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BALLADS AND VERSES 
 OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 E. NESBIT jQ^.^.^^ 
 
 
 LONDON 
 ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET, W. 
 
 MCMXI 
 
M'}?H,."iUM 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 At the Gate ........ 7 
 
 The Monk 15 
 
 The Crown of Life ....... 17 
 
 Magnificat 19 
 
 Evening Prayer 21 
 
 Christmas Hymn. ....... 22 
 
 De Profundis 24 
 
 Via Amoris 25 
 
 Retro Sathanas 28 
 
 The New Dispensation 29 
 
 The Three Kings 30 
 
 A Prayer for the King's Majesty .... 34 
 
 In Memory of Saretta Deakin 38 
 
 A Death-bed 42 
 
 At the Prison Gate 44 
 
 The Devil's Due ....... 46 
 
 Ruckinge Church 54 
 
 The Singing of the Magnificat .... 63 
 
 Earth and Heaven 71 
 
 To Our Lady • • 79 
 
 5 
 
 274728 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Refugium Peccatorum 80 
 
 The Lily and the Cross 86 
 
 RoMNEY Marsh 90 
 
 The Modern Judas 91 
 
 Prayer under Gray Skies. ..... 93 
 
 A Great Industrial Centre 95 
 
 London's Voices 97 
 
 These Little Ones 99 
 
 Submission loi 
 
 "Inasmuch as Ye Did It Not . . ." . . . . 102 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES OF 
 THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 At The Gate 
 
 The monastery towers, as pure and fair 
 
 As virgin vows, reached up white hands to heaven ; 
 The walls, to guard the hidden heart of prayer, 
 
 Were strong as sin, and white as sin forgiven ; 
 
 And there came holy men, by world's woe driven ; 
 And all about the gold-green meadows lay 
 Flower-decked like children dear that keep May-holiday. 
 
 " Here," said the Abbot, " let us spend our days, 
 Days sweetened by the lilies of pure prayer. 
 
 Hung with white garlands of the rose of praise ; 
 And, lest the World should enter with her snare — 
 Enter and laugh and take us unaware 
 
 With her red rose, her purple and her gold — 
 
 Choose we a stranger's hand the porter's keys to hold." 
 
 They chose a beggar from the world outside 
 To keep their worldward door for them, and he, 
 
 Filled with a humble and adoring pride. 
 Built up a wall of proud humility 
 Between the monastery's sanctity 
 
 And the poor, foolish, humble folk who came 
 
 To ask for love and care, in the dear Saviour's name. 
 
 7 
 
.r ;y,'-.-* BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Fof when tbe-poor crept to the guarded gate 
 To ask for succour, when the tired asked rest, 
 
 When weary souls, bereft and desolate, 
 
 Craved comfort, when the murmur of the oppressed 
 Surged round the grove where prayer had made her nest. 
 
 The porter bade such take their griefs away, 
 
 And at some other door their bane and burden lay. 
 
 " For this," he said, " is the white house of prayer. 
 
 Where day and night the holy voices rise 
 Through the chill trouble of our earthly air, 
 
 And enter at the gate of Paradise. 
 
 Trample no more our flower-beds in such wise. 
 Nor crave the alms of our deep-laden bough ; 
 The prayers oS holy men are alms enough, I trow." 
 
 So, seeing that no sick or sorrowing folk 
 
 Came ever to be healed or comforted, 
 The Abbot to his brothers gladly spoke : 
 
 " God has accepted our poor prayers," he said ; 
 
 " Over our land His answering ^mile is spread. 
 He has put forth His strong and loving hand. 
 And sorrow and sin and pain have ceased in all the land, 
 
 " So make we yet more rich our hymns of praise. 
 Warm we our pi'ayers against our happy heart. 
 
 Since God hath taken the gift of all our days 
 To make a spell that bids all wrong depart — 
 Has turned our praise to balm for the world's smart, 
 
 Fulfilled of prayer and praise be every hour, 
 
 For God transfigures praise, and transmutes prayer to power." 
 
 8 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 So went the years. The flowers blossomed now 
 Untrampled by the dusty, weary feet ; 
 
 Unbroken hung the green and golden bough, 
 For none came now to ask for fruit or meat, 
 For ghostly food, or common bread to eat ; 
 
 And dreaming, praying, the monks were satisfied, 
 
 Till, God remembering him, the beggar-porter died. 
 
 When they had covered up the foolish head, 
 And on the foolish loving heart heaped clay, 
 
 " Which of us, brothers, now," the Abbot said, 
 " Will face the world, to keep the world away ? " 
 But all their hearts were hard with prayer, and " Nay,' 
 
 They cried, " Ah, bid us not our prayers to leave ; 
 
 Ah, father, not to-day, for this is Easter Eve." 
 
 And, while they murmured, to their midst there came 
 A beggar saying, " Brothers, peace, be still ! 
 
 I am your Brother, in our Father's name, 
 And I will be your porter, if ye will. 
 Guarding your gate with what I have of skill." 
 
 So all they welcomed him and closed the door. 
 
 And gat them gladly back unto their prayers once more. 
 
 But, lo ! no sooner did the prayer arise, 
 A golden flame athwart the chancel dim, 
 
 Than came the porter crying, " Haste, arise ! 
 A sick old man waits you to tend on him ; 
 And many wait — a knight whose wound gapes grim, 
 
 A red-stained man, with red sins to confess, 
 
 A mother pale, who brings her child for you to bless." 
 
 9 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 The brothers hastened to the gate, and there 
 With unaccustomed hand and voice they tried 
 
 To ease the body's pain, the spirit's care ; 
 But ere the task was done the porter cried : 
 " Behold, the Lord sets your gate open wide, 
 
 For here be starving folk who must be fed. 
 
 And little ones that cry for love and daily bread ! " 
 
 And, with each slow-foot hour, came ever a throng 
 
 Of piteous wanderers, sinful folk and sad. 
 And still the brothers ministered, but long 
 
 The day seemed, with no prayer to make them glad ; 
 
 No holy, meditative joys they had. 
 No moment's brooding-place could poor prayer find. 
 Mid all those hearts to heal and all those wounds to bind. 
 
 And when the crowded sunlit day at last 
 
 Left the field lonely with its trampled flowers, 
 
 Into the chapel's peace the brothers passed 
 To quell the memory of those hurrying hours. 
 " Our holy time," they said, " once more is ours ! 
 
 Come, let us pay our debt of prayer and praise. 
 
 Forgetting in God's light the darkness of man's ways ! " 
 
 But, ere their voices reached the first psalm's end, 
 
 They heard a new, strange rustling round their house ; 
 
 Then came the porter : " Here comes many a friend, 
 Pushing aside your budding orchard boughs ; 
 Come, brothers, justify your holy vows. 
 
 Here be God's patient, poor, four-footed things 
 
 Seek healing at God's well, whence loving-kindness springs.' 
 
 lO 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Then cried the Abbot in a vexed amaze, 
 
 " Our brethren we must aid, if *tis God's will ; 
 
 But the wild creatures of the forest ways 
 Himself God heals with His Almighty skill. 
 And charity is good, and love — but still 
 
 God shall not look in vain for the white prayers 
 
 We send on silver feet to climb the starry stairs ; 
 
 " For, of all worthy things, prayer has most worth, 
 
 It rises like sweet incense up to" heaven. 
 And from God's hand falls back upon the earth, 
 
 Being of heavenly bread the accepted leaven. 
 
 Through prayer is virtue saved and sin forgiven ; 
 In prayer the impulse and the force are found 
 That bring in purple and gold the fruitful seasons round. 
 
 " For prayer comes down from heaven in the sun 
 That giveth life and joy to all things made ; 
 
 Prayer falls in rain to make broad rivers run 
 And quicken the seeds in earth's brown bosom laid ; 
 By prayer the red-hung branch is earthward weighed, 
 
 By prayer the bam grows full, and full the fold. 
 
 For by man's prayer God works his wonders manifold." 
 
 The porter seemed to bow to the reproof; 
 But when the echo of the night's last prayer 
 
 Died in the mystery of the vaulted roof, 
 A whispered memory in the hallowed air, 
 The Abbot turned to find him standing there. 
 
 " Brother," he said, " I have healed the woodland things, 
 
 And they go happy and whole — blessing Love's ministerings. 
 
 II 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 " And, having healed them, I shall crave your leave 
 To leave you — for to-night I journey far. 
 
 But I have kept your gate this Easter Eve, 
 And now your house to heaven shines like a star 
 To show the angels where God's children are ; 
 
 And in this day your house has served God more 
 
 Than in the praise and prayer of all its years before. 
 
 " Yet I must leave you, though I fain would stay. 
 For there are other gates I go to keep 
 
 Of houses round whose walls, long day by day, 
 Shut out of hope and love, poor sinners weep — 
 Barred folds that keep out God's poor wandering sheep — 
 
 I must teach these that gates where God comes in 
 
 Must not be shut at all to pain, or want, or sin. 
 
 *' The voice of prayer is very soft and weak, 
 And sorrow and sin have voices very strong ; 
 
 Prayer is not heard in heaven when those twain speak, 
 The voice of prayer faints in the voice of wrong 
 By the just man endured — O Lord, how long ? — 
 
 If ye would have your prayers in heaven be heard. 
 
 Look that wrong clamour not with too intense a word. 
 
 " But when true love is shed on want and sin, 
 Their cry is changed, and grows to such a voice 
 
 As clamours sweetly at heaven to be let in — 
 
 Such sound as makes the saints in heaven rejoice ; 
 Pure gold of prayer, purged of the vain alloys 
 
 Of idleness — that is the sound most dear 
 
 Of all the earthly sounds God leans from heaven to hear. 
 
 12 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 " Oh, brother, I must leave thee, and for Me 
 
 The work is heavy, and the burden great. 
 Thine be this charge I lay upon thee : See 
 
 That never again stands barred thy abbey gate ; 
 
 Look that God's poor be not left desolate ; 
 Ah me ! that chidden My shepherds needs must be 
 When My poor wandering sheep have so great need of Me. 
 
 " Brother, forgive thy Brother if He chide. 
 Thy Brother loves thee — and has loved — for see 
 
 The nails are in My hands, and in My side 
 
 The spear-wound ; and the thorns weigh heavily 
 Upon My brow — ^brother, I died for thee — 
 
 For thee, and for My sheep that are astray. 
 
 And rose to live for thee, and them, on Easter Day ! " 
 
 " My Master and my Lord ! " the Abbot cried. 
 
 But, where that face had been, shone the new day ; 
 Only on the marble by the Abbot's side, 
 
 Where those dear feet had stood, a lily lay — 
 
 A lily white for the white Easter Day. 
 He sought the gate — no sorrow clamoured there — 
 And, not till then, he dared to sink his soul in prayer. 
 
 And from that day himself he kept the gate 
 Wide open ; and the poor from far and wide, 
 
 The weary, and wicked, and disconsolate. 
 Came there for succour and were not denied ; 
 The sick were healed, the repentant sanctified ; 
 
 And from their hearts rises more prayer and praise 
 
 Than ever the abbey knew in all its prayer-filled days. 
 
 13 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 And there the Heavenly Vision comes no more, 
 
 Only, each Easter now, a lily sweet 
 Lies white and dewy on the chancel floor 
 
 Where once had stood the beloved wounded feet ; 
 
 And the old Abbot feels the nearing beat 
 Of wings that bring him leave at last to go 
 And meet his Master, where the immortal lilies grow. 
 
 14 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 The Monk . 
 
 When in my narrow cell I lie, 
 
 The long day's penance done at last, 
 
 I see the ghosts of days gone by, 
 And hear the voices of the past. 
 
 I see the blue-gray wood-smoke curled 
 
 From hearths where life has rhymed to love, 
 
 I see the kingdoms of the world — 
 The glory and the power thereof, 
 
 And cry, " Ah, vainly have I striven !" 
 And then a voice calls, soft and low : 
 
 " Thou gavest My earth to win My heaven ; 
 But heaven-on-earth thou mayest not know ! " 
 
 It is not for Thy heaven, O Lord, 
 
 That I renounced Thy pleasant earths- 
 
 The ship, the furrow, and the sword — 
 The dreams of death, the dreams of birth 1 
 IS 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Weary of vigil, fast, and prayer, 
 
 Weak in my hope and in my faith — 
 
 O Christ, for whom this cross I bear, 
 Meet me beside the gate of Death ! 
 
