short month of such a life a new world would begin!
* * * * *
And love!--I often dream of that--the treasure of the earth; How little they who use the coin have realised its worth! 'Twill pay all debts, enrich all hearts, and make all joys secure. But love, to do its perfect work, must be sincere and pure.
My heart is full of virgin gold. I'll pour it out and spend My hidden wealth with open hand on all who call me friend. Not one shall miss the kindly deed, the largess of relief, The generous fellowship of joy, the sympathy of grief.
I'll say the loyal, helpful things that make life sweet and fair, I'll pay the gratitude I owe for human love and care. Perhaps I've been at fault sometimes--I'll ask to be forgiven, And make this little room of mine seem like a bit of heaven.
For one by one I'll call my friends to stand beside my bed; I'll speak the true and tender words so often left unsaid; And every heart shall throb and glow, all coldness melt away Around my altar-fire of love--ah, give me but one day!
* * * * *
What's that? I've had another day, and wasted it again? A priceless day in empty dreams, another chance in vain? Thou fool--this night--it's very dark--the last--this choking breath-- One prayer--have mercy on a dreamer's soul--God, this is death!
A LEGEND OF SERVICE
It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!) To hear, one day, report from those who came With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy, To tell of earthly tasks in His employ. For some were grieved because they saw how slow The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow; And some were glad because their eyes had seen, Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green. At last, before the whiteness of the throne The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone; Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought, And thus his tidings to the Master brought "Lord, in the city Lupon I have found Three servants of thy holy name, renowned Above their fellows. One is very wise, With thoughts that ever range beyond the skies; And one is gifted with the golden speech That makes men gladly hear when he will teach; And one, with no rare gift or grace endued, Has won the people's love by doing good. With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest; But, Lord, I fain would know, which loves Thee best?" Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look The hearts of all are like an open book: "In every soul the secret thought I read, And well I know who loves me best indeed. But every life has pages vacant still, Whereon a man may write the thing he will; Therefore I read the record, day by day, And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way. But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three Who serve me there, and take this word from me: Tell each of them his Master bids him go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow; There he shall find a certain task for me: But what, I do not tell to them nor thee. Give thou the message, make my word the test, And crown for me the one who loves me best." Silent the angel stood, with folded hands, To take the imprint of his Lord's commands; Then drew one breath, obedient and elate, And passed the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate.
* * * * *
First to the Temple door he made his way; And there, because it was a holy-day, He saw the folk in thousands thronging, stirred By ardent thirst to hear the preacher's word. Then, while the people whispered Bernol's name, Through aisles that hushed behind him Bernol came; Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious might, With lips prepared and firm, and eyes alight. One moment at the pulpit step he knelt In silent prayer, and on his shoulder felt The angel's hand:--"The Master bids thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." Then Bernol's hidden face Went white as death, and for about the space Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply; Till Bernol looked around and whispered, "_Why?_" But answer to his question came there none; The angel sighed, and with a sigh was gone.
* * * * *
Within the humble house where Malvin spent His studious years, on holy things intent, Sweet stillness reigned; and there the angel found The saintly sage immersed in thought profound, Weaving with patient toil and willing care A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair: A seamless robe for Truth's great bridal meet, And needing but one thread to be complete. Then Asmiel touched his hand, and broke the thread Of fine-spun thought, and very gently said, "The One of whom thou thinkest bids thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." With sorrow and surprise Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes. The broken thought, the strangeness of the call, The perilous passage of the mountain-wall, The solitary journey, and the length Of ways unknown, too great for his frail strength, Appalled him. With a doubtful brow He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered "_How?_" But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go, With cold, disheartened voice, "I do not know."
* * * * *
Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek The third and last to whom God bade him speak, Scarce twenty steps away whom should he meet But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the street, With ready heart that faced his work like play, And joyed to find it greater every day! The angel stopped him with uplifted hand, And gave without delay his Lord's command: "He whom thou servest here would have thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." Ere Asmiel breathed again The eager answer leaped to meet him, "_When?_"
The angel's face with inward joy grew bright, And all his figure glowed with heavenly light; He took the golden circlet from his brow And gave the crown to Fermor, answering, "Now! For thou hast met the Master's hidden test, And I have found the man who loves Him best. Not thine, nor mine, to question or reply When He commands us, asking 'how?' or 'why?' He knows the cause; His ways are wise and just; Who serves the King must serve with perfect trust."
February, 1902.
THE WHITE BEES
I
LEGEND
Long ago Apollo called to Aristæus, youngest of the shepherds, Saying, "I will make you keeper of my bees." Golden were the hives and golden was the honey; golden, too, the music Where the honey-makers hummed among the trees.
