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The White Rose 
 
 And a Medley of Themes 
 
 BY 
 JOHN KEARNES WHITE 
 
 RICHMOND. VA, 
 
 HUNTER a CO.. INC. 
 
 1909 
 
PS 3545 
 
 ©CI.A253242 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1909 
 BY JOHN KEARNES WHITE 
 
®0 ^g ^atiltx 
 
 •from whom I received my ideal of womanhood 
 'this "volume is respeQfully dedicated. 
 
 —THE JIUTHOR. 
 
INDEX 
 
 j^ Page. 
 
 The White Rose, * H 
 
 The Love That Demands, 16 
 
 The Enchanted Sail, 17 
 
 The Brown Pool, IB 
 
 The Dreamers, 19 
 
 My Lady, 21 
 
 The Absent Knight, 22 
 
 Passion, 23 
 
 Parted, 24 
 
 Love and War, 25 
 
 Blown Kisses, 26 
 
 Gray Ashes, 27 
 
 The Queen, 28 
 
 A Sumatran Love, 29 
 
 IL 
 
 Inspiration, 33 
 
 The Daughter of the Ages, 34 
 
 A Love Song, 35 
 
 The Passing of Katie O'Shea, 36 
 
 They That Take the Sword, 38 
 
 The Red Flag, 40 
 
 The Dying Pontiff, 41 
 
 The Pig-Stickers, 43 
 
 The King, 44 
 
 The Old Regime, 47 
 
 The Poet's Lament, 48 
 
The White Rose and Other 
 Love Themes. 
 
THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 By far too lovely to be cast away, 
 Too fair to perish on the dull ash-tray, 
 I pity deeply, deeply, but I — well, 
 I cannot wear it on my coat lapel. 
 
 And so rU keep it in a slender glass 
 Of limpid water, while the dead days pass, 
 And lot it linger its abnormal life. 
 Unlit by glamor but unswayed by strife. 
 
 11. 
 
 I saw it growing while too young to wear. 
 And, waiting patiently, I left it there. 
 I thouglit how proudly I should pluck it when 
 Its beauty, ripened more, should ravish men. 
 
 And how rd wear it just a little while. 
 And then in water see its magic smile; 
 Again with joy should place it on my breast; 
 Again in placid water let it rest. 
 
 And thus I'd give my rose such tender care — 
 My garden queen, so rich, superb and rare — 
 That never one of all the flower clan 
 Had such a happy marriage with a man. 
 
 But when to-day I went to cull the prize. 
 He swiftly snatched it from beneath my eyes. 
 He seized it roughly in his eager grasp, 
 Eegardless of a stinging thorn-point's rasp. 
 
 11 
 
"A spicy woman's ready wit/' he said, 
 
 (The while his sorely wounded finger bled), 
 
 "The kind I fancy and the only kind — 
 
 A bright-edged temper and a brighter mind." 
 
 He smiled and lightly pledged a mocking troth, 
 And pinned his half-crushed victim to the cloth 
 Of woody texture and of slaty gray — 
 His well-known dress — his more than well-known way. 
 
 And twice again this mortal day I've seen 
 The vicious, lurking thorn-point, thrusting keen, 
 Draw beads of blood as he essayed to smell 
 The rude-clasped rosebud on his coat lapel. 
 
 And now in fury he has flung it down, 
 The satin petals like a crumpled gown. 
 Half wilted, weary, quivering and bruised, 
 It used him only as itself was used. 
 
 'Tis not of beauty altogether shorn ; 
 
 It still can brighten and can still adorn; 
 
 "No other flower in the garden grows 
 
 That half that martyr's fragrant fairness knows. 
 
 I still can love it and can still admire. 
 But another, wearing it, has slain desire. 
 'Tis sweet to think its peace I may restore — 
 'Tis fiercely bitter to imagine more. 
 
 III. 
 
 We both have fancied it a woman wed. 
 Her finest senses, then, alas, are dead — 
 Slow-smothered by the gross, insensate weight 
 Of one astute convention called *^her mate." 
 
 12 
 
Of one whose brain must be engraved with scenes 
 Of many an intimate act that means 
 The dearest value woman's love may lend, 
 Or woman's high, disdainful pride defend. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A goddess fallen and her shrine profaned ! 
 Her temple scorned, its fairest marble stained ! 
 I came to worship and I go to weep 
 And let the shame-drugged goddess ever sleep. 
 