 When the night comes, then let me rest 
 O Christ, who sanctifiest pain ! 
 
 Falling asleep upon Thy breast. 
 And, if Thou wilt, wake never again i 
 
 i6 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 The Crown of Life 
 
 The days, the doubts, the dreams of pain 
 
 Are over, not to come again, 
 
 And from the menace of the night 
 
 Has dawned the day-star of delight : 
 
 My baby lies against me pressed ! 
 
 Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed ! 
 
 His little head upon my arm, 
 His little body soft and warm, 
 His little feet that cannot stand 
 Held in the heart of this, my hand. 
 His little mouth close on my breast — 
 Thus, Mary's Son, are mothers blessed. 
 
 All dreams of deeds, all deeds of day 
 Are very faint and far away, 
 Yet you some day will stand upright 
 And fight God's foes, in manhood's might. 
 You — tiny, worshipped, clasped, caressed — 
 Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed. 
 17 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Whatever grief may come to be 
 
 This hour divine goes on for me. 
 
 All glorious is my little span, 
 
 Since I, like God, have made a man, 
 
 A little image of God's best — 
 
 Thus, Mary's Son, are mothers blessed. 
 
 Come change, come loss, come worlds of tears, 
 
 Come endless chain of empty years ; 
 
 They cannot take away the hour 
 
 That gives me You — my bird, my flower ! 
 
 Thank God for this ! Leave God the rest ! — 
 
 Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed. 
 
 i8 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Magnificat 
 
 This is Christ's birthday : long ago 
 
 He lay upon His mother's knee, 
 Who kissed and blessed Him soft and low — 
 
 God's gift to her, as you to me. 
 
 My baby dear, my little one. 
 
 The love that rocks this cradling breast 
 Is such as Mary gave her Son : 
 
 She was more honoured, not more blest. 
 
 Hei smiled as you smile : not more sweet 
 Than your eyes were those eyes of His, 
 
 And just such little hands and feet 
 As yours Our Lady used to kiss. 
 
 The world's desire that Mother bore : 
 She held a King upon her knee : 
 
 King of all my world, and more 
 Than all the world's desire to me ! 
 
 1 thank God on the Christmas morn, 
 
 For He has given me all things good : 
 This body which a child has born, 
 This breast made holy for his food. 
 
 19 c 2 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 High in high heaven Our Lady's throne 
 Besides her Son's stands up apart : 
 
 I sit on heaven's steps alone 
 And hold my king against my heart. 
 
 Across dark depths she hears your cry ; 
 
 She sees your smile, through worlds of blue. 
 Who was a mother, even as 1, 
 
 And loved her Child, as I love you. 
 
 And to her heart my babe is dear, 
 Because she bore the Babe Divine, 
 
 And all my soul to hers draws near, 
 And loves Him for the sake of mine I 
 
 20 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Evening Prayer 
 
 Not to the terrible God, avenging, bright, 
 
 Whose altars struck their roots in flame and blood ; 
 
 Not to the jealous God, whose merciless might 
 The infamy of unclean years withstood ; 
 
 But to the God who lit the evening star, 
 
 Who taught the flower to blossom in delight. 
 
 Who taught His world what love and worship are, 
 We pray, we two, to-night. 
 
 To no vast Presence too immense to love, 
 To no enthroned King too great to care^ 
 
 To no strange Spirit human needs above, 
 
 We bring our little, intimate, heart- warm prayer ; 
 
 But to the God who is a Father too. 
 
 The Father who loved and gave His only Son, 
 
 We pray across the cradle, I and you, 
 For ours, our little one. 
 
 21 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Christmas Hymn 
 
 O Christ, bom on the holy day, 
 I have no gift to give my King ; 
 
 No flowers grow by my weary way ; 
 I have no birthday song to sing. 
 
 How can I sing Thy name and praise. 
 Who never saw Thy face divine ; 
 
 Who walk in darkness all my days, 
 And see no Eastern stars a-shine ? 
 
 Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring. 
 How can I leave Thy praise unsung ? 
 
 How stay from homage to the King, 
 And hold a silent, grudging tongue ? 
 
 Lord, I found many a song to sing. 
 And many a humble hymn of praise 
 
 For Thy great Miracle of Spring, 
 The wonder of the waxing days. 
 
 When I beheld Thy days and years. 
 Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth ? 
 
 The moons of love, the years of tears. 
 The mysteries of death and birth ? 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Have I not sung with all my soul, 
 
 While soul and song were mine to yield, 
 
 Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control, 
 The dewy clover of Thy field ? 
 
 Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts, 
 
 Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade ; 
 
 Have I not made me holy feasts 
 Of all the beauty Thou hast made? 
 
 What though my tear-tired eyes, alas ! 
 
 Won never grace Thy face to see ? 
 I heard Thy footstep on the grass. 
 
 Thy voice in every wind-blown tree. 
 
 No music now I make or win ; 
 
 Yet, Lord, remember I have been 
 The lover of Thy world, wherein 
 
 I found nought common or unclean. 
 
 Grown old and blind, I sing no more ; 
 
 Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong, . 
 Yet take the songs I made of yore 
 
 For echoes to Thy birthday song. 
 
 23 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 De Profundis 
 
 Now I am cast into the serpent pit 
 
 And, catching difficult breath 
 From the writhing, loathsome, ceaseless stir of it, 
 
 The venomous whispers of curling, clasping Death, 
 I lift my soul out of the pit to Thee, 
 
 And, reaching with my soul to where Thou art, 
 
 Look down, seeing with free heart 
 The beast God gave my soul for company 
 
 Lie with companions fit ; 
 
 And bid, with a good will. 
 
 The serpent fangs of ill 
 
 Take their full fill 
 
 Of the foul fell it wore. 
 
 Though a thousand serpent heads were raised to slay, 
 
 A thousand twisting coils writhed where it lay, 
 There lies the beast, there let it lie for me, 
 
 And agonise and rave ; 
 For thou hast raised my soul. Thy soul, to Thee ! 
 
 Thy soul, dear Lord, Thou hast been strong to save ! 
 
 24 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Via Amoris 
 
 It is not Love, this beautiful unrest, 
 
 This tremor of longing that invades my breast, 
 
 For Love is in his grave this many a year ; 
 
 He will not rise — I do not wish him here. 
 
 It is not memory, for your face and eyes 
 
 Are not reflected where that dark pool lies : 
 
 It is not hope, for life makes no amends. 
 
 And hope and I are long no longer friends ; 
 
 It is a ghost out of another Spring, 
 
 It needs but little for its comforting — 
 
 That I should hold your hand and see your face 
 
 And muse a little in this quiet place 
 
 Where, through the silence, I can hear you sigh 
 
 And feel you sadden, O Virgin Mystery, 
 
 And know my thought has in your thought begot 
 
 Sadness, its child, and that you know it not. 
 
 II 
 If this were Love, if all this bitter pain 
 Were but the birth-pang of Love bom again, 
 
 25 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 If through the doubts and dreams resolved, smiled 
 
 The prophetic promise of the Holy Child, 
 
 What should I gain ? The love whose dream-lips smiled 
 
 Could never be my own and only child, 
 
 But to Love's birth would come, with the last pain, 
 
 Renunciation, also bom again. 
 
 Ill 
 
 If this were Love, why should I turn away ? 
 Am I not, too, made of the common clay ? 
 Is Hfe so fair, am I so fortunate, 
 I can refuse the capricious gift of Fate, 
 The sudden glory, the unhoped-for flowers, 
 The transfiguration of my earthly hours ? 
 
 Come, Love ! the house is garnished and is swept, 
 Washed clean with all the tears that I have wept, 
 Washed from the stain of my unworthy fears. 
 Hung with the splendid spoils of wasted years. 
 Lighted with lamps of hope, and curtained fast 
 Against the gathered darkness of the past. 
 
 I draw the bolts, I throw the portals wide ; 
 The darkness rushes shivering to my side. 
 Love is not here — the darkness creeps about 
 My house wherein the lamps of hope die out. 
 Ah, Love ! it was not then your hand that came 
 Beating my door ? your voice that called my name ? 
 26 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 IV 
 
 " It is not Love, it is not Love," I said, 
 And bowed in fearful hope my trembling head. 
 " It is not Love, for Love could never rise 
 Out of the rock-hewn grave wherein he lies." 
 But as I spake, the heavenly form drew near, 
 Where close I clasped a hope grown keen as fear, 
 Upon my head His very hand He laid 
 And whispered, " It is I, be not afraid ! " 
 
 V 
 
 And this is Love, no rose-crowned, laughing guest 
 
 By whom my passionate heart should be caressed, 
 
 But one re-risen from the grave ; austere, 
 
 Cold as the grave and infinitely dear. 
 
 To follow whom I lay the whole world down, 
 
 Take up the cross, bind on the thorny crown ; 
 
 And, following whom, my bleeding pilgrim feet 
 
 Find the rough pathway sure and very sweet. 
 
 The august environment of mighty wings 
 
 Shuts out the snare of vain imaginings. 
 
 For by my side, crowned with Love's death-white rose, 
 
 The Angel of Renunciation goes. 
 
 27 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Retro Sathanas 
 
 " Refuse, refrain, for this is not the love 
 The Annunciation Angel warned you of; 
 This is the little candle, not the sun ; 
 It bums, but will not warm, unhappy one ! " 
 
 " But ah ! suppose the sun should never shine, 
 Then what an anguish of regret were mine 
 To know that even from this I turned away ? 
 Candies may serve, if there should be no day.** 
 
 " Nay, better to go cold your whole life long 
 Than do the sun, than do your soul such wrong : 
 And if the sun shine not, be life's the blame. 
 And yours the pride, who scorned the meaner flame.' 
 
 28 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 The New Dispensation 
 
 Out in the sun the buttercups are gold, 
 The daisies silver all the grassy lane, 
 
 And spring has given love a flower to hold. 
 And love lays blindness on the eyes of pain. 
 
 Within are still, chill aisles and blazoned panes 
 And carven tombs where memory weeps no more, 
 
 And from the lost and holy days remains 
 
 One saint beside the long-closed western door. 
 
 Outside the world goes laughing lest it weep. 
 With here and there some happy child at play, 
 
 A mother worshipping the babe asleep, 
 
 Or two young lovers dreaming 'neath the may. 
 
 Within, the soul of love broods o*er the place ; 
 
 The carven saint, forgotten many a year, 
 Still lifts to heaven his rapt adoring face 
 
 To pray for those who leave him lonely here, 
 
 That once again the silent church may ring 
 With songs of joy triumphant over pain — 
 
 Ah ! God, who makest the miracle of spring, 
 Make Thou dead faith and love to rise again ! 
 
 29 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 The Three Kings 
 
 When the star in the East was lit to shine 
 The three kings journeyed to Palestine; 
 
 They came from the uttermost parts of the earth 
 With long trains laden with gifts of worth. 
 
 The first king rode on a camel's back, 
 
 He came from the land where the kings are black, 
 
 Bringing treasures desired of kings, 
 Rubies and ivory and precious things. 
 
 An elephant carried the second king, 
 He came from the land of the sun-rising. 
 
 And gems and gold and spices he bare. 
 With broidered raiment for kings to wear. 
 
 The third king came without steed or train 
 From the misty land where the white kings reign 
 
 He bore no gifts save the myrrh in his hand. 
 For he came on foot from a far-off land. 
 30 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Now when they had travelled a-many days 
 Through tangled forests and desert ways, 
 
 By angry seas and by paths thorn-set, 
 On Christmas Vigil the three kings met ; 
 
 And over their meeting a shrouded sky 
 Made dark the star they had travelled by. 
 
 Then the first king spake, and he frowned and said : 
 " By some ill spell have our feet been led, 
 
 " Now I see in the darkness the fools we are 
 To follow the light of a lying star. 
 
 " Let us fool no more, but like kings and men 
 Each get him home to his land again ! " 
 
 Then the second king, with the weary face 
 Gold-tinct as the sun of his reigning place. 
 
 Lifted sad eyes to the clouds and said : 
 
 " It was but a dream, and the dream is sped. 
 
 " We dreamed of a star that rose new and fair, 
 But it sets in the night of the old despair. 
 
 " Yet night is faithful though stars betray. 
 It will lead to our kingdoms far away." 
 
 Then spake the king who had fared alone 
 
 From the far-off kingdom, the white-hung throne : • 
 
 " Oh, brothers, brothers, so very far 
 Ye have followed the light of the radiant star, 
 31 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 " And because for a while ye see it not 
 Shall its faithful shining be all forgot ? 
 
