Part 4

I watched them bowing and devoutly kneeling, Heard their responses like sweet waters roll But only the glorious organ’s sacred pealing Seemed gushing from a full and fervent soul. I listened to the man of holy calling, He spoke of creeds, and hailed his own as best; Of man’s corruption and of Adam’s-falling, But naught that gave me rest:

Nothing that helped me bear the daily grinding Of soul with body, heart with heated brain; Nothing to show the purpose of this blinding And sometimes overwhelming sense of pain. And then, dear friend, I thought of thee, so lowly, So unassuming, and so gently kind, And lo! a peace, a calm serene and holy, Settled upon my mind.

Ah, friend, my friend! one true heart, fond and tender, That understands our troubles and our needs, Brings us more near to God than all the splendour And pomp of seeming worship and vain creeds. One glance of thy dear eyes so full of feeling, Doth bring me closer to the Infinite Than all that throng of worldly people kneeling In blaze of gorgeous light.

INEVITABLE

To-day I was so weary and I lay In that delicious state of semi-waking, When baby, sitting with his nurse at play, Cried loud for “mamma,” all his toys forsaking.

I was so weary and I needed rest, And signed to nurse to bear him from the room. Then, sudden, rose and caught him to my breast, And kissed the grieving mouth and cheeks of bloom.

For swift as lightning came the thought to me, With pulsing heart-throes and a mist of tears, Of days inevitable, that are to be, If my fair darling grows to manhood’s years;

Days when he will not call for “mamma,” when The world, with many a pleasure and bright joy, Shall tempt him forth into the haunts of men And I shall lose the first place with my boy;

When other homes and loves shall give delight, When younger smiles and voices will seem best. And so I held him to my heart to-night, Forgetting all my need of peace and rest.

THE OCEAN OF SONG

In a land beyond sight or conceiving, In a land where no blight is, no wrong, No darkness, no graves, and no grieving, There lies the great ocean of song. And its waves, oh, its waves unbeholden By any save gods, and their kind, Are not blue, are not green, but are golden, Like moonlight and sunlight combined.

It was whispered to me that their waters Were made from the gathered-up tears That were wept by the sons and the daughters Of long-vanished eras and spheres. Like white sands of heaven the spray is That falls all the happy day long, And whoever it touches straightway is Made glad with the spirit of song.

Up, up to the clouds where their hoary Crowned heads melt away in the skies, The beautiful mountains of glory Each side of the song-ocean rise. Here day is one splendour of sky-light— Of God’s light with beauty replete. Here night is not night, but is twilight, Pervading, enfolding, and sweet.

Bright birds from all climes and all regions, That sing the whole glad summer long, Are dumb, till they flock here in legions And lave in the ocean of song. It is here that the four winds of heaven, The winds that do sing and rejoice, It is here they first came and were given The secret of sound and a voice.

Far down along beautiful beeches, By night and by glorious day, The throng of the gifted ones reaches, Their foreheads made white with the spray, And a few of the sons and the daughters Of this kingdom, cloud-hidden from sight, Go down in the wonderful waters, And bathe in those billows of light.

And their souls evermore are like fountains, And liquid and lucent and strong, High over the tops of the mountains Gush up the sweet billows of song. No drouth-time of waters can dry them. Whoever has bathed in that sea, All dangers, all deaths, they defy them, And are gladder than gods are, with glee.

“IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN”

We will be what we could be. Do not say, “It might have been, had not or that, or this.” No fate can keep us from the chosen way; He only might, who is.

We will do what we could do. Do not dream Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve. I hold, all men are greatly what they seem; He does, who could achieve.

We will climb where we could climb. Tell me not Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height. What eagle ever missed the peak he sought? He always climbs who might.

I do not like the phrase, “It might have been!” It lacks all force, and life’s best truths perverts For I believe we have, and reach, and win, Whatever our deserts.

MOMUS, GOD OF LAUGHTER

Though with gods the world is cumbered, Gods unnamed, and gods unnumbered, Never god was known to be Who had not his devotee. So I dedicate to mine, Here in verse, my temple-shrine.

’Tis not Ares,—mighty Mars, Who can give success in wars. ’Tis not Morpheus, who doth keep Guard above us while we sleep, ’Tis not Venus, she whose duty ’Tis to give us love and beauty; Hail to these, and others, after Momus, gleesome god of laughter.

Quirinus would guard my health, Plutus would insure me wealth; Mercury looks after trade, Hera smiles on youth and maid. All are kind, I own their worth, After Momus, god of mirth.

Though Apollo, out of spite, Hides away his face of light, Though Minerva looks askance, Deigning me no smiling glance, Kings and queens may envy me While I claim the god of glee.

Wisdom wearies, Love has wings— Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings, Glory proves a thorny crown— So all gifts the gods throw down Bring their pains and troubles after; All save Momus, god of laughter. He alone gives constant joy. Hail to Momus, happy boy.

I DREAM