 For should I linger at the tainted shrine, 
 I'd know it never could be cleanly mine. 
 From every whispering corner I should hear : 
 "Another, a despoiler, has been here. 
 
 *^His gaze, unworshiping, has entered all 
 The chambers compassed by the sacred wall; 
 His hand, unwashen, has been laid upon 
 The virgin whiteness of the Holy One." 
 
 And in the taking of each vinted sip, 
 I'd know the cup had touched another lip — 
 A lip that knew no hallowed sweetness blent 
 With reverence in the solemn sacrament. 
 
 Ah! had he been a zealous devotee 
 Who, kneeling in the fane, preceded me, 
 Then had tbe goddess still been true and high. 
 And held her shining station in the sky. 
 
 13 
 
Eor then no mind-debasement would have been 
 Her portion, nor the signal, fatal sin 
 Of blunted senses or of lowered pride — 
 The violated virtues of a bride. 
 
 For love, the chemic force that turns to gold 
 The dross of life and fills the earthen mould 
 Of grossness with so delicate a flow 
 Of feeling, melted in the furnace glow 
 
 Of passion glorified and wholly freed 
 
 Of loathsome meaning, would have been her meed- 
 
 And love alone can savor and can save 
 
 The chastity of marriage from its grave. 
 
 As 'twas, she learned his dearth of faith and love, 
 And her love, scorning his false shadow of 
 Affection, died; and then she filled with him 
 Humiliation's chalice to the brim, 
 
 And drank it, drank it bitterly and long, 
 Inflicted on her soul the One Great Wrong, 
 And called it "duty" — ^this repulsive thing — 
 And deemed it sanctified by book and ring. 
 
 But more and more her dagger-pointed tongue 
 His hardened, coarsened fibre stabbed and stung. 
 Till venom, hate and passion-mated pain 
 Aroused that last wild tempest in his brain. 
 
 And then divorce ! The weighty word of law 
 (While all the world was hushed in breathless awe) : 
 "For minds diverse, and tempers not alike, 
 These irksome bonds asunder I will strike." 
 
 U 
 
Had she, wheu her love died, herself divorced, 
 Her Higher Right of Womanhood enforced. 
 Ah, then a fairer story I should write — 
 Of one who still was clean and pure and white. 
 
 'Tis now too late; the tragic battle's done; 
 The soul is beaten and the flesh has won. 
 'Tis futile now to stigmatize or blame — 
 She knows her wrongs but not her vivid shame. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I will not bosom his discarded flower 
 To think of him through every scented hour ! 
 I feel the blighted rose's clinging spell, 
 But cannot wear it on my coat lapel. 
 
 15 
 
THE LOVE THAT DEMANDS. 
 
 This is the love of the one, 
 
 Cool and balanced and fair, 
 
 Who preys on the heart, as the Hun 
 
 Laid the gardens of Italy bare; 
 
 Whose smile of approval is rare 
 
 As the ministering touch of her hands, 
 
 Or the drying of tears with her hair — 
 
 This is the love that demands. 
 
 This is the death that's begun 
 When the wheat feels the touch of the tare, 
 When love feels a lack of the sun 
 And the breast feels a want of the air ; 
 When wisdom and prudence declare — 
 What slowly belief understands — 
 That, like a wolf in its lair, 
 This is the love that demands. 
 
 This is the murder that's done 
 
 When the soul of a man is at prayer. 
 
 When he worships ''the love he has won," 
 
 Ere his bosom has learned to beware 
 
 Of revealing its pain or its care 
 
 To the eyes that are testing the bands 
 
 Of the power that is holding him there — 
 
 This is the love that demands. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 This is the love that will dare 
 To strain and unravel the strands 
 Of a cord that must break in despair — 
 This is the love that demands. 
 
 16 
 
THE ENCHANTED SAIL. 
 
 We drifted in a boat of pearl 
 Upon a breathing sea; 
 The sands upon the shore were gold — 
 Or so they seemed to be. 
 
 A glory in the purple west, 
 The gleaming of a star, 
 A radiance on the flooding tide 
 That foamed upon the bar. 
 