 " On the spirit's pathway the light still lies 
 Though the star be hid from our longing eyes. 
 
 " To-morrow our star will be bright once more, 
 The little pin-hole in heaven's floor — 
 
 " The angels pricked it to let it bring 
 
 Our feet to the throne of the new-bom King ! " 
 
 And the first king heard and the second king heard, 
 And their hearts grew humble before the third. 
 
 And they laid them down beside bale and beast 
 And their sleeping eyes saw light in the East, 
 
 For the angels fanned them with starry wings 
 And the waft of visions of unseen things. 
 
 And the next gold day waned trembling and white 
 As the star was born of the waxing night. 
 
 And the three kings came where the Great King lay, 
 A little baby among the hay. 
 
 The ox and the ass were standing near 
 And Mary Mother beside her Dear. 
 
 Then low in the litter the kings bowed down ; 
 They gave Him gold for a kingly crown, 
 
 And frankincense for a great God's breath, 
 And myrrh to sweeten the day of death. 
 32 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 The Maiden Mother she stood and smiled 
 And she took from the manger her little child. 
 
 On the dark king's head she laid His hand 
 And anger died at that dear command. 
 
 She laid His hand on the gold king's head 
 And despair itself was comforted. 
 
 But when the pale king knelt in the stall 
 She heard on the straw his tears down fall. 
 
 And she stooped where he knelt beside her feet 
 And laid on his bosom her baby sweet. 
 
 And the king in the holy stable-place 
 
 Felt the Uttle lips through the tears on his face. 
 
 ***** 
 Christ ! lay Thy hand on the angry king 
 Who reigns in my breast to my undoing. 
 
 And lay Thy hands on the king who lays 
 The spell of sadness on all my days, 
 
 And give the white king — my soul, Thy soul — • 
 Of these other kings the high control, 
 
 That soul and spirit and sense may meet 
 In adoration before Thy feet ! 
 
 Now Glory to God the Father Most High, 
 And the Star, the Spirit, He leads us by. 
 
 And to God's dear Son, the Babe who was bom 
 And laid in the manger on Christmas morn ! 
 
 33 D 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 A Prayer for the King's Majesty 
 
 The Queen is dead. God save the King ! 
 In this his hour of grief, 
 When sorrow gathers memories in a sheaf 
 To lay them on his shoulders as he stands 
 Inheriting her glories and her lands — 
 First gain of his at which his Mother's voice 
 Has not been first to bless and to rejoice — 
 A man, set lonely between gain and loss, 
 (O words of love the heart remembereth, 
 O mighty loss outweighing every gain !) 
 A Son whose kingdom Death's arm lies across, 
 A King whose Mother lies alone with Death, 
 Wrapped in the folds of white implacable sleep. 
 O God, who seest the tears Thy children weep, 
 O God, who countest each sad heart-beat, see 
 How our King needs the grace we ask of Thee ! 
 Thou knowest how little and how vain a thing 
 Is Empire, when the heart is sick with pain — 
 God save the King ! 
 
 34 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 The Queen is dead. The splendour of her days, 
 
 The sorrow of them, both alike merge now 
 
 In the new aureole that lights her brow. 
 
 The clamour of her people's voice in praise 
 
 Must hush itself to the still voice that prays 
 
 In the holy chamber of Death. Tread softly here, 
 
 A mightly Queen lies dead. 
 
 Her people's heart wears black, 
 
 The black bells toll unceasing in their ear, 
 
 And on the gold sun's track 
 
 The great world round 
 
 Like a black ring the voice of mourning goes. 
 
 Till even our ancient foes 
 
 With eyes downbent, and brotherly bared head, 
 
 Keep mourning watch with us. This is the hour 
 
 When Love lends all his power 
 
 To speed griefs arrows from the bow of Death, 
 
 When sighs are idle breath, 
 
 When tears are fountains vain. 
 
 She will not wake again, 
 
 Not now, not here. 
 
 O great and good and infinitely dear, 
 
 O Mother of your people, sleep is sweet, 
 
 No more Life's thorny ways will wound your feet. 
 
 O Mother dear, sleep sound ! 
 
 When you shall wake, 
 
 Your brows freed from the crown that made them ache 
 
 So many a time, and wear the heavenly crown 
 
 Then, then you will look down 
 
 35 D 2 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 On us who love you, and, remembering, 
 The love of earth will breathe with us our prayer, 
 — Our prayer prayed here, joined to your prayer prayed there. 
 Who knows what radiant answer it may bring ? 
 " God save the King ! " 
 
 The Queen is dead. God save the King ! 
 From all ill thought and deed, 
 From heartless service and from selfish sway, 
 From treason, and the vain imagining 
 Of evil counsellors, and the noisesome breed 
 Of flatterers who eat the soul away, 
 God save the King ! 
 
 From loss and pain and tears 
 Such as her many years 
 Brought her : from battle and strife, 
 And the inmost hurt of life. 
 The wounds that no crown can heal, 
 No ermine robes conceal, 
 God save the King ! 
 
 God, by our memories of his Mother's face, 
 By the love that makes our heart her dwelling-place, 
 Grant to our sorrow this desired grace : 
 God save the King ! 
 
 » « « « « 
 
 The Queen is dead. God save the King, 
 This is no hour when joy has leave to sing ; 
 Only, amid our tears, we are bold to pray ; 
 More boldly, in that we pray sorrowing, 
 
 36 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 In this most sorrowful day. 
 God, who wast of a mortal Mother born, 
 Who driest the tears with which Thy children mourn, 
 God save the King ! 
 
 Look down on him whose crown is wet with tears 
 In which its splendour fades and disappears — 
 His tears, our tears, tears out of all her lands. 
 The Queen is dead. 
 God ! strengthen the King's hands ! 
 God save the King ! 
 
 January 22, 1901. 
 
 37 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 In Memory of Saretta Deakin 
 
 Who Died on October 25TH, 1899 
 
 There was a day, 
 
 A horrible Autumn day, 
 
 When from her home, the home she made for ours 
 
 And that day made a nightmare of white flowers 
 
 And folk in black who whispered pityingly. 
 
 They carried her away ; 
 
 And left our hearts all cold 
 And empty, yet with such a store to hold 
 Of sodden grief the slow drops still ooze out. 
 And, falling on all fair things, they wither these ; 
 Tears came with time — but not with time went by. 
 
 And still we wander desolate about 
 
 The poor changed house, the garden and the croft. 
 
 Warm kitchen, sunny parlour, with the soft 
 
 Intolerable pervading memories 
 
 Of her whose face and voice made melodies, 
 
 Sweet unforgotten songs of mother-love — 
 
 Dear songs of all the little joys that were. 
 
 We see the sun and have no joy thereof, 
 
 38 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Because she gathered in her dying hands 
 And carried with her to the fair far lands 
 The flower of all our joy, because she went 
 Out of the garden where her days were spent, 
 And took the very sun away with her. 
 
 The cross stands at her head. 
 
 Over her breast, that loving mother-breast, 
 
 Close buds of pansies purple and white are pressed. 
 
 It seems a place for rest, 
 
 For happy folded sleep ; but ah, not there, 
 
 Not there, not there, our hardest tears are shed, 
 
 But in the house made empty for her sake. 
 
 Here, in the night intolerable, wake 
 
 The hungry passionate pains of Love still strong 
 
 To fight with Death the bitter slow night long. 
 
 Then the rich price that poor Love has to pay 
 
 Is paid, slow drop by drop, till the new day 
 
 With thin cold fingers pushes back night's wings. 
 
 And drags us out to common cruel things 
 
 That sting, and barb their stings with memory. 
 
 O Love — and is the price too hard to give ? 
 
 Thine is the splendour of all things that live, 
 
 And this thy pain the price of life to thee — 
 
 The sacrament that binds to the beloved. 
 
 The chain that holds though mountains be removed. 
 
 The portent of thine immortaUty. 
 
 So, in the house of pain imprisoned, we 
 Endure our bondage, and work out our time. 
 Nor seek from out our dungeon walls to climb — 
 39 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Bondsmen, who would not, if we could, be free. 
 Thank God, our hands still hold Love's cord — and she- 
 Do not her hands still clasp the cord we hold, 
 Drawing us near, coiling bright fold on fold. 
 Till the far day when it shall draw us near 
 To the sight of her — ^her living hands, her dear 
 Tired face, grown weary of watching for our face ? 
 And we shall hold her, in the happy place, 
 And hear her voice, the old same voice we knew — 
 " Ah ! children, I am tired of wanting you ! " 
 
 Or, in some world more beautiful and dear 
 Than any she ever even dreamed of here, 
 Where time is changed, does she await the day 
 So longed for, and so little a while away, 
 When all the love we watered with our tears 
 Shall bloom, transplanted by the kindly years ? 
 Dreaming through her new garden does she go, 
 Remembering the old garden, long ago, 
 Tending new flowers more fair than those that grow 
 In this sad garden where such sad flowers blow ; 
 And, fondly touching bud and leaf and shoot. 
 Training her flowers to perfect branch and root, 
 Does she sometimes entreat some darling flower 
 To wait a little for its opening hour ? 
 Can you not hear her voice ? " Ah, not to-day, 
 While my dear flowers, my own, are far away. 
 Be patient, bud ! to-morrow soon will come : 
 Ah ! blossom when my little girl comes home ! ** 
 40 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 But now. But here. 
 
 The empty house, the always empty place — 
 
 The black remembrance that no night blots out, 
 
 The memories, white, unbearable, and dear 
 
 That no white sunlight makes less cruel and clear, 
 
 The resistless riotous rout 
 
 Of cruel conquering thoughts, the night, the day ? 
 
 Love is immortal ; this the price to pay. 
 
 Worse than all pain it would be to forget — 
 
 On Love's brave brow the crown of thorns is set. 
 
 Love is no niggard : though the price be high, 
 
 Into God's market Love goes forth to buy 
 
 With royal meed God's greatest gift and gain, 
 
 Love offers up his whole rich store of pain 
 
 And buys of God Love's immortality. 
 
 For Dorothy, \%th August^ 1900. 
 
 41 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 A Death-Bed 
 
 A man of like passions with ourselves 
 
 It is too late, too late ! 
 The wine is spilled, the altar violate ; 
 Now all the foolish virtues of the past — 
 Its joys that could not last, 
 Its flowers that had to fade, 
 Its bliss so long delayed, 
 Its sun so soon o'ercast, 
 Its faith so soon betrayed, 
 Its prayers so madly prayed, 
 Its wildly-fought-for right. 
 Its dear renounced delight. 
 Its passions and its pain — 
 All these stand gray about 
 My bed, like ghosts from Paradise shut out. 
 And I, in torment, lying here alone. 
 See what myself have done — 
 How all good things were butchered, one by one. 
 Not one of these but life has fouled its name. 
 Blotted it out with sin and loss and shame — 
 Until my whole life's striving is made vain. 
 42. 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 It is too late, too late ! 
 
 My house is left unto me desolate. 
 
 Yet what if here, 
 Through this despair too dark for dreams of fear, 
 Through the last bitterness of the last vain tear. 
 
 One saw a Face — 
 Human — not turned away from man's disgrace — 
 
 A Face divinely dear — 
 A Head that had a crown of thorns to wear ; 
 
 If there should come a hand 
 Drawing this tired head to a place of rest 
 
 On a most loving Breast ? 
 And as one felt that one could almost bear 
 To tell the whole long sickening trivial tale 
 Of how one came so utterly to fail 
 Of all one once knew that one might attain — 
 If one should feel consoling arms about, 
 Shutting one in, shutting the black past out — 
 Should feel the tears that washed one clean again, 
 And turn, made dumb with love and shame, to hear 
 ** My child, my child, do I not understand ? " 
 
 43. 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 At The Prison Gate 
 
 And underneath us are the everlasting amis 
 
 Once by a foreign prison gate, 
 
 Deep in the gloom of frowning stone, 
 I saw a woman, desolate. 
 
 Sitting alone ; 
 Immeasurable pain enwound. 
 Infinite anguish lapped her round, 
 As the sea laps some sunken shore 
 Where flowers will blossom never more. 
 
