The Blood Of Rachel Part 19

What if my wife was troubled in a dream And suffered many things on His account?

A Roman governor must be a man!

They say the temple's veil was rent in twain-- The sky was darkened and the sun was hid.

He said I had no power to crucify Except that it be given from above.

He did not know the strength of Pilate's arm!

'Tis said He cried, "My G.o.d, my G.o.d, why hast Thou now forsaken me?" The earth did quake, The tombs were cracked, and then the shrouded dead Stalked ghost-like through the fields and open streets!

Look! Look! What is yon robe of s.h.i.+ning white?

Behold the Man--the Man of Galilee!

With outstretched arms He stands on Olivet, The shadows purpling o'er Gethsemane.

I hear Him cry in agony of soul, "How often would I, O Jerusalem, Have gathered unto Me thy children as A hen her brood beneath her wing, but ye Would not come." Herod, canst thou hear His voice?

It is impossible! It can not be!

He must not know that I am Pilate! Still He calls my name! I can not, dare not go!

What would the people think? I will Be free. There is no blood upon my hands.

See, I wash them clean and am myself Again. Oh! Now the spell is gone. Though not The king, I am governor of the Jews!

THE VIRILE SPIRIT

[_Written after reading a letter in which the writer said: "I covet for our country a great war--one that will stir our virile spirits and send forth our youth to fight and die for our country."_]

What is courage? To face the bursting sh.e.l.l When rhythmic sheets of fire discover gulfs Of death, yet rather steel than daunt the heart; When comrades fall beneath the knapsack's weight, Foot froze and bleeding on the icy road, To hear the blasts from towering snow-crowned Alps Sing only martial airs that stir the blood!

It is a n.o.ble thing to die in war-- To sacrifice the breath of life; to feel The pain of hunger and of cold, yet flinch Not that one's country may be great or free.

Many a generation yet unborn Will bless the name of Valley Forge, and hold In reverence the field of Gettysburg.

But war is not the only thing that tries The bravest soul. To live does sometimes take More courage than to close with death; and oft The coward shrinks from living when the brave Man scorns to die. We need no bugle note To rouse our manhood's strength. The call to men Is clear and strong. It is not to repel The Hun, the Teuton, or the Slav, nor yet To drive the Yellow Peril from the seas.

We must send forth our men to live, not die-- We need to save, not kill our fellow man, To smite the Minotaur of Sin, and stop The tribute greater now than all the tolls Of war. The beast in man is ravenous And must be slain. He feeds upon the fruits Of toil, and blights the home with poverty; He drags the innocent to dens of shame To satisfy his brute carnality.

No fiery dragon in the days of myth Laid waste a land or blasted life with breath More foul or appet.i.te insatiate.

This is the enemy that we must fight.

No dreadnaughts now afloat, no submarines, No legions that may ever bivouac on Our sh.o.r.es, no Zeppelins disgorging fire Portend the dire disasters wrought upon Our nation's strength by Avarice and l.u.s.t.

The sword of Theseus is too dull a blade, The arm of Beowulf not strong enough To battle with Cupidity and Sin.

We need the breastplate of a righteous life, Our loins must be girt about with truth, The heart protected by the s.h.i.+eld of faith, And in the right hand there must ever be The spirit's sword, which is the Word of G.o.d!

And even clothed and weaponed thus it takes A heart as fearless as the dauntless Dane's To strike the Mammon of Unrighteousness-- To grapple with this Grendel that invades The mead-halls still and ravishes our youth.

BLUEBIRD.

Bluebird in the cedar bush-- Fresh and clean as the evergreen, Through a rift of leaves, Or my eye deceives.

But silent! Hus.h.!.+

He calls, he calls!

The first spring note From a feathered throat My heart enthralls; And my pulses leap As a child from sleep On Christmas morn, at the blast of horn, To meet, to greet, The choral sweet From bluebird in the cedar bush: _At last, at last The snow and sleet Of winter's blast Have pa.s.sed, have pa.s.sed, And spring is here, good cheer, good cheer!_ The call comes ringing in to me From Bluebird in the cedar tree.

AN AUTUMN MINOR

Russet and amber and gold, Crimson and yellow and green, And far away the blue and gray, A twinkling silver sheen.

Violet, scarlet and red, Purple and dark maroon, And over it all the music of fall-- A weird prismatic tune.

An opera serious and grand, An orchestra mystic and sad-- A symphony alone of color and tone To drive a mortal mad.

SLABS AND OBELISK

Hollyhocks were blooming in the backyard near the barn, Proud as rhododendrons by a regal mountain tarn, Purple, white and yellow, blue and velvet red-- Humble little cottage, but a royal flower bed.

Pink and crimson roses and carnations took your breath-- Dark-eyed little pansies looking like the Head of Death; Golden-rayed sunflowers, lifting discs of hazel brown, Filled the heart with wonder and the garden with renown.

Little Harold, born a poet, watched the petals blow, Read the mystic cryptographs his elders didn't know; Heard the music in the wind like sirens on the sh.o.r.e, Far beyond the sunset in the land Forevermore.

Oft the village sages saw him lying in the shade, Gazing where the sun and vapor wrought a strange brocade-- Tapestries of gold and silver on a field of blue, Heard him murmur softly riddles no one ever knew.

All the people pitied Harold, thinking of the end In the cold, unfeeling world he couldn't comprehend-- Seeing nothing else but lilies, living in a trance, In an age of facts and figures, dreaming wild romance.

But the sages now are sleeping on the little hill, Modest slabs are keeping watch with rue and daffodil.

Harold has an obelisk that towers toward the sky, Hollyhocks upon his mound to bless and glorify.

ON BROADWAY

Even as to-night on Broadway Long ago I wandered down The Great White Way of childhood, Mystified, enchanted, as I watched The million b.u.t.terflies That tilted through the air in rhythmic flight, And pulsed above the petaled sweets, And sipped the nectar of the purple thistle bloom, Until at last they staggered down the dusty Road to Death.

POSTSCRIPT

Postscript

AN EMBER ETCHING

An old man sat before his great log fire And gazed dreamily into the dying blaze.

His eyes were red as though with weeping.

The long, thin locks of hair Were spotless as the snow Silently mantling the earth That last sad night of the dying year.

Four days and nights He had sat beside the bed Of his life-companion.

But now the watchers by the bier In the adjoining room, Were dozing in their chairs.

The cold night Had driven the mice from their hiding, And the loud tick of the clock No longer frightened them As they scampered over the hearth.

The man was breathing heavily, Although his eyes were open, And his stare fixed upon the fire: _Down by a gnarled oak near the spring Two children played.

Rebecca had dipped a dock leaf In the water, And now whisked it in the sunlight.

Against the trunk of the tree There was a playhouse made of broken boughs.

The girl's dolls were lying on the green moss bed, And a little cracked slate lay upon the ground.

An almost illegible scrawl was written on the slate.

Two childish hands had traced their names: "Rupert--Rebecca."

And the words were linked together by lines That looked like twisted ropes.

The boy and girl sat down before the playhouse, And crossed their hands in imitation Of the lines that bound their names together.

And then they smiled And looked upon the dolls Asleep in the fresh June morning._

A chunk broke and fell in the ashes.

The blaze died into a glow of coals.

In the gray beyond the dog irons The old man saw two figures Sitting before an awning: _Two golden haired children Slept in a little bed.