 Enchanted lay the land and sea, 
 Enchanted hung the sky, 
 But one enchantment only held 
 My worship-lighted eye; 
 
 And that enchantment came of her 
 Who sailed the boat with me, 
 Whose fingers trailed a rippling wake 
 Of magic on the sea. 
 
 17 
 
THE BKOWN POOL. 
 
 As the loon and crane their vigil keep 
 O'er the water weird and still and deep, 
 The listless days drift idly by 
 To the sound of the autumn zephyr's sigh 
 And the bittern's intermittent cry. 
 Ah, me! 
 
 The old canoe swings sadly there 
 To the root of the leaning cypress, where 
 In the fresh, glad days She came to me. 
 Ah, the sweet, cool shade of that cypress tree. 
 And, ah, the days that were fair and free ! 
 Ah, me ! Ah, me ! Ah, me ! 
 
 And all that is left (in a locket rare) 
 Is a curling wisp of gold-brown hair ; 
 But clear on memory's mirror lies 
 The fadeless sheen of her wistful eyes — 
 A love-light, lit till the dear dead rise. 
 Ah, me ! Ah, me ! 
 
 18 
 
THE DEEAMERS. 
 
 As they leaned on the bulwark they dreamed, 
 While the shadows lay on the sea. 
 Ah, they dreamed so tender a dream — 
 Did the two — 'neath a pale star's beam, 
 While the shadows lay on the sea. 
 
 Then they stood at the prow and dreamed 
 When the wind rose over the sea. 
 Yes, they dreamed a 'wildering dream. 
 To the orient lightning's gleam, 
 When the wind rose over the sea. 
 
 And they clung to the helm and dreamed 
 When the storm swept down on the sea. 
 Oh, they dreamed a perilous dream, 
 ('Twas a glorious, godlike dream), 
 Of the things that never could be. 
 
 For the world would bitterly jeer 
 
 At their panting, passionate plea. 
 
 And would answer their vision with creeds. 
 
 With mocking and scurrilous screeds. 
 
 Did they utter their dream of the sea. 
 
 But their hearts could never undream 
 The things that they dreamed on the sea, 
 And they would not, they could not seem 
 To the world to forgot their dream — 
 Their dream that was born of the sea ; 
 
 19 
 
So nothing was left to be done 
 (To number their souls with the free) 
 But to steer to the heart of the storm — 
 To the thunderous heart of the storm — 
 And to sink in the swirl of the sea. 
 
 But they sealed in a flask their dream, 
 Which they flung on the racing sea; 
 And they bended their heads to pray 
 That a later, happier Day 
 Might enshrine their dream of the sea. 
 
 20 
 
MY LADY. 
 
 I know not how to speak fair words, 
 
 My lady; 
 I know not deftly how to trace, 
 With skilful touch and finished grace, 
 The classic outlines of your face. 
 
 My lady; 
 
 But, Oh, my heart is true to you. 
 
 My lady; 
 As true as writing to the scroll, 
 As true as fire is to the coal, 
 Aye, true as life is to the soul. 
 
 My lady. 
 
 Would not this he enough for you. 
 
 My lady? 
 Oh, may not sturdy trueness be 
 Itself an all-sufficient plea 
 To win your own true self to me, 
 
 My lady? 
 
 21 
 
THE ABSEiSTT KNIGHT. 
 
 In purpling clouds the sun falls low, 
 And slowly fades the crimson glow 
 
 Of the gently dying day. 
 The young moon hangs, tip-tilted high, 
 In the varying hlue of the evening sky, 
 
 And the hushed lark flies away. 
 
 My thought outwings the swift bird's flight 
 And bears thee, love, a sad good-night 
 
 O'er the still and shadowy sea. 
 I breathe a sigh to the darkened moor, 
 And enter and close the broad oak door — 
 
 To dream and dream of thee. 
 
 22 
 
PASSIOK 
 
 A darkened dome spreads wide above 
 
 The softly brilliant stars of love; 
 
 The fitful, flashing fireflies light 
 
 Their courses through the murmurous night. 
 
 A languid waft of nectared air 
 Thro' faintly fragrant dusky hair; 
 A wav'ring sound of pensive sighs, 
 The glow of liquid, love-lit eyes ; 
 
 A touch of slender finger-tips, 
 Trembling, parted, passionate lips — 
 And life and death amount to this : 
 A clasp, a thrill, a burning kiss. 
 