 Despair sat shrined in her dry eyes ; 
 
 Her heart, I thought, in blood must weep 
 For hopes that never more can rise 
 
 From their death-sleep ; 
 And round her hovered phantoms gray. 
 Ghosts of delight dead many a day ; 
 And all the thorns of life seemed wed 
 In one sharp crown about her head. 
 44 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 And all the poor world's aching heart 
 
 Beat there, I thought, and could not break. 
 Oh ! to be strong to bear the smart — 
 
 The vast heart-ache ! 
 Then through my soul a clear light shone ; 
 What I would do, my Lord has done ; 
 He bore the whole world's crown of thorn — 
 For her sake, too, that crown was worn. 
 
 45 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 The Devil's Due 
 
 A priest tells how, in his youth, a church was built by the free 
 labour of love — as was men's wont in those days ; and how the stone 
 and wood were paid for by one who had grown rich on usury and the 
 pillage of the poor — and of what chanced thereafter, 
 
 Arsenius, priest of God, I tell, 
 
 For warning in your younger ears, 
 Humbly and plainly what befel 
 
 That year — gone by a many years — 
 When Veraignes church was built. Ah ! then 
 Brave churches grew 'neath hands of men : 
 We see not now their like again. 
 
 We built it on the green hill-side 
 
 That leans its bosom o'er the town, 
 So that its presence, sanctified, 
 
 Might ever on our lives look down. 
 We built ; and those who built not, they 
 Brought us their blessing day by day, 
 And lingered to rejoice and pray. 
 46 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 For years the masons toiled, for years 
 
 The craftsmen wrought till they had made 
 
 A church we scarce could see for tears — 
 Its fairness made our love afraid j 
 
 Its clear-cut cream-white tracery 
 
 Stood out against the deep bright sky 
 
 Like good deeds 'gainst eternity. 
 
 In the deep roof each separate beam 
 Had its own garland — ivy, vine, 
 
 Giving to man the carver's dream, 
 In sight of men a certain sign — 
 
 And all day long the workers plied, 
 
 " The church shall finished be," we cried, 
 
 " And consecrate by Easter-tide." 
 
 Our church ! It was so fair, so dear, 
 So fit a church to praise God in ! 
 
 It had such show of carven gear. 
 Such chiselled work, without, within 
 
 Such marble for the steps and floor. 
 
 Such window-jewels and such store 
 
 Of gold and gems the altar bore I 
 
 Each stone by loving hands was hewn. 
 
 By loving hands each beam was sawn ; 
 The hammers made a merry tune 
 
 In winter dusk and summer dawn. 
 
 Love built the house, but gold had paid 
 
 For that wherewith the house was made, 
 
 *' Would love have given all ! " we said. 
 
 47 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 But poor in all save love were we, 
 
 And he was poor in all save gold 
 Who gave the gold. By usury 
 
 Were gained his riches manifold. 
 We knew it ? If we knew, we thought 
 'Tis good if men do good in aught. 
 And by good works may heaven be bought ! 
 
 At last the echo died in air 
 
 Of the last stroke. The silence then 
 
 Passed in to fill the church, left bare 
 Of the loving voice of Christian men. 
 
 The silence saddened all the sun ; 
 
 So gladly was our work begun. 
 
 Now all that happy work was done. 
 
 Did any voices in the night 
 
 Call through those arches ? Were there wings 
 That swept between the pillars white — 
 
 Wide pinions of unvisioned things ? 
 The priests who watched the relics heard 
 Wing-whispers — not of bat or bird — 
 And moan of inarticulate word. 
 
 Then sunlight, morning, and sweet air 
 
 Adorned our church, and there were borne 
 
 Great sheaves of boughs of blossom fair 
 To grace the consecration morn. 
 
 Then round our church trooped knight and dame ; 
 
 Within, alone, the bishop came, 
 
 And the twelve candles leaped to flame. 
 
 48 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Then round our church the bishop went 
 With all his priests — a brave array. 
 
 There was no sign nor portent sent 
 As, glad at heart, he went his way, 
 
 Sprinkling the holy water round 
 
 Three times on walls and crowd and ground 
 
 Within the churchyard's sacred bound. 
 
 Then — but ye know the function's scope 
 
 At consecration — all the show 
 Of torch and incense, stole and cope ; 
 
 And how the acolytes do go 
 Before the bishop — how they bear 
 The lighted tapers, flaming fair. 
 Blown back by the sweet wavering air. 
 
 The bishop, knocking at the door. 
 The deacon answering from within, 
 
 " Lift up your heads, ye gates, be sure 
 The King of Glory shall come in " — 
 
 The bishop passed in with the choir. 
 
 Thank God for this — our soul's desire, 
 
 Our altar, meet for heaven's fire ! 
 
 The bishop, kneeling in his place 
 
 Where our bright windows made day dim. 
 With all heaven's glory in his face, 
 
 Began the consecration hymn : 
 " Veni" he sang, in clear strong tone. 
 Then — on the instant — song was done. 
 Its very echo scattered — gone 1 
 49 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 For, as the bishop's voice rang clear, 
 Another voice rang clearer still — 
 
 A voice wherein the soul could hear 
 The discord of unmeasured ill — 
 
 And sudden breathless silence fell 
 
 On all the church. And I wot well 
 
 There are such silences in hell. 
 
 Taper and torch died down, went out. 
 
 And all our church grew dark and cold. 
 And deathly odours crept about, 
 
 And chill, as of the churchyard mould ; 
 And every flower drooped its head, 
 And all the rose's leaves were shed, 
 And all the lilies dropped down dead. 
 
 There, in the bishop's chair, we saw — 
 How can I tell you ? Memories shrink 
 
 To mix anew the cup of awe 
 
 We shuddering mortals had to drink. 
 
 What was it ? There ! The shape that stood 
 
 Before the altar and the rood — 
 
 It was not human flesh and blood. 
 
 A light more bright than any sun, 
 
 A shade more dark than any night, 
 A shape that human shape was none. 
 A cloud, a sense of winged might. 
 And, like an infernal trumpet-sound, 
 Rang through the church's hush profound 
 A voice. We listened horror-bound. 
 50 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 " Venio / Cease, cease to consecrate ! 
 
 Love built the church, but it is mine ! 
 'Tis built of stone hewn out by hate, 
 
 Cemented by man's blood divine. 
 Whence came the gold that paid for this ? 
 From pillage of the poor I wis — 
 That gold was mine, and mine this is ! 
 
 *' Your King has cursed the usurer's gold, 
 
 He gives it to me for my fee ! 
 Your church is builded, but behold 
 
 Your church is fair for me — for me ! 
 Who robs the poor to me is given ; 
 Impenitent and unforgiven. 
 His church is built for hell, not heaven ! " 
 
 Then, as we gazed, the face grew clear, 
 And all men stood as turned to stone ; 
 
 Each man beheld through dews of fear 
 A face — his own, yet not his own ; 
 
 His own face, darkened, lost, debased. 
 
 With hell's own signet stamped and traced, 
 
 And all the God in it efiaced. 
 
 A crash like thunder shook the walls, 
 
 A flame like lightning shot them through : 
 
 " Fly, fly before the judgment falls. 
 And all the stones be fallen on you ! " 
 
 And as we fled we saw bright gleams 
 
 Of fire leap out 'mid joists and beams. 
 
 Out church ! Oh, love, oh, hopes, oh, dreams ! 
 51 E 2 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 We stood without, a pallid throng, 
 
 And as the flame leaped high and higher, 
 Shrill winds we heard that rushed along 
 And fanned the transports of the fire. 
 The sky grew black ; against the sky 
 The blue and scarlet flames leaped high. 
 And cries as of lost souls wailed by. 
 
 The church in glowing vesture stood. 
 The lead ran down as it were wax, 
 
 The great stones cracked and burned like wood, 
 The wood caught fire and flamed like flax : 
 
 A horrid chequered light and shade, 
 
 By smoke and flame alternate made, 
 
 Upon men's upturned faces played. 
 
 Down crashed the walls. Our lovely spire, 
 
 A blackened ruin, fell and lay, 
 The very earth about caught fire, 
 
 And flame-tongues licked along the clay. 
 The fire did neither stay nor spare 
 Till the foundations were laid bare 
 To the hot, sickened, smoke-filled air. 
 
 There in the sight of men it lay, 
 
 Our church that we had made so fair ! 
 
 A heap of ashes white and gray. 
 
 With sparks still gleaming here and there. 
 
 The sun came out again and shone 
 
 On all our loving work undone — 
 
 Our church destroyed, our labour gone ! 
 52 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Gone ? Is it gone ? God knows it, no ! 
 
 The hands that builded built aright : 
 The men who loved and laboured so, 
 
 Their church is built in heaven's height ! 
 In every stone a glittering gem, 
 Gold in the gold Jerusalem — 
 The church their love built waits for them. 
 
 53 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Ruckinge Church 
 
 " And we said how dreary and desolate and forlorn the cliurch was, 
 and how long it was since any music but that of the moth-eaten 
 harmonium and the heartless mixed choir had sounded there. And 
 we said : * Poor old church ! it will never hear any true music any 
 more.' Then she turned to us from the door of the Lady Chapel, 
 which was plastered and whitewashed, and had a stove and the 
 Evangelical Almanac in it, and her eyes were full of tears. And, 
 standing there, she sang the * Ave Maria ' — with her voice and her 
 face like an angel's. And while she sang a stranger came to the 
 church door and stood listening, but he did not see us. Only we saw 
 that he loved her singing. And he went away as soon as the hymn 
 was ended, we also soon following, and the church was left lonely 
 as before." 
 
 The boat crept slowly through the water-weeds 
 
 That greenly cover all the waterways, 
 Between high banks where ranks of sedge and reeds 
 
 Sigh one sad secret all their quiet days, 
 Through grasses water-mint and rushes green, 
 And flags and strange wet blossoms, only seen 
 
 Where man so seldom comes, so briefly stays. 
 
 From the high bank the sheep looked calmly down, 
 Unscared to see my boat and me go by ; 
 
 The elm-trees showed their dress of golden brown 
 To winds that should disrobe them presently ; 
 
 And a marsh sunset flamed across the wold. 
 
 And the still water caught the lavished gold. 
 The primrose and the purple of the sky. 
 54 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 The boat pressed ever through the weeds and sedge 
 Which, rustling, clung her steadfast prow around ; 
 
 The iris nodded at the water's edge, 
 
 Bats in the elm-trees made a ghostly sound ; 
 
 With whirring wings a wild duck sprang to sight 
 
 And flew, black-winged, towards the crimson light, 
 Leaving my solitude the more profound. 
 
 We moved towards the church, my boat and I — 
 The church that at the marsh edge stands alone ; 
 
 It caught the reflex of the sunset sky 
 
 On golden-lichened roof and gray-green stone. 
 
 Through snow and shower and sunshine it had stood 
 
 In the thronged graveyards infinite solitude. 
 While many a year had come, and flowered, and gone. 
 
 From the marsh-meadow to the field of graves 
 
 But just a step, across a lichened wall. 
 Thick o'er the happy dead the marsh grass waves, 
 
 And cloudy wreaths of marsh mist gather and fall, 
 And the marsh sunsets shed their gold and red 
 Over still hearts that once in torment fed 
 
 At Life's intolerable festival. 
 
 The plaster of the porch has fallen away 
 From the lean stones, that now are all awry, 
 
 And through the chinks a shooting ivy spray 
 Creeps in — sad emblem of fideHty — 
 
 And wreathes with life the pillars and the beams 
 
 Hewn long ago — with, ah ! what faith, what dreams ! — 
 By men whose faith and dreams have long gone by. 
 55 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 The rusty key, the heavy rotten door, 
 
 The dead, unhappy air, the pillars green 
 With mould and damp, the desecrated floor 
 
 With bricks and boards where tombstones should have 
 been, 
 And were once ; all the musty, dreary chill — 
 They strike a shudder through my being still 
 
 When memory lights again that lightless scene. 
 
 And where the altar stood, and where the Christ 
 Reached out His arms to all the world, there stood 
 
 Law-tables — as if love had not sufficed 
 To all the world has ever known of good ! 
 
 Our Lady's chapel was a lightless shrine ; 
 
 There was no human heart and no divine. 
 No odour of prayer, no altar, and no rood. 
 
 There was no scent of incense in the air, 
 
 No sigh of all the past breathed through the aisle, 
 
 The white glass windows turned to mocking glare 
 The lovely sunset's gracious rosy smile ; 
 
 A vault, a tomb wherein was laid to sleep 
 
 All that a man might give his life to keep 
 If only for an instant's breathing while ! 
 
