Poems of Experience Part 2

Let me linger in the fancy, For the soul of me is stirred As I dream that I am sitting here among you; And the songs that I have sung you Shall grow stronger through the art Of heart speaking unto heart, Through the gladness of the singer who is heard Lo! my songs have crossed the ocean But the voice of my emotion finds no word.

SEE?

If one proves weak who you fancied strong, Or false who you fancied true, Just ease the smart of your wounded heart By the thought that it is not you!

If many forget a promise made, And your faith falls into the dust, Then look meanwhile in your mirror and smile, And say, '_I_ am one to trust!'

If you search in vain for an ageing face Unharrowed by fretful fears, Then make right now (and keep) a vow To grow in grace with the years.

If you lose your faith in the word of man As you go from the port of youth, Just say as you sail, '_I_ will not fail To keep to the course of truth!'

For this is the way, and the only way - At least so it seems to me.

IT IS UP TO YOU, TO BE, AND DO, WHAT YOU LOOK FOR IN OTHERS. SEE?

THE PURPOSE

Over and over the task was set, Over and over I slighted the work, But ever and alway I knew that yet I must face and finish the toil I s.h.i.+rk.

Over and over the whip of pain Has spurred and punished with blow on blow; As ever and alway I tried in vain To shun the labour I hated so.

Over and over I came this way For just one purpose: O stubborn soul!

Turn with a will to your work to-day, And learn the lesson of SELF-CONTROL.

THE WHITE MAN

Wherever the white man's feet have trod (Oh far does the white man stray) A bold road rifles the virginal sod, And the forest wakes out of its dream of G.o.d, To yield him the right of way.

For this is the law: BY THE POWER OF THOUGHT, FOR WORSE, OR FOR BETTER, ARE MIRACLES WROUGHT.

Wherever the white man's pathway leads, (Far, far has that pathway gone) The Earth is littered with broken creeds - And alway the dark man's tent recedes, And the white man pushes on.

For this is the law: BE IT GOOD OR ILL, ALL THINGS MUST YIELD TO THE STRONGER WILL.

Wherever the white man's light is shed, (Oh far has that light been thrown) Though Nature has suffered and beauty bled, Yet the goal of the race has been thrust ahead, And the might of the race has grown.

For this is the law: BE IT CRUEL OR KIND, THE UNIVERSE SWAYS TO THE POWER OF MIND.

A MOORISH MAID

Above her veil a shrouded Moorish maid Showed melting eyes, as limpid as a lake; A brow untouched by care; a band of jetty hair, And nothing more. The all-concealing haik Fell to her high arched instep. At her side An old duenna walked; her withered face Half covered only, since no lingering grace Bespoke the beauty once her master's pride.

Above her veil, the Moorish maid beheld The modern world, in Paris-decked Algiers; Saw happy lad and la.s.s, in love's contentment pa.s.s, Or in sweet wholesome friends.h.i.+p, free from fears.

She saw fair matrons, walking arm-in-arm With life-long lovers, time-endeared, and then She saw the ardent look in eyes of men, And thrilled and trembled with a vague alarm.

Above her veil she saw the stuccoed court That led to dim secluded rooms within.

She followed, dutiful, the dame unbeautiful, Who told her that the Christian world means sin.

Some day, full soon, she would go forth a bride - Of one whose face she never had beheld.

Something within her, wakened, and rebelled; She flung aside her veil, and cried, and cried.

LINCOLN

When G.o.d created this good world A few stupendous peaks were hurled From His strong hand, and they remain The wonder of the level plain.

But these colossal heights are rare, While s.h.i.+fting sands are everywhere.

So with the race. The centuries pa.s.s And nations fall like leaves of gra.s.s.

They die, forgotten and unsung; While straight from G.o.d some souls are flung, To live immortal and sublime.

So lives great Lincoln for all time.

I KNOW NOT

Death! I know not what room you are abiding in, But I will go my way, Rejoicing day by day, Nor will I flee or stay For fear I tread the path you may be hiding in.

Death! I know not, if my small barque be nearing you; But if you are at sea, Still there my sails float free; 'What is to be will be.'

Nor will I mar the happy voyage by fearing you.

Death! I know not, what hour or spot you wait for me; My days untroubled flow, Just trusting on, I go, For oh, I know, I know, Death is but Life that holds some glad new fate for me.

INTERLUDE

The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer; The headstones thicken along the way, And life grows sadder, but love grows stronger, For those who walk with us day by day.

The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower; The courage is lesser to do and dare; And the tide of joy in the heart falls lower, And seldom covers the reefs of care.