 23 
 
PAKTED. 
 
 It was morning when I saw you, 
 Morning, fresh and fair and bright. 
 'Now I see you not, 'tis night. 
 
 I was young, almost as you were, 
 Young and hopeful, strong and bold. 
 Now — I'm weary, hopeless, old. 
 
 It was life to feel your glances, 
 Drink the fragrance of your breath. 
 That was life, and this — is death. 
 
 24 
 
LOVE AND WAR. 
 
 Far, far, 
 
 Shines the star 
 
 That leads to glory and to war. 
 
 Near, near, 
 
 Bright and clear, 
 
 Beam the eyes to him so dear. 
 
 And a day finds him kneeling and pleading, 
 With the eyes turned coldly away. 
 And a day finds him wounded and bleeding 
 On the field of the purple Lochray. 
 
 25 
 
BLOWN KISSES. 
 
 In the gloaming, love, I know, 
 When the shifting breezes blow, 
 That they whirl a cloud of incense 
 In my face; 
 
 That the fairies of the air, 
 From your mouth and cheeks and hair. 
 Bring my lips a draught of nectar — 
 With your grace. 
 
 26 
 
GEAY ASHES. 
 
 The glint of the morning sunlight 
 Has nought of the brightness of yore; 
 The trill of the matin songster 
 Arouses the pulses no more. 
 
 The hope of the lover ended, 
 The joy of the living is flown — 
 The hand of the dying reaping 
 The harvest that others have sown. 
 
 27 
 
THE quee:n\ 
 
 I know that when I call her queen they jeer 
 Among themselves — but not to me I They fear 
 My strength of arm — the men ; the women — well, 
 They do not jeer, but why I cannot tell. 
 
 She is a queen ! They say her hair is '^poor." 
 Her hair! Her lustrous hair that I adore! 
 "Her eyes are dull," they say. My God, her eyes! 
 Where all my vivid, ardent heaven lies! 
 
 "Her face,'' they say (these fools and blind!), "her face'' 
 (So full of light and love!), "is commonplace!" 
 And tliey ! Ye gods above ! And what are they ? 
 The clods, the very clods of common clay ! 
 
 By all the fashion of her regal head. 
 
 By every grace she is the highest bred. 
 
 And yet (these dullards!) they have never seen 
 
 The royal beauty of my splendid queen ! 
 
 28 
 
A SUMATKAN LOVE. 
 
 You are mine ! 
 
 By the whisper of the zephyrs, 
 By the murmur of the water, 
 By the shadows of the forest ; 
 By the long deserted altar 
 Of that sacred, leafy temple; 
 By the sanction of the solemn 
 Midnight moon. 
 
 You are mine ! 
 
 By the untamed pulse of itTature; 
 Bj her free, untrammeled passion; 
 By the setting of the current 
 Of the all-converging forces — 
 Of the forces so relentless, 
 Irresistible, unswerving ! 
 
 You are mine! 
 
 You are mine ! 
 
 You may shiver, moan and flutter; 
 You may strive and strain and struggle. 
 You may yield to tyrant Duty; 
 You may kiss his chain of iron, 
 With its baleful, cruel glitter, 
 But its links shall never bind you. 
 You are mine. 
 
 29 
 
Noil ixvv umu^ ! 
 
 Not MiuMht^r Hlkull |Mmm^HS yow^ 
 
 Novt^r otIuM' »murt t'ufuM vtm ; 
 
 KUOWII \\\^ lu'tn^Ht ol lum >\ho rIailUrt vou, 
 Kuo\v« thti \^k\ path to Ilia hoMrt-l>titttaI 
 Ho aliall novt^r, novtw li«vo vow. 
 
A Mcrllcy 
 
i]stspieatio:n^, 
 
 I gaze into the purple of the Past 
 
 To see a colonnade of all that's vast — 
 
 The tombs of Kings and monuments of Time — 
 
 To fill mj soul with dreams, aglow, sublime. 
 
 I look on all the brilliance of To-day, 
 That stirs the mind to ever active play. 
 And wonder oft if this shall end it all, 
 If we have heard the Muses' final call. 
 