 Cold with my rage against the men who held 
 At such cheap rate the labours of the dead. 
 
 My heart within me sank, while o'er it swelled 
 A sadness that would not be comforted ; 
 
 An awe came on me, and I seemed to face 
 
 The invisible spirit of the dreary place. 
 
 To hear the unheard voice of it, which said : — 
 
 56 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 " Is love, then, dead upon earth ? 
 
 Ah ! who shall tell or be told 
 What my walls were once worth 
 
 When men worked for love, not for gold ? 
 
 Each stone was made to hold 
 A heartful of love and faith ; 
 
 Now love and faith are dead, 
 
 Dead are the prayers that are said, 
 Nothing is living but Death ! 
 
 " Oh ! for the old glad days, 
 
 Incense thick in the air, 
 Passion of thanks and of praise, 
 
 Passion of trust and of prayer ! 
 
 Ah ! the old days were fair, 
 Love on the earth was then. 
 
 Strong were men's souls, and brave : 
 
 Those men lie in the grave, 
 They will live not again ! 
 
 " Then all my arches rang 
 
 With music glorious and sweet, 
 
 Men's souls burned as they sang. 
 Tears fell down at their feet, 
 Hearts with the Christ-heart beat. 
 
 Hands to men's hands held fast ; 
 Union and brotherhood were I 
 Ah ! the old days were fair, 
 
 Therefore the old days passed. 
 57 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 " Then, when later there came 
 Hatred, anger and strife, 
 
 The sword blood-red and the flame. 
 And the stake and contempt of life, 
 Husband severed from wife ; 
 
 Hearts with the Christ-heart bled : 
 Through the worst of the fight 
 Still the old fire burned bright, 
 
 Still the old faith was not dead. 
 
 " Though they tore my Christ from the cross, 
 And mocked at the Mother of Grace, 
 
 And broke my windows across, 
 Defiling the holy place — 
 Children of death and disgrace ! 
 
 They spat on the altar-stone. 
 
 Tore down and trampled the rood 
 Stained my pillars with blood. 
 
 Left me lifeless, alone — 
 
 " Yet, when my walls were left i 
 Robbed of all beauty and bare, 
 
 Still God cancelled the theft. 
 The soul of the thing was there. 
 In my damp, unwindowed air 
 
 Fugitives stopped to pray, 
 
 And their prayers were splendid to hear. 
 Like the sound of a storm that Is near — • 
 
 And love was not dead that day. 
 58 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 " Then the birds of the air built nests 
 
 In these empty shadows of mine, 
 And the warmth of their brooding breasts 
 
 Still warmed the untended shrine. 
 
 His creatures are all divine, 
 He is praised by the woodland throng, 
 
 And my old walls echoed and heard 
 
 The passionate praising word, 
 And love still lived in their song. 
 
 " Then came the Protestant crew 
 
 And made me the thing you have known- 
 Whitewashed and plastered me new, 
 Covered my marble and stone — 
 Could they not leave me alone ? 
 Vain was the cry, for they trod 
 Over my tombs, and I saw 
 Books and the Tables of Law 
 Set in the place of my God 
 
 " And love is dead, so it seems ! 
 
 Shall I never hear again 
 The music of heaven and of dreams, 
 
 Songs of ideals of men ? 
 
 Great dreams and spngs we had then, 
 Now I but hear from the wood 
 
 Cry of a bat or a bird. 
 
 Oh ! for love's passionate word 
 Sent from men's hearts to the Good I 
 59 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 " Sometimes men come, and they sing, 
 
 But I know not their song nor their voice ; 
 They have no hearts they can bring. 
 
 They have no souls to rejoice — 
 
 Theirs is but folly and noise. 
 Oh ! for a voice that could sing 
 
 Songs to the Queen of the blest, 
 
 Hymns to the Dearest and Best, 
 Songs to our Master, her King 1 " 
 
 The church was full of silence. I shut in 
 Its loss and loneliness, and went my way. 
 
 Its sadness was not less its walls within 
 Because I wore it in my heart that day, 
 
 And many a day since, when I see again 
 
 Marsh sunsets, and across the golden plain 
 The church's golden roof and arches gray. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Along wet roads, all shining with late rain. 
 
 And through wet woods, all dripping, brown and sere, 
 
 I came one day towards the church again. 
 It was the spring-time of the day and year ; 
 
 The sky was light and bright and flecked with cloud 
 
 That, wind-swept, changeful, through bright rents allowed 
 Sun and blue sky to smile and disappear. 
 
 The sky behind the old gray church was gray — 
 
 Gray as my memories, and gray as I ; 
 The forlorn graves each side the grassy way 
 
 Called to me, " Brother ! " as I passed them by. 
 60 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 The door was open. " I shall feel again," 
 I thought, " that inextinguishable pain 
 Of longing loss and hopeless memory." 
 
 When — O electric flash of ecstasy ! 
 
 No spirit's moan of pain fell on my ear — 
 A human voice, an angel's melody, 
 
 God let me in that perfect moment hear. 
 Oh ! the sweet rush of gladness and delight, 
 Of human striving to the heavenly light, 
 
 Of great ideals, permanent and dear ! 
 
 All the old dreams linked with the new-born faith, 
 All the old faith with new-born dreams en wound, 
 
 Surged through the very heart of loss and death 
 In passionate waves of pure and perfect sound. 
 
 The past came back : the Christ, the Mother-Maid, 
 
 The incense of the hearts that praised and prayed. 
 The past's peace, and the future's faith profound. 
 
 ^^ Ave Maria, 
 Gratid, plena, 
 Dominus iecum : 
 Benedicta tu 
 In mulieribus, 
 
 Et benedicttis fructus ventris tui Jesus, 
 Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, 
 Ora pro nobis peccatoribus 
 Nunc ct in hord mortis nostrm. Amen" 
 6i 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 And all the soul of all the past was here — 
 A human soul that loved the great and good, 
 
 A heart to which the great ideals were dear, 
 One that had heard and that had understood, 
 
 As I had done, the church's desolate moan. 
 
 And answered it as I had never done. 
 And never willed to do and never could. 
 
 I left the church, glad to the soul and strong, 
 And passed along by fresh earth-scented ways ; 
 
 Safe in my heart the echo of that song 
 Lived, as it will live with me all my days. 
 
 The church will never lose that echo, nor 
 
 Be quite as lonely ever any more ; 
 
 Nor will my soul, where, too, that echo stays. 
 
 62 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 The Singing of the Magnificat 
 
 A Legend 
 
 In midst of wide green pasture-lands, cut through 
 By lines of alders bordering deep-banked streams, 
 
 Where bulrushes and yellow iris grew, 
 
 And rest and peace, and all the flowers of dreams, 
 
 The Abbey stood — so still, it seemed a part 
 
 Of the marsh-country's almost pulseless heart. 
 
 Where gray-green willows fringed the stream and pool, 
 The lazy meek-faced cattle strayed to graze, 
 
 Sheep in the meadows cropped the grasses cool. 
 And silver fish shone through the watery ways, 
 
 And many a load of fruit and load of corn 
 
 Into the Abbey storehouses was borne. 
 
 Yet though so much they had of life's good things, 
 The monks but held them as a sacred trust 
 
 Lent from the storehouse of the King of kings 
 
 Till they. His stewards, should crumble back to dust. 
 
 " Not as our own," they said, " but as the Lord's, 
 
 All that the stream yields, or the land affords." 
 
 63 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 And all the villages and hamlets near 
 
 Knew the monks' wealth, and how their wealth was 
 spent ; 
 In tribulation, sickness, want, or fear. 
 
 First to the Abbey all the peasants went, 
 Certain to find a welcome, and to be 
 Helped in the hour of their extremity. 
 
 When plague or sickness smote the people sore. 
 The Brothers prayed beside the dying bed. 
 
 And nursed the sick back into health once more, 
 And through the horror and the danger said : 
 
 " How good is God, who has such love for us, 
 
 He lets us tend His sujQfering children thus ! " 
 
 They in their simple ways and works were glad : 
 Yet all men must have sorrows of their own ; 
 
 And so a bitter grief the Brothers had, 
 Nor mourned for others' heaviness alone. 
 
 This was the secret of their sorrowing, 
 
 That not a monk in all the house could sing ! 
 
 Was it the damp air from the lovely marsh. 
 
 Or strain of scarcely intermitted prayer. 
 That made their voices, when they sang, as harsh 
 
 As any frog's that croaks in evening air — 
 That made less music in their hymns to He, 
 Than in the hoarsest wild-fowl's hoarsest cry ? 
 
 If love could sweeten voice to sing a song. 
 Theirs had been sweetest song was ever sung : 
 64 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 But their hearts' music reached their lips all wrong, 
 The soul's intent foiled by the traitorous tongue 
 That marred the chapel's peace, and seemed to scare 
 The rapt devotion lingering in the air. 
 
 The birds that in the chapel built their nests, 
 
 And in the stone-work found their small lives fair, 
 
 Flew thence with hurried wings and fluttering breasts 
 When the bell rang to call the monks to prayer. 
 
 •' Why will they sing," they twittered, " why at all ? 
 
 In heaven their silence must be festival ! " 
 
 U'he Brothers prayed with penance and with tears 
 That God would let them give some little part 
 
 Out for the solace of their own sad ears 
 Of all the music crowded in their heart. 
 
 Their nature and the marsh-air had their way. 
 
 And still they sang more vilely every day. 
 
 And all their prayers and fasts availing not 
 To give them voices sweet, their souls' desire, 
 
 The Abbot said, " Gifts He did not allot 
 God at our hands will not again require ; 
 
 The love He gives us He will ask again 
 
 In love to Him and to our fellow-men. 
 
 " Praise Him we must, and since we cannot praise 
 As we would choose, we praise Him as we can. 
 
 In heaven we shall be taught the angels' ways 
 Of singing — we afford to wait a span. 
 
 In singing, as in toil, do ye your best ; 
 
 God will adjust the balance — do the rest ! " 
 
 6s 1 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 But one good Brother, anxious to remove 
 This, the reproach now laid on them so long, 
 
 Rejected counsel, and for very love 
 
 Besought a brother, skilled in art of song, 
 
 To come to them — ^his cloister far to leave — 
 
 And sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve. 
 
 So when each brown monk duly sought his place, 
 By two and two, slow pacing to the choir, 
 
 Shrined in his dark oak stall, the strange monk's face 
 Shone with a light as of devotion's fire. 
 
 Good, young and fair, his seemed a form wherein 
 
 Pure beauty left no room at all for sin. 
 
 And when the time for singing it had come, 
 " Magnificat" face raised, and voice, he sang : 
 
 Each in his stall the monks stood glad and dumb, 
 As through the chancel's dusk his voice outrang, 
 
 Pure, clear, and perfect — as the thrushes sing 
 
 Their first impulsive welcome of the spring. 
 
 At the first notes the Abbot's heart spoke low : 
 " O God, accept this singing, seeing we. 
 
 Had we the power, would ever praise Thee so — 
 Would ever. Lord, Thou know'st, sing thus to Thee ; 
 
 Thus in our hearts Thy hymns are ever sung. 
 
 As he Thou blessest sings them with his tongue." 
 
 But as the voice rose higher, and more sweet, 
 
 The Abbot's heart said, " Thou hast heard us grieve, 
 
 And sent an angel from beside Thy feet, 
 To sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve ; 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 To ease our ache of soul, and let us see 
 
 How we some day in heaven shall sing to Thee." 
 
 Through the cold Christmas night the hymn rang out 
 In perfect cadence, clear as sunlit rain — 
 
 Such heavenly music that the birds without 
 
 Beat their warm wings against the window pane, 
 
 Scattering the frosted crystal snow outspread 
 
 Upon the stone-lace and the window-lead. 
 
 The white moon through the window seemed to gaze 
 On the pure face and eyes the singer raised ; 
 
 The storm-wind hushed the clamour of its ways, 
 God seemed to stoop to hear Himself thus praised, 
 
 And breathless all the Brothers stood, and still 
 
 Reached longing souls out to the music's thrill. 
 
 Old years came back, and half-forgotten hours, 
 Dreams of delight that never was to be, 
 
 Mothers' remembered kiss, the funeral flowers 
 Laid on the grave of life's felicity ; 
 
 An infinite dear passion of regret 
 
 Swept through their hearts, and left their eyelids wet. 
 
