Part 10

But as a word marked ‘obsolete,’ like war. The arts were kindled with celestial fire; New poets sang so Homer’s fame grew dim; And brush and chisel gave the wondering race Sublimer treasures than old Greece displayed. Men differed still; fierce argument arose, For men are human in this human sphere; But unarmed Arbitration stood between And Reason settled in a hundred hours What War disputed for a hundred years.

Oh, that a Voice, of one God-authorised Might cry to all mankind, Disarm! Disarm!

GOD’S ANSWER

Once in a time of trouble and of care I dreamed I talked with God about my pain; With sleepland courage, daring to complain Of what I deemed ungracious and unfair. ‘Lord, I have grovelled on my knees in prayer Hour after hour,’ I cried; ‘yet all in vain; No hand leads up to heights I would attain, No path is shown me out of my despair.’

Then answered God: ‘Three things I gave to thee— Clear brain, brave will, and strength of mind and heart, All implements divine, to shape the way. Why shift the burden of thy toil on Me? Till to the utmost he has done his part With all his might, let no man dare to pray.’

THE EDICT OF THE SEX

Two thousand years had passed since Christ was born, When suddenly there rose a mighty host Of women, sweeping to a central goal As many rivers sweep on to the sea. They came from mountains, valleys, and from coasts, And from all lands, all nations, and all ranks, Speaking all languages, but thinking one. And that one language—Peace.

‘Listen,’ they said, And straightway was there silence on the earth, For men were dumb with wonder and surprise. ‘Listen, O mighty masters of the world, And hear the edict of all womankind: Since Christ His new commandment gave to men, Love one another, full two thousand years Have passed away, yet earth is red with blood. The strong male rulers of the world proclaim Their weakness, when we ask that war shall cease. Now will the poor weak women of the world Proclaim their strength, and say that war shall end. Hear, then, our edict: Never from this day Will any woman on the crust of earth Mother a warrior. We have sworn the oath And will go barren to the waiting tomb Rather than breed strong sons at war’s behest, Or bring fair daughters into life, to bear The pains of travail, for no end but war. Ay! let the race die out for lack of babes Better a dying race than endless wars! Better a silent world than noise of guns And clash of armies.

‘Long we asked for peace, And oft you promised—but to fight again. At last you told us, war must ever be While men existed, laughing at our plea For the disarmament of all mankind. Then in our hearts flamed such a mad desire For peace on earth, as lights the world at times With some great conflagration; and it spread From distant land to land, from sea to sea, Until all women thought as with one mind And spoke as with one voice; and now behold! The great Crusading Syndicate of Peace, Filling all space with one supreme resolve. Give us, O men, your word that war shall end: Disarm the world, and we will give you sons— Sons to construct, and daughters to adorn A beautiful new earth, where there shall be Fewer and finer people, opulence And opportunity and peace for all. Until you promise peace no shrill birth-cry Shall sound again upon the aging earth. We wait your answer.’

And the world was still While men considered.

THE WORLD-CHILD

At times I am the mother of the world; And mine seem all its sorrows, and its fears. That rose, which in each mother-heart is curled, The rose of pity, opens with my tears, And, waking in the night, I lie and hark To the lone sobbing, and the wild alarms, Of my World-child, a wailing in the dark: The child I fain would shelter in my arms. I call to it (as from another room A mother calls, what time she cannot go): ‘Sleep well, dear world; Love hides behind this gloom. There is no need for wakefulness or woe, The long, long night is almost past and gone, The day is near.’ And yet the world weeps on.

Again I follow it, throughout the day. With anxious eyes I see it trip and fall, And hurt itself in many a foolish way: Childlike, unheeding warning word or call. I see it grasp, and grasping, break the toys It cried to own, then toss them on the floor And, breathless, hurry after fancied joys That cease to please, when added to its store. I see the lacerations on its hands, Made by forbidden tools; but when it weeps, I also weep, as one who understands; And having been a child, the memory keeps. Ah, my poor world, however wrong thy part, Still is there pity in my mother-heart.

THE HEIGHTS

I cried, ‘Dear Angel, lead me to the heights, And spur me to the top.’ The Angel answered, ‘Stop And set thy house in order; make it fair For absent ones who may be speeding there. Then will we talk of heights.’

I put my house in order. ‘Now lead on!’ The Angel said, ‘Not yet; Thy garden is beset By thorns and tares; go weed it, so all those Who come to gaze may find the unvexed rose; Then will we journey on.’

I weeded well my garden. ‘All is done.’ The Angel shook his head. ‘A beggar stands,’ he said, ‘Outside thy gates; till thou hast given heed And soothed his sorrow, and supplied his need, Say not that all is done.’

The beggar left me singing. ‘Now at last— At last the path is clear.’ ‘Nay, there is one draws near Who seeks, like thee, the difficult highway. He lacks thy courage; cheer him through the day Then will we cry, “At last!”’

I helped my weaker brother. ‘Now the heights; Oh, Guide me, Angel, guide!’ The Presence at my side, With radiant face, said, ‘Look, where are we now?’ And lo! we stood upon the mountain’s brow— The heights, the shining heights!

ON SEEING ‘THE HOUSE OF JULIA’ AT HERCULANEUM

Not great Vesuvius, in all his ire, Nor all the centuries, could hide your shame. There is the little window where you came, With eyes that woke the demon of desire, And lips like rose leaves, fashioned out of fire; And from the lava leaps the molten flame Of your old sins. The walls cry out your name— Your face seems rising from the funeral pyre.

There must have dwelt, within your fated town, Full many a virtuous dame, and noble wife Who made your beauty seem as star to sun; How strange the centuries have handed down Your name, fair Julia, of immoral life, And left the others to oblivion.

A PRAYER

Master of sweet and loving lore, Give us the open mind To know religion means no more, No less, than being kind.

Give us the comprehensive sight That sees another’s need; And let our aim to set things right Prove God inspired our creed.

Give us the soul to know our kin That dwell in flock and herd, The voice to fight man’s shameful sin Against the beast and bird.

Give us a heart with love so fraught For all created things, That even our unspoken thought Bears healing on its wings.

Give us religion that will cope With life’s colossal woes, And turn a radiant face of hope On troops of pigmy foes.