 But no ! High Reason holds that this is nought, 
 The faint and filmy shadow of a thought — 
 The mighty Thought the golden Future veils 
 To tell in all the coming years of tales. 
 
 33 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE AGES. 
 
 Can you name me this woman, tall and fair, 
 (With lustre of starlight still in her hair 
 And lingering glory of night in her eyes,) 
 Who stands in the path of the clear sunrise ? 
 
 Her form is a cast from the welded mold 
 Of the tense To-day and the Days of Old ; 
 As she stands the embodied heritage 
 Of the centered Best of every age. 
 
 For a murmur of love is on her lips, 
 
 A poem of grace in her curving hips, 
 
 Th' enfolded Thought of a world in her brow:. 
 
 And the human race in her Marriage Vow. 
 
 34 
 
A LOVE SONG. 
 
 Oh ! give me a song, my God, I pray, 
 A song of the truest art ; 
 A song of hope, a song of the day; 
 A song for a weary Heart ; 
 
 A song of joy, a song of life, 
 A song of a tender grace ; 
 A song to cheer, in its daily strife, 
 The Soul of the Human Race. 
 
 35 
 
THE PASSING OF KATIE O'SHEA. 
 
 Oh, Katie O'Shea was a gladsome sight, 
 With hair as dark as the wing o' night, 
 And Irish eyes in a dance o' light — 
 Till she went in the mill. 
 
 She swept along at a quick-step gait, 
 Without demur, without debate, 
 All ready to grapple with any fate — 
 Yes, even the mill. 
 
 The crowding lads caught step with her 
 (Without debate, without demur) — 
 A step that started the pulse astir — 
 To the door o' the mill. 
 
 A soother of pain and healer of strife. 
 She bore the marks of a good man's wife — 
 A promised fountain o' sweet child life — 
 But — she went in the mill. 
 
 The grim wheels whirred in their old, old way 
 In the linted air, and day by day 
 The life went out of Katie O'Shea 
 While she worked in the mill. 
 
 Oh, many a wistful, fluttering sigh 
 Died on her lips as years went by 
 And dimmed the lustre o' cheek and eye 
 In the tireless mill. 
 
 36 
 
Her step no longer stirred the blood 
 Of lads who'd worshipped her womanhood, 
 And Katie saw it and understood 
 And — stayed in the mill. 
 
 She could not leave ; there were '^mouths to feed," 
 Brothers, sisters, many a need. 
 The "Wolf that threatened with famished greed 
 The slaves o' the mill. 
 
 So nothing awaited the life she gave, 
 ISTor the love that kept her firm and brave, 
 But an early rest in a quiet grave 
 In the shade o' the mill. 
 
 Oh, brother mine, have pity, I pray; 
 For in the cloth you wear to-day 
 Is wov'n the soul of Katie O'Shea, 
 Who died in tJie mill. 
 
 Have pity, yes, for her fate demands 
 The dauntless power of knightly hands 
 To strangle the death that ever stands 
 In ev'ry mill. 
 
 Ah, few will level the lance in rest 
 To fight in cause of maids opprest. 
 When rags, not pearls, adorn the breast 
 — And they work in the mill ! 
 
 37 
 
TIIEY THAT TAKE THE SWORD. 
 
 The prophet in the clays of long ago 
 Uttered the changeless trnth that they who sow 
 Sliall reap tlie harvest of their scattered seed — 
 Shall gather death for ev^ry ruthless deed. 
 
 And One of even taller stature said 
 
 (As shadows of the olive branches fled 
 
 Before the flaring torches) — hear the word! — 
 
 " Who takes the sword shall perish by the sword !" 
 
 And not alone shall perish by its edge, 
 Its weight compels a nation's golden pledge. 
 Its stern demand is heard at ev'ry door 
 For men and money, more and ever more. 
 
 And workers must their wages tax and tithe, 
 While they in pain must pant and toil and writhe 
 To pay the nation's bonds they never owai — 
 To pay and pay and bear and bear and groan. 
 
 To war a greater toll must man supply: 
 The sleeping passions that should ever lie 
 Asleep till dead, are roused and loosed to slay 
 The gentler impulse of our Kindlier Day. 
 
 The screaming fury or the snarling hate 
 Of beast and savage then may find itvS mate 
 In bosoms that had just begun to feel 
 The force of wide humanity's appeal. 
 