 The birds beat ever at the window, till 
 
 They broke the pane, and so could entrance win ; 
 
 Their slender feet clung to the window-sill. 
 And though with them the bitter air came in. 
 
 The monks were glad that the birds too should hear, 
 
 Since to God's creatures all, His praise is dear. 
 
 67 F 2 
 
BALLADS AXD VERSES 
 
 Tne lavely music waxed and waned, and sank, 
 And brought less conscious sadness in its train. 
 
 Unrecognised despair that thinks to thank 
 God for a joy renounced, a chosen pain — 
 
 And deems that peace which is but stifled life 
 
 Dulled by a too-prolonged unfruitful strife. 
 
 When, service done, the Brothers gathered round 
 To thank the singer — modest-eyed, said he : 
 
 *'^ Not mine the grace, if grace indeed abound ; 
 God gave the power, if any power there be ; 
 
 If I in hymn or psalm clear voice can raise, 
 
 As His the gift, so His be all the praise ! " 
 
 That night — the Abbot lying on his bed — 
 A sudden flood of radiance on him fell. 
 
 Poured from the crucifix above his head. 
 And cast a stream of light across his cell — 
 
 And in the fullest fervour of the light 
 
 An Angel stood, great, glittering, and white. 
 
 His wings of thousand rainbow clouds seem made, 
 A thousand lamps of love shone in his eyes. 
 
 The light of dawn upon his brows was laid, 
 Odours of all the flowers of Paradise 
 
 Filled all the cell, and through the heart there stirred 
 
 A sense of music that could not be heard. 
 
 The Angel spoke — his voice was low and sweet 
 As the sea's murmur on low-lying shore. 
 
 Or whisper of the wind in ripened wheat : 
 " Brother," he said, " the God we both adore 
 68 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Has sent me down to ask, is all not right ? — 
 Why was Magnificat not sung to-night ? " 
 
 Tranced in the joy the Angel's presence brought, 
 The Abbot answered : " All these weary years 
 
 We have sung our best — but always have we thought 
 Our voices were unworthy heavenly ears ; 
 
 And so to-night we found a clearer tongue. 
 
 And by it the Magnificat was sung." 
 
 The Angel answered : " All these happy years 
 In heaven has your Magnificat been heard ; 
 
 This night alone, the angels' listening ears 
 Of all its music caught no single word. 
 
 Say, who is he whose goodness is not strong 
 
 Enough to bear the burden of his song ? " 
 
 The Abbot named his name. " Ah, why," he cried, 
 " Have angels heard not what we found so dear ? " 
 
 " Only pure hearts," the Angel's voice replied, 
 " Can carry human songs up to God's ear ; 
 
 To-night in heaven was missed the sweetest praise 
 
 That ever rises from earth's mud-stained maze. 
 
 " The monk who sang Magnificat is filled 
 With lust of praise, and with hypocrisy ; 
 
 He sings for earth — in heaven his notes are stilled 
 By muffling weight of deadening vanity • 
 
 His heart is chained to earth, and cannot bear 
 
 His singing higher than the listening air ! 
 
 69 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 *' From purest hearts most perfect music springs 
 And while you mourned your voices were not sweet 
 
 Marred by the accident of earthly things, — 
 
 In heaven, God, Hstening, judged your song complete. 
 
 The sweetest of earth's music came from you, 
 
 The music of a noble life and true 1 " 
 
 70 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Earth and Heaven 
 
 ["The mother of St. Simeon Stylites, hearing of his fame, came to 
 see him, but was not allowed to enter the enclosure round the pillar. 
 But when Simeon heard his mother's voice, he said to her, ' Bear up, 
 my mother, a little while, and we shall see each other, if God will.' 
 But she began to weep and to rebuke him, saying, *Son, why hast 
 thou done this ? In return for the body I bore thee, thou hast filled 
 me with grief. For the milk with which I nourished thee, thou hast 
 given me tears. For the kiss with which I kissed thee, thou hast 
 given me an aching heart. . . .' Simeon, on his pillar, was deeply 
 agitated, and covering his face with his hands, he wept bitterly and 
 cried to her, ' O lady mother, be still a little while, and we shall see 
 each other in eternal rest.' The poor mother, with harrowed heart, 
 hung about the place for three days, crying to her son, and wrung 
 with grief to see his terrible penance, . . . and at the end of those 
 three days she fell asleep. . . . And he, weeping, said, 'The Lord 
 receive thee in joy, mother,' etc." — Lives of the Saints. S. Baring- 
 Gould.] 
 
 Here Time is strange, and keeps no even speed 
 As once, but checked or sped by dreams moves on 
 
 Whether it was or was not so, indeed, 
 
 I hardly know ; but some four days agone 
 
 I thought she came, came near the enclosed space 
 
 Which men have walled about my pillar's base. 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 (O mother ! In her eyes was all the woe 
 
 That has been gathering there these many years, 
 
 Since that first day, a thousand lives ago, 
 
 When she watched for me, racked with doubts and fears 
 
 And I was lying at the convent gate 
 
 Awaiting the unfolding of my fate.) 
 
 And there she stood. They would not let her in. 
 
 She reached her hands out to me, and she cried, 
 And beat her breast and moaned. (Oh me ! my sin ! 
 
 This rebel soul not yet is sanctified ! 
 Pardon, O God, that this weak heart did ache 
 With earthly sorrow for that woman's sake !) 
 
 And then I heard her voice : " My son, my son, 
 Why wilt thou shame God's body in this wise ? 
 
 What is this sacrilege that thou hast done ? 
 
 How wilt thou meet the Blessed Mother's eyes, 
 
 And hear her ask thee what thou gavest me 
 
 For that fair body which I bore for thee ? " 
 
 Then cried I — God forgive, if I did ill — 
 
 " Bear up, my mother, yet a little while. 
 And we shall see each other, if God will. 
 
 Pray, pray still, ever pray." And then (O vile ! 
 To grieve for earthly things) I, also, wept. 
 As through my heart chill winds of memory crept. 
 
 And then I thought — and yet it may have been 
 
 Only a craft of Satan, tempting me — 
 I thought she wrung her hands, and let be seen 
 
 The mother's breast that once had nourished me, 
 
 72 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 And wept again, and spake ; and every word 
 Pierced to the fleshly heart of me who heard. 
 
 *' Oh, son, I pray no more ! For once I prayed 
 A boon of God for sweetening of my days, 
 
 A Httle baby that should soft be laid 
 
 Upon my bosom — to His endless praise. 
 
 At last God heard my cry — thee did 1 bear. 
 
 The inexorable answer to my prayer ! 
 
 " O little baby hands I used to kiss. 
 
 Cold, hard, and wasted — reached not out to me. 
 Mother of Christ, judge thou how hard it is 
 
 To bear such wounds as in his feet I see — 
 O little pink dear feet 1 used to hold. 
 Kissed now but by fierce sun and night winds cold ! 
 
 " Ah ! when I hushed thee on my happy breast 
 And sang thee whispered lullabies, and strove 
 
 To see the future — work, and help, and rest. 
 
 And good deeds done of thee, child of my love — 
 
 Why did no angel blast such sweet vain schemes, 
 
 And shed truth's withering light upon my dreams ? 
 
 " Thou wert God's answer to my prayer. And thou, 
 Who bade thee thus to mar God's gift and mine, 
 
 Thy body? Not the Lord of heaven, I trow, 
 Who wore on earth a body like to thine. 
 
 He had a mother, too ; yet day by day 
 
 Thou darest to raise thy hands to Him and pray ! " 
 
 73 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Then I spoke — I, not yet as saintly-still 
 
 As penance should have made me, beat my breast : 
 
 " Patience, O lady mother ! If God will, 
 We two shall meet in an eternal rest ! " 
 
 " But, oh," she cried, " the human life divine 
 
 Was that in which God gave thee to be mine ! 
 
 " Not for another life than this I bore 
 
 Travail and agony of thy birth morn, 
 The joy unspeakable that pain no more 
 
 Could touch or mar, when my man-child was born. 
 For this life wert thou born — and, O my son, 
 With life, God's gift, what good thing hast thou done ? 
 
 " Thou hast brought souls to God? Poor souls that find, 
 No refuge save the God thou dreamest of ! 
 
 A God who loves to see sad eyes wept blind. 
 
 Flesh wounded, and dead hearts cast out of love ! 
 
 Better the heathen's life of soulless bliss 
 
 Than faith in such a Devil-God as this ! 
 
 " What was it pricked thee on to this thy sin ? 
 
 What but desire that men should kneel and say, 
 * See — the great saint — the holy man, wherein 
 
 All fleshly lusts that sting our flesh to-day 
 Are dead.' Ay ! all but pride, that finds no ways 
 Too sharp to tread, to meet a sick world's praise. 
 
 " And now I know thou art too proud to heed 
 My voice — too high for me to reach thee there, 
 
 Too small a thing it is, my heart's great need. 
 
 That thou, my body's fruit, shouldst know or care ; 
 74 
 
 V 
 
 \ 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Thou, thou wouldst save thy soul and heaven win 
 By slighting earth, that God has set thee in ! 
 
 " Earth was thy home, on earth thy duties lay ; 
 And heaven lives on earth, in duties done. 
 
 son, Christ weeps to see thee turned away 
 From that straight simple way He set thee on. 
 
 Thy soul ? Thy soul ! The devil would not crave 
 That stunted, crippled soul thou seekst to save ! " 
 
 She ceased. Her body, like a drooping flower, 
 Bowed towards earth, and she was borne away ; 
 
 But I — have mercy, God — for one mad hour 
 
 I might not, would not, could not, dared not pray ; 
 
 For all her words shrieked in my ears again, 
 
 And all my penances and prayers looked vain. 
 
 The royal sun in robes of gold had passed 
 Below the rocks and palm-trees in the west. 
 
 The long hard shadow that my pillar cast 
 
 Grew dim and vague. The sense of coming rest 
 
 Fell on all happy living things, and I 
 
 Got strength to pray again, and night went by. 
 
 With the new sun she came once more. Her cry. 
 Strong with a night of prayer, I would not hear. 
 
 1 turned my eyes up to the blazing sky. 
 
 Wrestling in prayer and sealing up mine ear. 
 Yet there she stood all day and gazed on me ; 
 For my heart knew it though I would not see. 
 
 75 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Another night of prayer, another day 
 
 Of words I would not hear, though my heart heard. 
 And then that evening, when I heard men say 
 
 " She is dead ! " — O God, forgive my first mad word — 
 " God, be my soul damned in hell's fiercest pain. 
 But give my mother back to me again ! " 
 
 But all the people crowded round. I knew 
 
 They waited for the holy man to speak. 
 What could I say to them ? what could I do 
 
 To hide from them how wildly flesh was weak ? 
 I spoke — and what I said I know no more — 
 'Twas not the thoughts with which my heart was sore ! 
 
 I think I said what other men would say 
 
 I should have said — gave thanks to God that she 
 
 From this vile world had so been caught away 
 Into the glory where I hoped to be. 
 
 And this I said the anguish to conceal 
 
 I felt — but felt that it was sin to feel. 
 
 But when the night had come, the people gone, 
 When 'twixt the silent earth and silent sky 
 
 I on my pillar was alone — alone 
 
 As I must be till life's last night pass by — 
 
 The world looked black, the sky was cloudy gray, 
 
 And even my pillar seemed to fade away. 
 
 And only I — 'twixt heaven and earth — was there ; 
 
 For heaven I could not find, and earth was lost. 
 I seemed to drift through chill and misty air. 
 
 In vague cloud-depths by storm-winds driven and tossed, 
 
 76 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Still floating on — long ages did it seem — 
 
 I, more a shadow than man's lightest dream — 
 
 And still alone. At last — the darkness riven — 
 A light — a presence ! and my whole soul cried : 
 
 " I am lost, I am lost ! O God, where is Thy heaven 
 For which I gave up love and all beside ? 
 
 How shall I find the garden of the blest 
 
 Where Christ and all His angels feast and rest ? " 
 
 And then I heard a voice that filled the skies, 
 Most terrible, most sweet, and answered me ; 
 
 ** Heaven was on earth, the earth thou didst despise, 
 And now for ever it is lost to thee ; 
 
 And on the earth Christ is, and on the earth 
 
 The love thou hast accounted nothing worth. 
 
 " None for himself a heaven can win or make, 
 Since whoso seeks his life his life shall lose. 
 
 He who will labour for a sad world's sake, 
 And free pure life revile not nor refuse, 
 
 He is Christ's man ; he hath the better part ; 
 
 The angels dwell for ever in his heart. 
 
