The Guards Came Through and Other Poems Part 3

When sudden--oh, that dreadful scream!

That cry from panic fear begotten!

The boat is gaping in each seam, The worn-out planks are old and rotten.

With two small oars they work and strain, A long mile from the nearer sh.o.r.e They cease--their efforts are in vain; She's sinking fast, and all is o'er.

The yellow water, thick as pap, Is crawling, crawling to the thwarts, And as they mark its upward lap, So fear goes crawling up their hearts.

Slowly, slowly, thick as pap, The creeping yellow waters rise; Like drowning mice within a trap, They stare around with frantic eyes.

Ah, how clearly they could see Every sin and shame and error!

How they vowed that saints they'd be, If delivered from this terror!

How they squirmed and how they squealed!

How they shouted for a.s.sistance!

How they fruitlessly appealed To the shepherds in the distance!

How they sobbed and how they moaned, As the waters kept encroaching!

How they wept and stormed and groaned, As they saw their fate approaching!

And they vowed each good resolve Should be permanent as granite, Never, never, to dissolve, Firm and lasting like our planet.

See them sit, aghast and shrinking!

Surely it could not be true!

"Oh, have mercy! Oh, we're sinking!

Oh, good Lord, what _shall_ we do!"

Ah, it's coming! Now she founders!

See the crazy wherry reel!

Downward to the rocks she flounders-- Just one foot beneath her keel!

In the shallow, turbid water Lay the saving reef below.

Oh, the waste of high emotion!

Oh, the useless fear and woe!

Late that day four sopping tourists To their quarters made their way, And the brushes of Futurists Scarce could paint their disarray.

And with half-amused compa.s.sion They were viewed from the hotel, From the pulp-clad beau of fas.h.i.+on, To the saturated belle.

But a change was in their features, And that change has come to tarry, For they all are altered creatures Since the wreck of Loch McGarry.

Now McFarlane never utters Any talk of bills or bullion, But continually mutters Texts from Cyril or Tertullian.

As to Ainslie, he's not caring How the new-cut collar lies, And has been detected wearing Dinner-jackets with white ties.

Waters, who had never thought In his life of others' needs, Has most generously bought A nursing-home for invalids.

And the lady--ah, the lady!

She has turned from paths of sin, And her husband's face so shady Now is brightened by a grin.

So misfortunes of to-day Are the blessings of to-morrow, And the wisest cannot say What is joy and what is sorrow.

If your soul is arable You can start this seed within it, And my tiny parable May just help you to begin it.

THE BIGOT

The foolish Roman fondly thought That G.o.ds must be the same to all, Each alien idol might be brought Within their broad Pantheon Hall.

The vision of a jealous Jove Was far above their feeble ken; They had no Lord who gave them love, But scowled upon all other men.

But in our dispensation bright, What n.o.ble progress have we made!

We know that we are in the light, And outer races in the shade.

Our kindly creed ensures us this-- That Turk and infidel and Jew Are safely banished from the bliss That's guaranteed to me and you.

The Roman mother understood That, if the babe upon her breast Untimely died, the G.o.ds were good, And the child's welfare manifest.

With tender guides the soul would go And there, in some Elysian bower, The tiny bud plucked here below Would ripen to the perfect flower.

Poor simpleton! Our faith makes plain That, if no blest baptismal word Has cleared the babe, it bears the stain Which faithless Adam had incurred.

How philosophical an aim!

How wise and well-conceived a plan Which holds the new-born babe to blame For all the sins of early man!

Nay, speak not of its tender grace, But hearken to our dogma wise: Guilt lies behind that dimpled face, And sin looks out from gentle eyes.

Quick, quick, the water and the bowl!

Quick with the words that lift the load!

Oh, hasten, ere that tiny soul Shall pay the debt old Adam owed!

The Roman thought the souls that erred Would linger in some nether gloom, But somewhere, sometime, would be spared To find some peace beyond the tomb.

In those dark halls, enshadowed, vast, They flitted ever, sad and thin, Mourning the unforgotten past Until they shed the taint of sin.

And Pluto brooded over all Within that land of night and fear, Enthroned in some dark Judgment Hall, A G.o.d himself, reserved, austere.

How thin and colourless and tame!

Compare our n.o.bler scheme with it, The howling souls, the leaping flame, And all the tortures of the pit!

Foolish half-hearted Roman h.e.l.l!

To us is left the higher thought Of that eternal torture cell Whereto the sinner shall be brought.

Out with the thought that G.o.d could share Our weak relenting pity sense, Or ever condescend to spare The wretch who gave Him just offence!

'Tis just ten thousand years ago Since the vile sinner left his clay, And yet no pity can he know, For as he lies in h.e.l.l to-day So when ten thousand years have run Still shall he lie in endless night.

O G.o.d of Love! O Holy One!

Have we not read Thy ways aright?

The G.o.dly man in heaven shall dwell, And live in joy before the throne, Though somewhere down in nether h.e.l.l His wife or children writhe and groan.

From his bright Empyrean height He sees the reek from that abyss-- What Pagan ever dreamed a sight So holy and sublime as this!

Poor foolish folk! Had they begun To weigh the myths that they professed, One hour of reason and each one Would surely stand a fraud confessed.

Pretending to believe each deed Of Theseus or of Hercules, With fairy tales of Ganymede, And G.o.ds of rocks and G.o.ds of trees!