 38 
 
Oh, Spain and Russia, Italy and France! 
 Ye have taken the sword and sown the lance; 
 Oh, speak ye, speak, in God's name say 
 What reap ye, what is the price ye pay ? 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 " Upon the breaking of the daily bread, 
 
 Upon the shoulders of the underfed — 
 
 The weary nerve, the heart, the aching head — 
 
 The weighty pressure of the sword is laid. 
 
 The cost in coin of the soul is paid. 
 
 And burdened nations perish 'neath the blade." 
 
 39 
 
THE RED FLAG. 
 
 [Republished by permission of "Wilshire's Mazagine."] 
 
 In the grasp of the sweaty hands of toil, 
 It stands for those who are near the soil ; 
 By the might of its bearers lifted high, 
 It signals hope in a hopeless sky. 
 
 A flutter of red in the crowded streets 
 Of Petersburg the Cossack greets, 
 And the bases of th' Imperial throne 
 Are shaken by a nation's groan. 
 
 To the German Kaiser a doomful thing, 
 A dream of gloom to th' Emperor-King, 
 A threatening fate to every crown, 
 To bishop's mitre and priestly gown. 
 
 In face of the masters of all the world 
 The flag of the Red Revolt's unfurled ; 
 Eorever the sign of insurgent blood 
 And symbol of Human Brotherhood. 
 
 40 
 
THE DYmG POXTIFF. 
 
 [Written at the time of Pope Leo XIII's death.] 
 
 Tlie Pope is dying, dying, 
 
 While the world stands watching by. 
 There's in many a breast an aching 
 
 And in many a heart a cry. 
 While the pale lips moan and mutter 
 And the pulse-beats faintly flutter 
 And the moments pause and falter 
 
 As they fly. 
 
 The ^oble Guards a-glitter 
 
 And the Knights in black and white 
 With the Church's crimson princes 
 
 In the softly glowing light. 
 Fragrant incense, solemn chanting. 
 While the failing breath is panting 
 'Mid the purple pomp and splendor 
 
 Of the night. 
 
 Confession! Hark, he whispers! 
 
 What the sins that he'll confess 
 While the pallid groups are wond'ring 
 
 In their hushed and awed distress ? 
 Absolution. Now communion. 
 'Tis the sad, sad last reunion 
 Of the Papal court and household 
 
 He will bless. 
 
 41 
 
There are kings uneasy, anxious 
 For a message from that bed. 
 What successor? Who will follow 
 When the Pontiff's soul has fled ? 
 Brief their period of waiting, 
 Brief their doubt and dread debating, 
 For the eyes are closed — forever — 
 He is dead! 
 
 42 
 
THE PIG-STICKERS. 
 
 [Note. — These lines were written during the Boer War, anent 
 the famous story by a British officer of a cavalry attack on a party 
 of Boers. The cflacer declared that it was "better sport than pig- 
 sticking"; that he saw a soldier with one stroke drive his lance 
 through tvro Boers who were fleeing on the same horse, and that 
 the attack resulted in "the bagging of sixty or more."] 
 
 We^-e great H'anglo-Saxon deliverers, 
 The soldiers of freedom and li2:lit. 
 We're h'up-to-date shackle removers — 
 The sons of the gospel of might. 
 
 We lick all the 'eathen h'indimas 
 And m.ake 'em h'acknowledge defeat, 
 Then give 'em the right to obey ug, 
 And — well, to crouch down at our feet. 
 
 We 'eard as 'ow the Boers was fightin' — 
 The sauvage, h'uncivilized guys, 
 The bloody and bloomin' h'oppressors — 
 And we fixed a 'ummin' supprise. 
 
 We rode through the ranks of the Butchers 
 And shoved in the 'ead of the lance — 
 A lesson in 'igh civilization, 
 In progress and Saxon h'advance! 
 
 They 'owled and they pleaded for mercy, 
 But h'orders is h' orders you know. 
 So we finished 'em, two at a stickin', 
 And our bag was — well, sixty or so. 
 
 43 
 
THE KING. 
 
 [Republished by permission of "Wilshire's Magazine."] 
 