 " Where is a heaven but on the earth — for man ? 
 
 What other life for man is there but one ? 
 Heaven, and the way to heaven lie in that span, 
 
 Eternal are the done and the undone. 
 Thine were the penance, prayer, and sun and frost, 
 Thine the earth wasted, and the heaven lost ! " 
 
 77 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 The vision faded, and I woke to earth ; 
 
 The night had fled away, the sky was fair 
 With lovely lights to greet the new day's birth ; 
 
 They shone upon my pillar, high in air. 
 And on ray body, maimed and seared, and thin 
 With the hard penance I have trusted in. 
 
 It is too late — too late ! If this be true, 
 And all my life be wrong, at least I know 
 
 I did but what I thought God bade me do, 
 And went the way I thought he bade me go ! 
 
 'Tis Satan tempts me with these dreams and fears. 
 
 'Twas he who tempted through my mother's tears. 
 
 Oh, mother, if it had been otherwise ! 
 
 It could not be — life then had been too sweet ! 
 How can smooth pathways lead to Paradise, 
 
 Or heaven be on earth, time being so fleet ? 
 Back, Satan — I have fought and won the fight. 
 Life was so hard, it could not but be right ! 
 
 78 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 To Our Lady 
 
 (For a Picture by Giovanni Bellini) 
 
 Dear Mother, in whose eyes I see 
 All that I would and cannot be, 
 Let thy pure light for ever shine, 
 Though dimly, through this life of mine ! 
 
 Though what I dream, and what I do, 
 In prayer's despite are always two. 
 Light me, through maze of deeds undone, 
 O thou whose deeds and dreams are one ! 
 
 And though through mists of strife and tears, 
 A world away my star appears. 
 Yet let Death's sunrise shine on me, 
 Still reaching arms and heart to thee 1 
 
 79 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Refugium Peccatorum 
 
 " For all human things do require to have an ideal in them . . . were 
 it only to keep the body unputrefied." — Carlyle 
 
 Our Lady's chapel is ablaze with light 
 
 That burns against the close-pressed face of night ; 
 
 The echo of long centuries of prayer 
 
 Is mingled with the incense in the air, 
 
 And every soul that once breathed there a vow 
 
 Joins with the souls of those who pray there now. 
 
 And there, within the taper's softened glow, 
 Amid the flowers that in girls' gardens grow, 
 The lovely image of the Mother stands — • 
 Stands with her little baby in her hands. 
 And in her eyes, and in her perfect face, 
 The eternal promise of ideal grace. 
 
 A woman, passing down the quiet street, 
 ?Ieard sudden sound of singing voices sweet 
 That seemed to call her in from out the night 
 To where it rose, through floods of softened light. 
 The music caught and held her sense as fast 
 As souls are held by fetters of their past. 
 
 80 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 O Mother-maiden — what a woman-face ! 
 Sordidly sensual, unlovely, base, 
 Scored with coarse lines burnt in by years of wrong. 
 Stamped with the signet of the vile and strong ; 
 Hopeless, impure, with eyes unwashed by tears 
 Through many soulless, desecrated years. 
 
 She sat there stupid, broken, lost, defiled, 
 
 Before pure mother and ideal child ; 
 
 She on whose barren breast no little hand 
 
 Had ever rested in divine command, 
 
 She who had never known the unnamed bliss 
 
 Which thrills a mother through her baby's kiss. 
 
 How strange and sweet that music was ! She heard 
 
 The clear note of a long-forgotten bird — 
 
 A certain thrush which used to come and sing 
 
 Upon the sweet-plumed lilac in the spring 
 
 When she was young, and there was time to think 
 
 Of other things than devilry and drink. 
 
 That cottage garden — with its hollyhocks 
 Each side the porch — its gray and purple stocks. 
 The sweetbriar hedge, the climbing yellow rose, 
 How long it was since she had thought of those ! 
 Such memories quickly fade in gaslit hours, 
 *Mid patchouli and tawdry hothouse flowers. 
 
 There was a church at home — she minded well 
 Its ghastly tales of sin and death and hell ; 
 Yet it was pleasant in the summer days 
 To walk there through the quiet meadow ways 
 
 8i 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 And through the cornfields where the poppies grow — 
 Or grew once — ^bright as life seemed, long ago. 
 
 And then the churchyard on the thymy hill 
 Where the bees murmur and the world is still, 
 One grave is there wherein there buried lies 
 Something beyond a mother's heart and eyes : 
 A woman's soul — ^her soul — might have been spared 
 Had there been any one on earth who cared. 
 
 Hark — someone's speaking ! Listen, what says he ? 
 
 " In that dear heaven, where we all may be, 
 
 A Lady sits with the divinest eyes 
 
 Whose starry depths are still with Paradise. 
 
 She sits and looks upon this world of ours 
 
 And sees alike its sunshine and its showers. 
 
 *' And all her heart is overfull of love 
 For this poor world she knows the hardness of; 
 And when we are sad, she sighs and longs to rest 
 Our aching heads on her divinest breast ; 
 But when we sin, she weeps we are beguiled 
 So far from her and from her little Child. 
 
 " She weeps for us who sin — how can we dare 
 In such a mother's heart plant grief and care ? 
 She who is all we might be if we would. 
 Lovely and loving, gracious, great, and good ; 
 Only not happy — how can she be glad 
 While all men sin, and, sinning, are made sad ? 
 
 82 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 " But saddest tears of all are those that rise, 
 Through the clear radiance of those crystal eyes, 
 When women sin — the women who might be 
 Mothers as pure or maids as clean as she ; 
 Women whose souls might be as chaste and clear 
 As the calm eyes of her, divine and dear." 
 
 The worshippers had slowly passed away, 
 And one by one turned to their work or play ; 
 And one by one the dying tapers left 
 The church of all its golden glow bereft : 
 Only, before our Lady's altar, one 
 Love-hghted little twinkling taper shone. 
 
 Still with that peace which is the smile of God, 
 
 The priest along the empty chapel trod, 
 
 When — Is the chapel empty ? then what stirred 
 
 The silence with that half-articulate word ? 
 
 What breathed? Who sobbed? And what hand has he 
 
 passed 
 Thrust through the darkness, caught, and held him fast ? 
 
 " Is it all true — about the Paradise, 
 
 And the dear lady with the crystal eyes. 
 
 And all her tears and loving — is it true ? ** 
 
 This is a woman speaks — a woman, too. 
 
 Whom shame and sin have crushed and pressed awry 
 
 From all her possible peace and purity. 
 
 '* It is not true — speak, is it true? " she cried. 
 " True as your sorrow, child," the priest replied. 
 
 83 G 2 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 " But not for me — she does not weep for me^ 
 Unworthy even of her memory ? 
 She weeps for those who do a Uttle wrong, 
 Not me — who outraged her my whole life long." 
 
 " She weeps the most for those whose hearts most bleed." 
 
 " Then, O my heart, she weeps for us indeed. 
 
 So, I can not go back. It shall not be 
 
 That she shall ever weep again for me. 
 
 O save me, save me ! once that threshold crossed, 
 
 Her crystal eyes must weep me — doubly lost ! " 
 
 Outside the church the night pressed closely round. 
 Dark as despair, as wide and as profound. 
 Within, the one small taper kept at bay 
 All evil dreams that through the darkness stray, 
 " Here shall you stay — -safe, and no longer sad. 
 Since o'er your soul God's angels have grown glad. 
 
 " Before our Lady's altar kneel and pray. 
 Counsel of light will come with light of day, 
 And point us to some pathway, wherein you 
 May leave your past, and shape your life anew, 
 Fit for her eyes to see. Her mother-care 
 Shall keep your future undefiled and fair ! " 
 
 Before our Lady's light all night she lay 
 Too passionately penitent to pray ; 
 Only within her heart the waves of woe 
 And joy went agonising to and fro. 
 
 84 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 " Thou lovest me. I am safe beside thy feet. 
 Have pity on me — Mother-maiden sweet." 
 
 The morning sunrise glorifies the face 
 
 Of Mary, Mother of ideal grace, 
 
 Touches the poor soiled face that has grown gray 
 
 Through rouge the tears have but half washed away ; 
 
 She does not weep now — does not breathe nor stir, 
 
 The Maiden Mother has had pity on her. 
 
 85 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 The Lily and the Cross 
 
 Girdled with elms, wherein the loud rooks build, 
 With dreamy hush of its remoteness filled, 
 Where every sound that breaks the slurab'rous air 
 Accentuates the peace that lingers there, 
 One of God's restful grave-set gardens lies. 
 Where His flowers sleep till He shall bid them rise. 
 
 The broken hearts that here have laid in faith 
 Their dearest dead, themselves have trysted Death, 
 Have gone themselves out of the light of day, 
 From scent of rose and fragrance of the may, 
 And in the spot left lonely for their sakes, 
 Have made that quietness life never makes. 
 
 But one new grave is there. And he who laid 
 Under its turf a dear and lovely maid. 
 Planted, before his bitterest tears were shed, 
 A lily over the beloved head : 
 And ere the lily bloomed he lay beside 
 That Lily lost who should have been his bride. 
 ^6 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 The lily that he planted lived and throve 
 
 Over the grave of buried human love. 
 
 All through the winter's cruel hours and cold, 
 
 She lay safe curled beneath the sheltering mould, 
 
 Yet ever longed for winter to be done, 
 
 That she might break to bud and see the sun. 
 
 Long was the winter, and the tardy spring 
 
 She dreamed of so seemed to be tarrying 
 
 In the far world of the eternal flowers. 
 
 Reluctant to revive this world of ours 
 
 Where flowers must die, and spring herself must fade, 
 
 That summer's perfect tribute may be paid. 
 
 The birds who built high in the belfry tower. 
 Had heard the lily sigh for summer's hour, 
 And at the first low tremulous breath of spring, 
 A bird flew downwards to her, twittering, 
 *' O Lily ! Spring is coming : bud and break 
 Into your lovehest blossom, for her sake." 
 
 Shivering with joy, the waiting lily heard 
 
 That long-desired, all but despaired-of word. 
 
 She pushed aside the sheltering mould, and thrust 
 
 Her sharp leaves upwards through earth's yielding crust, 
 
 Did everything a lily could have done 
 
 To taste the hour when she should see the sun. 
 
 Then over all the earth was felt the dear 
 And gracious life of the re-risen year ; 
 And vows of love were whispered where the wet 
 Dead leaves lay thick about the violet. 
 
 87 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 And all the meadow and the orchards gray. 
 Grew greener and more glorious every day. 
 
 The lily grew ; at last her drooping head 
 
 Hung over her forsaken winter bed ; 
 
 The sky was blue, the elms were green and fair. 
 
 And passionate life pulsated everywhere ; 
 
 " The sun, the sun," she cried, " for whom I grow ! 
 
 Oh, I shall die with longing for it so I " 
 
 She could not see the sun ! Upon her head 
 No golden heat and radiance were shed, 
 A shadow from the cross by which she grew 
 Fell on her and denied it to her view. 
 ** What good at all is life," she cried, '* to me. 
 If I the sun I love may never see ?" 
 
 But the birds whispered, " Lily, be at rest ! 
 The Master of the garden knoweth best ; 
 He gave the longing, and He is too good 
 To cheat the hope He planted in your blood : 
 Trust Him and wait — He will not mock desire 
 Which He Himself did in your soul inspire." 
 
 The lily drooped and sorrowed — yet resigned, 
 Lived in the cross's shadow, nor repined. 
 She knew the sun would some day shine for her. 
 And all her leaves to fuller being stir. 
 And if it never smiled on her ? " Instead 
 The Master of the garden will," slie said. 
 88 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 The days passsed on, and every day the sun 
 Through higher heaven arose his course to run. 
 The Uly woke from sleep on Easter day, 
 And her eyes opened to a tender ray 
 Shed through green leaves into the waiting cup 
 Which she so long had patiently held up. 
 
 And as completion seemed her life to crown, 
 
 All she had always longed for now her own — 
 
 She saw the Master of the garden pass 
 
 Among His flowers, among the graves and grass, 
 
 And at His voice she felt a stronger bliss 
 
 Than had thrilled through her at the sun's first kiss. 
 
 " My lily now is strong enough to bear 
 
 The sunlight for which all her longings were. 
 
 The shadow of the cross was best before. 
 
 Which now, grown strong, she needs not any more. 
 