Happy Aristæus loitered in the garden, wandered in the orchard, Careless and contented, indolent and free; Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure, till the fated moment When across his pathway came Eurydice.
Then her eyes enkindled burning love within him; drove him wild with longing For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like face; Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him, over mead and mountain, On through field and forest, in a breathless race.
But the nymph, in flying, trod upon a serpent; like a dream she vanished; Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead! Lonely Aristæus, sadly home returning, found his garden empty, All the hives deserted, all the music fled.
Mournfully bewailing,--"Ah, my honey-makers, where have you departed?" Far and wide he sought them over sea and shore; Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them, brought them home in triumph,-- Joys that once escape us fly for evermore.
Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy whiteness, dwell the honey-makers, In aërial gardens that no mortal sees: And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, gathering mystic harvest,-- So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees.
II
THE SWARMING OF THE BEES
Who can tell the hiding of the white bees' nest? Who can trace the guiding of their swift home flight? Far would be his riding on a life-long quest: Surely ere it ended would his beard grow white.
Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring, Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall, May you hear the humming of the white bee's wing Murmur o'er the meadow ere the night bells call.
Wait till winter hardens in the cold gray sky, Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all freeze, Then above the gardens where the dead flowers lie, Swarm the merry millions of the wild white bees.
Out of the high-built airy hive, Deep in the clouds that veil the sun, Look how the first of the swarm arrive; Timidly venturing, one by one, Down through the tranquil air, Wavering here and there, Large, and lazy in flight,-- Caught by a lift of the breeze, Tangled among the naked trees,-- Dropping then, without a sound, Feather-white, feather-light, To their rest on the ground.
Thus the swarming is begun. Count the leaders, every one Perfect as a perfect star Till the slow descent is done. Look beyond them, see how far Down the vistas dim and gray, Multitudes are on the way. Now a sudden brightness Dawns within the sombre day, Over fields of whiteness; And the sky is swiftly alive With the flutter and the flight Of the shimmering bees, that pour From the hidden door of the hive Till you can count no more.
Now on the branches of hemlock and pine Thickly they settle and cluster and swing, Bending them low; and the trellised vine And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line Of beauty wherever the white bees cling. Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers, Softly, softly, covering all, Over the grave of the summer hours Spreading a silver pall. Now they are building the broad roof ledge, Into a cornice smooth and fair, Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge, Into the sweep of a marble stair. Wonderful workers, swift and dumb, Numberless myriads, still they come, Thronging ever faster, faster, faster! Where is their queen? Who is their master? The gardens are faded, the fields are frore,-- What is the honey they toil to store In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam? _Forgetfulness and a dream!_
But now the fretful wind awakes; I hear him girding at the trees; He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes The quiet clusters of the bees To powdery drift; He tosses them away, He drives them like spray; He makes them veer and shift Around his blustering path. In clouds blindly whirling, In rings madly swirling, Full of crazy wrath, So furious and fast they fly They blur the earth and blot the sky In wild, white mirk. They fill the air with frozen wings And tiny, angry, icy stings; They blind the eyes, and choke the breath, They dance a maddening dance of death Around their work, Sweeping the cover from the hill, Heaping the hollows deeper still, Effacing every line and mark, And swarming, storming in the dark Through the long night; Until, at dawn, the wind lies down Weary of fight; The last torn cloud, with trailing gown, Passes the open gates of light; And the white bees are lost in flight.
Look how the landscape glitters wide and still, Bright with a pure surprise! The day begins with joy, and all past ill, Buried in white oblivion, lies Beneath the snow-drifts under crystal skies. New hope, new love, new life, new cheer, Flow in the sunrise beam,-- The gladness of Apollo when he sees, Upon the bosom of the wintry year, The honey-harvest of his wild white bees, _Forgetfulness and a dream!_
III
LEGEND
Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning, like a tranquil vision, Fills the world around us and our hearts with peace; Quiet is the close of Aristæus' legend, happy is the ending-- Listen while I tell you how he found release.
Many months he wandered far away in sadness, desolately thinking Only of the vanished joys he could not find; Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed him from the burden Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind.
Then he saw around him all the changeful beauty of the changing seasons, In the world-wide regions where his journey lay; Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed beside him, stars that shone to guide him,-- Traveller's joy was plenty all along the way!
Everywhere he journeyed strangers made him welcome, listened while he taught them Secret lore of field and forest he had learned: How to train the vines and make the olives fruitful; how to guard the sheepfolds; How to stay the fever when the dog-star burned.