 [Note. — In a recent conversation it was remarked that what 
 Socialism needed now was a crystallizing personality — a dazzling 
 leader of superlative heart and brain endowments, a kind of Christ 
 and Napoleon combined, a natural King of men, but not an official 
 one; a man whose love of mankind fired him with a crusader's 
 zeal, and who could combine, concentrate and triumphantly use the 
 ethical and material forces of Socialism at present in existence. 
 It was replied that Socialism least of all movements needed bril- 
 liant leaders to insure final success; that its own force and weight 
 carried it forward. That its essential principle — namely, Social- 
 ism — forbade the possibility of permanent triumph for the move- 
 ment except as this principle should permeate the human mass; 
 should enlighten it, enthuse it, uplift it and place it on the throne 
 of its own destinies; that mankind as a vv^hole must become its 
 own King.] 
 
 I. 
 
 Arise, King, in your might, 
 
 In the glory and strength of your clan: 
 
 Put on the purple of Right, 
 
 The royal ermine of Man. 
 
 The ages have waited for you, 
 The day of your Kingdom is now. 
 O, come with your soul firm and true ! 
 O, come with your sword and your vow ! 
 
 With the cry of a Christ in your heart, 
 And a Corsican's crovTu on your head — 
 With leadership's masterful art 
 For the armies that wait to he led. 
 
 44 
 
The marshaling hastens apace, 
 And the ranks are serried and strong. 
 You are called to be head of a Race, 
 In the battle of Man against Wrong. 
 
 O, come, for the banners are spread, 
 (While the captains are shouting their calls) 
 The glorious Banners of Eed 
 That threaten the enemies' walls. 
 
 We wait for the Leader to come. 
 
 For the strength that his coming will bring. 
 
 We wait, to the roll of the drum, 
 
 But where, O where is the King ? 
 
 11. 
 
 Behold now the sovereign is found! 
 The unseen Messiah is here ! 
 With his thorn-circled diadem crowned, 
 With his smile and his pitying tear. 
 
 His love is the quick pulse that leaps 
 In the veins of the lost for the lost — 
 The beating of hearts in the deeps. 
 The sighing of souls tempest tossed. 
 
 His might is the power of the hand 
 That presses the lever of steam, 
 That fashions the white-heated brand, 
 That places the high balanced beam. 
 
 45 
 
III. 
 
 With the well mastered forces of life, 
 And the merging of class within class ; 
 With the ending of ignorant strife, 
 Comes the Reign of Mankind in the mass. 
 
 There is Kingship in justice and ruth, 
 It is royal to live and be kind ; 
 And the corridored dwelling of Truth 
 Is the wide-windowed palace of Mind. 
 
 Thus endeth inimical Fate, 
 Thus endeth the Visions of Dread, 
 Thus endeth the Gospel of Hate — 
 With the unequal Breaking of Bread. 
 
 Humanity, masters of toil, 
 Humanity, learning to sing. 
 Humanity, lords of the soil, 
 United Humanity — King ! 
 
 All Hail to the King who has come 
 In the glory and strength of his clan, 
 Who treads to the joy-beating drum: 
 All Hail to His Majesty— Man! 
 
 46 
 
THE OLD REGIME. 
 
 Long years have slowly passed, 
 Each more and more a dream ; 
 A dream of all the vast 
 And gilded old regime. 
 
 The world is rushing by, 
 With all its glint and gleam ; 
 But life is one long sigh 
 For the joj^ous old 7'egim>3. 
 
 " These are the better days " ; 
 But sad to mc they seem ; 
 As I think of courtly ways 
 In times of the old regime. 
 
 And when my life shall feed 
 'No longer the candle's beam, 
 The gate of the grave will lead 
 To the home of the old regime. 
 
 47 
 
THE POET'S LAMENT. 
 
 With staggering step I struggle along, 
 Half distraught 'neath the burden of song 
 That leashes and thralls my quivering brain, 
 As it whips my heart with its lash of pain ; 
 
 As it drags the best of my life away 
 To fling to the world in a feeble lay — 
 The weakling child of an anxious sire, 
 The perishing ash of an ardent fire. 
 
 Ah ! hopeless my wishing for other men 
 
 To see all the vision that I have seen, 
 
 To hear the full sound of the thrilling word 
 
 That my ear and fancy and heart have heard. 
 
 48 
 
 W 2 3 
 

 
 
 
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