 Gaze on the sun, the shadow-time is past, 
 
 My patient lily, and be glad at last ! " 
 
 89 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Romney Marsh 
 
 *' At evening time there shall be light " 
 
 The day was wild with wind and rain, 
 
 One gray wrapped sky and sea and shore ; 
 It seemed our marsh would never again 
 
 Wear the rich robes that once it wore. 
 The scattered farms looked sad and chill, 
 
 Their sheltering trees writhed all awry, 
 And waves of mist broke on the hill 
 
 Where once the great sea thundered by. 
 
 Then God remembered this His land, 
 
 His little land that is our own ; 
 He caught the rain up in His hand, 
 
 He hid the winds behind His throne. 
 He soothed the fretful waves to rest, 
 
 He called the clouds to come away. 
 And, by blue pathways to the west, 
 
 They went, like children tired of play. 
 
 And then God bade our marsh put on 
 
 Its holy vestment of fine gold ; 
 From marge to marge the glory shone. 
 
 On lichened farm and fence and fold. 
 In the gold sky that walled the west, 
 
 In each transfigured stone and tree. 
 The glory of God was manifest — 
 
 Plain for a little child to see. 
 90 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 The Modern Judas 
 
 For what wilt thou sell thy Lord ? 
 " For certain pieces of silver, since wealth buys the world's 
 
 good word." 
 But the world's word, how canst thou hear it, while thy 
 
 brothers cry scorn on thy name ? 
 And how shall thy bargain content thee, when thy brothers 
 
 shall clothe thee with shame ? 
 
 For what shall thy brother be sold ? 
 " For the rosy garland of pleasure, and the coveted crown of 
 
 gold.'' 
 But thy soul will turn them to thorns, and to heaviness 
 
 binding thy head. 
 While women are dying of shame, and children are crying 
 
 for bread. 
 
 For what wilt thou sell thy soul ? 
 " For the world." And what shall it profit, when thou shalt 
 
 have gained the whole ? 
 What profit the things thou hast, if the thing thou art be so 
 
 mean? 
 Wilt thou fill with the husks of having the void of the 
 might-have-been ? 
 
 91 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 " But, when my soul shall be gone, 
 No more shall I fail to profit by all the deeds I have done ! 
 And wealth and the world and pleasure shall sing sweet 
 
 songs in my ear 
 When the stupid soul is silenced which never would let me 
 
 hear. 
 
 " And if a void there should be 
 I shall not feel it or know it ; it will be nothing to me ! " 
 It will be nothing to thee, and thou shalt be nothing to men 
 But a ghost whose treasure is lost, and who shall not find it 
 again. 
 
 " But I shall have pleasure and praise ! " 
 Praise shall not pleasure thee then, nor pleasure laugh in 
 
 thy days : 
 For as colour is not, without light, so happiness is not, 
 
 without 
 Thy Brother — the Lord whom thou soldest — and the soul 
 
 that thou hast cast out ! 
 
 93 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 Prayer under Gray Skies 
 
 O God, let there be rain ! 
 
 Rain, till this sky of gray 
 That covers us every day 
 Be utterly wept away, 
 Let there be rain, we pray, 
 
 Till the sky be washed blue again — 
 Let there be rain ! 
 
 O God, let there be rain. 
 
 For the sky hangs heavy with pain, 
 And we, who walk upon earth, 
 We find our days not of worth ; 
 None blesses the day of our birth, 
 
 We question of death's day in vain — 
 Let there be rain ! 
 
 O God, let there be rain 
 
 Till the full-fed earth complain. 
 
 Yea, though it sweep away 
 
 The seeds sown yesterday 
 
 And beat down the blossoms of May 
 
 And ruin the border gay : 
 In storm let this gray noon wane, 
 Let there be rain ! 
 
 93 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 O God, let there be rain 
 Till the rivers rise a-main ! 
 
 Though the waters go over us quite 
 
 And cover us up from the light 
 
 And whelm us away in the night 
 And the flowers of our life be slain, 
 
 O God, let there be rain ! 
 
 O God, let there be rain, 
 Out of the gray sky, rain ! 
 
 To wash the earth and to wash the sky. 
 
 And the sick, sad souls of the folk who sigh 
 
 In the gray of a sordid satiety. 
 
 Open Thy flood-gates, O God most High, 
 And some day send us the sun again. 
 
 O God, let there be rain ! 
 
 94 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 A Great Industrial Centre 
 
 Squalid street after squalid street, 
 
 Endless rows of them, each the same, 
 Black dust under your weary feet. 
 Dust upon every face you meet, 
 Dust in their hearts, too — or so it seems — 
 Dust in the place of dreams. 
 
 Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives. 
 
 Here men hardly have heard her name. 
 Work is the end and aim of their lives — 
 Work, work, work ! for their children and wives ; 
 Work for a life which, when it is won, 
 
 Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun ! 
 
 Work — one dark and incessant round 
 
 In black, dull workshops out of the light ; 
 Work that others' ease may abound. 
 Work that delight for them may be found. 
 Work without hope, without pause, without peace, 
 That only in death can cease. 
 95 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun, 
 
 What of these men, at work in the night ? 
 God will ask you what you have done ; 
 Their lives be required of you, every one, 
 You who were glad and who liked life well, 
 While they did your work, in hell ! 
 
 q6 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 London's Voices 
 
 Speak to two souls — who thus reply 
 
 I 
 
 In all my work, in all children's play, 
 
 I hear the ceaseless hum of London near ; 
 It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear 
 
 Its never-ending wail, by night and day. 
 
 So many millions — is it vain to pray 
 
 That all may win such peace as I have here, 
 
 With books, and works, and little children dear ? — 
 
 That flowers like mine may grow along their way ? 
 
 Through all my happy life I hear the cry. 
 The exceeding bitter cry of human pain, 
 
 And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by. 
 I can do nothing — even hope is vain 
 
 That the bright light of peace and purity 
 
 In those lost souls may ever shine again ! 
 
 II 
 
 'Mid pine woods* whisper and the hum of bees 
 I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood : 
 " Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good. 
 
 Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease ! " 
 
 97 1 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 I left the mill, the meadows and the trees, 
 And came to do the little best I could 
 For these, God's poor ; and, oh, my God, I would 
 
 I had a thousand lives to give for these ! 
 
 What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong ? 
 
 Yet, when the voice said, " Come !" how could I stay ? 
 The foe is mighty, and the battle long 
 
 (And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May), 
 And Gold seems weak, and Gold is very strong ; 
 
 But, while these fight, I dare not turn away. 
 
 98 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 These Little Ones 
 
 What of the garden I gave ? " 
 God said to me. 
 " Hast thou been diligent to foster and save 
 The life of flower and tree ? 
 And have the roses thriven, 
 The lilies I have given, 
 The pretty, scented miracles that spring 
 And summer come to bring ? " 
 
 " My garden is fair and dear," 
 
 I said to God ; 
 " From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear, 
 Green-trimmed its sod. 
 The rose is red and bright, 
 The lily a live delight. 
 I have not lost a flower of all the flowers 
 That blessed my hours." 
 
 " What of the child I gave ? " 
 
 God said to me — 
 " The little living thing I died to save 
 
 And lent in trust to thee ? 
 99 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 How have the flowers grown 
 That in that soul were sown, 
 The lovely living miracles of youth 
 
 And hope and joy and truth?" 
 
 " The child's face is all white," 
 
 I said to God ; 
 " It cries for cold and hunger in the night. 
 Its naked feet have trod 
 The pavement muddy and cold ; 
 It has no flowers to hold. 
 And in its heart the flowers you sowed are dead." 
 '♦Thou fool," God said. 
 
 lOO 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 > » » > » » 
 
 Submission 
 
 I REACH my hands to thee, 
 Stoop, take my hands in thine ; 
 
 Lead me where I would be, 
 Mother divine ! 
 
 I do not even know 
 
 The way I want to go, 
 
 The way that leads to rest ; 
 
 But thou who knowest me. 
 
 Lead where I fain would be — 
 Thou knowest best, 
 
 Toys, worthless yet desired, 
 Lured me afar to roam ; 
 
 Mother, I am so tired — 
 I am come home. 
 
 The love I once held cheap 
 
 Shews now so dear, so deep. 
 So almost understood ; 
 
 The night is dark and wild . . . . 
 
 I am thy little child, 
 I will be good ! 
 
 lOI 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 
 
 *' Inasmuch as Ye Did It Not 
 
 If Jesus came to London, 
 
 Came to London to-day, 
 He would not go to the West End, 
 
 He would come down our way ; 
 He'd talk with the children dancing 
 
 To the organ out in the street, 
 And say He was their big Brother, 
 
 And give them something to eat. 
 
 He wouldn't go to the mansions 
 
 Where the charitable live, 
 He'd come to the tenement houses, 
 
 Where we ain't got nothing to give. 
 He'd come so kind and so homely, 
 
 And treat us to beer and bread, 
 And tell us how we ought to behave. 
 
 And we'd try to mind what He said. 
 
 In the warm bright West End churches 
 They sing and preach and pray ; 
 
 They call us " Beloved brethren," 
 But they do not act that way. 
 
 102 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 And when He come to the church door 
 
 He'd call out loud and free, 
 " You stop that preaching and praying 
 
 And show what you've done for Me." 
 
 Then they'd say, " O Lord, we have given 
 
 To the poor both blankets and tracts, 
 And we've tried to make them sober 
 
 And we've tried to teach them facts. 
 But they will sneak round to the drink shop 
 
 And pawn the blankets for beer. 
 And we find them very ungrateful — 
 
 But still we persevere." 
 
 Then He would say, " I told you. 
 
 The time I was here before, 
 That you were all of you brothers — 
 
 All you that I suffered for. 
 I won't go into your churches, 
 
 I'll stop in the sun outside. 
 You bring out the men — your brothers — 
 
 The men for whom I died ! " 
 
 Out of our lousy lodgings. 
 
 From arches and doorways about — 
 They'd have to do as He told them, 
 
 They'd have to call us out — 
 Millions and millions and millions. 
 
 Thick, and crawling like flies, 
 We should creep out to the sunshine 
 
 And not be afraid of His eyes. 
 103 
 
BALLADS AND VERSES 
 
 He'd see what God's image looks like 
 
 When men have dealt with the same — 
 Wrinkled with work that is never done, 
 
 Swollen and dirty with shame ; 
 He'd see on the children's foreheads 
 
 The branded gutter-sign, 
 That marks the girls to be harlots, 
 
 That dooms the boys to be swine. 
 
 Then He'd say, " What's the good of churches 
 
 When these have nowhere to sleep ? 
 And how can I hear your praying 
 
 When they are cursing so deep? 
 I gave My blood and My body 
 
 That they might have bread and wine. 
 And you have taken your share and theirs 
 
 Of these good gifts of mine ! " 
 
 Then some of the rich would be sorry. 
 
 And all would be very scared, 
 And they'd say, " But we never knew, Lord ! " 
 
 And He'd say, " You never cared ! " 
 And some would be sick and shameful 
 
 Because they'd know that they knew, 
 And the best would say, "We were wrong, Lord. 
 
 Now tell us what to do ! " 
 
 I think he'd be sitting, likely, 
 
 For some one 'ud bring Him a chair. 
 
 With a common kid cuddled up on His knee 
 And the common sun on His hair ; 
 104 
 
OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 And they'd be standing before Him, 
 
 And He'd say, " You know that you knew. 
 
 Why haven't you worked for your brothers 
 The same as I worked for you ? 
 
 " For since you're all of you brothers, 
 
 It's clear as God's blessed sun, 
 That each must work for the others — 
 
 Not thousands work for one. 
 And the ones that have lived bone-idle. 
 
 If they want Me to hear them pray, 
 Let them go and work for their livings — 
 
 The only honest way ! 
 
 " I've got nothing new to tell you. 
 
 You know what I always said — 
 But you've built their bones into churches 
 
 And stolen their wine and bread ; 
 You, with My name on your foreheads. 
 
 Liar, and traitor, and knave. 
 You have lived by the death of your brothers- 
 
 These whom I died to save ! '* • 
 
 I wish He would come and say it ; 
 
 Perhaps they'd believe it then, 
 And work like men for their livings. 
 
 And let us work like men. 
 Brothers ? They don't beheve it, 
 
 The He on their lips is red. . . . 
 They'll never believe till He comes again, 
 
 Or till we rise from the dead ! 
 105 
 
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