Friendliness and blessing followed in his footsteps; richer were the harvests, Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came; Little children loved him, and he left behind him, in the hour of parting, Memories of kindness and a god-like name.
So he travelled onward, desolate no longer, patient in his seeking, Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest; Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Hæmus, far from human dwelling, Weary Aristæus laid him down to rest.
Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness, fluttered soft around him, Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and deep. This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden, then a troubled journey, Joy and pain of seeking,--and at last we sleep!
1905.
NEW YEAR'S EVE
I
The other night I had a dream, most clear And comforting, complete In every line, a crystal sphere, And full of intimate and secret cheer. Therefore I will repeat That vision, dearest heart, to you, As of a thing not feigned, but very true, Yes, true as ever in my life befell; And you, perhaps, can tell Whether my dream was really sad or sweet.
II
The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street I knew so well, long, long ago; And on the pillared porch where Marguerite Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow. But she, my comrade and my friend of youth, Most gaily wise, Most innocently loved,-- She of the blue-gray eyes That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,-- From that familiar dwelling, where she moved Like mirth incarnate in the years before, Had gone into the hidden house of Death. I thought the garden wore White mourning for her blessed innocence, And the syringa's breath Came from the corner by the fence Where she had made her rustic seat, With fragrance passionate, intense, As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite. My heart was heavy with a sense Of something good for ever gone. I sought Vainly for some consoling thought, Some comfortable word that I could say To her sad father, whom I visited again For the first time since she had gone away. The bell rang shrill and lonely,--then The door was opened, and I sent my name To him,--but ah! 'twas Marguerite who came! There in the dear old dusky room she stood Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand, In tender mocking mood. "You did not ask for me," she said, "And so I will not let you take my hand; But I must hear what secret talk you planned With father. Come, my friend, be good, And tell me your affairs of state: Why you have stayed away and made me wait So long. Sit down beside me here,-- And, do you know, it seems a year Since we have talked together,--why so late?" Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy I hardly dared to show, And stammering like a boy, I took the place she showed me at her side; And then the talk flowed on with brimming tide Through the still night, While she with influence light Controlled it, as the moon the flood. She knew where I had been, what I had done, What work was planned, and what begun; My troubles, failures, fears she understood, And touched them with a heart so kind, That every care was melted from my mind, And every hope grew bright, And life seemed moving on to happy ends. (Ah, what self-beggared fool was he That said a woman cannot be The very best of friends?) Then there were memories of old times, Recalled with many a gentle jest; And at the last she brought the book of rhymes We made together, trying to translate The Songs of Heine (hers were always best). "Now come," she said, "To-night we will collaborate Again; I'll put you to the test. Here's one I never found the way to do,-- The simplest are the hardest ones, you know,-- I give this song to you." And then she read: _Mein Kind, wir waren Kinder, Zwei Kinder, jung und froh._
* * * * *
But all the while, a silent question stirred Within me, though I dared not speak the word: "Is it herself, and is she truly here, And was I dreaming when I heard That she was dead last year? Or was it true, and is she but a shade Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear, Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade When her sweet ghostly part is played And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?"
But while my heart was troubled by this fear So deeply that I could not speak it out, Lest all my happiness should disappear, I thought me of a cunning way To hide the question and dissolve the doubt. "Will you not give me now your hand, Dear Marguerite," I asked, "to touch and hold, That by this token I may understand You are the same true friend you were of old?" She answered with a smile so bright and calm It seemed as if I saw the morn arise In the deep heaven of her eyes; And smiling so, she laid her palm In mine. Dear God, it was not cold But warm with vital heat! "You live!" I cried, "you live, dear Marguerite!" When I awoke; but strangely comforted, Although I knew again that she was dead.
III
Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet or sad? Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep, Present reward of all my heart's desire, Watching with me beside the winter fire, Interpret now this vision that I had. But while you read the meaning, let me keep The touch of you: for the Old Year with storm Is passing through the midnight, and doth shake The corners of the house,--and oh! my heart would break Unless both dreaming and awake My hand could feel your hand was warm, warm, warm!
1905.
THE VAIN KING
In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest, A jewelled collar shone upon his breast, A giant ruby glittered in his crown: Lord of rich lands and many a splendid town, In him the glories of an ancient line Of sober kings, who ruled by right divine, Were centred; and to him with loyal awe The people looked for leadership and law. Ten thousand knights, the safeguard of the land, Were like a single sword within his hand; A hundred courts, with power of life and death, Proclaimed decrees of justice by his breath; And all the sacred growths that men had known Of order and of rule upheld his throne.