At the Waters of Strife
At the Waters of Strife is a collection of poems written by Bryan M. Angell which was the pen name of Bryan Mary Julia Josephine Doyle, the youngest sister of Arthur Conan Doyle.
Published in 1918 by Gay and Hancock Ltd. (London, UK).
At the Waters of Strife
The Vision
Oh how do you see the vision,
And when do you hear the call?
Is it out on the purpling moorlands
When night begins to fall,
Where the breezes, softly rising,
Sing out in a marvellous key,
The music that spells in its making
The making of you and of me?
Is it there, in the quiet of your chamber
Pausing to think for a while,
Or down in the heart of the city
In the toiler's tired smile?
Oh where do you see the vision,
And when do you hear the call?
For surely they come to you sometimes—
They come to bring light to us all.
Perhaps on the ice-framed mountain
In the wonderful after-glow,
While the magical flood of colour
Spreads over the world below.
Or out on the heaving ocean
As the vessel ploughs its course,
And you think of the infinite power
That flows from an infinite source.
Is it there that you see the vision,
Or how is your spirit led?
By the life of the bird and the flower,
Or the look on the face of the dead?
Or, alag! is your spirit holden,
With eyes that cannot see,
And ears that are deaf to the message
Long calling your soul to be free?
Mystery
Thoughts of the Young
It seems to me
So strange that I was born, and grew, and live
My life from day to day.
So strange that every breath I draw
Weareth my life away.
So strange,
So passing strange,
It seems to me,
These things should be.
It seems to me
So strange at evening-time to fall asleep
And dream the hours away,
To wake again as from another life
At dawn of day.
So strange,
So passing strange,
It seems to me,
These things should be.
It seems to me
So strange that I should go about the world
Each day among my kind,
For good or ill some sort of influence
Leaving behind.
So strange,
So passing strange,
It seems to me,
These things should be.
It seems to me
So strange that at the last the end shall come
That men call death.
So strange to live only until I draw that latest breath.
So strange,
So passing strange,
It seems to me,
These things should be.
At the Wayside
We get a little tired of working maybe.
We get a little tired of life's routine.
When the troubles come and stay,
Then we look the other way,
And brood on what existence might have been.
We get a little tired of always waiting.
We get a little tired of smiling too.
It goes against the grain,
And we're faint beneath the strain—
Can our dreams, and hopes of better things come true?
We get a little tired; but then remember
We've been a little tired before to-day.
We have passed that way before
And come back to hope once more,
And courage is our password, come what may.
We have had a little glimpse of Heaven maybe,
We have felt a little stirring of the soul;
If we've seen the good and true,
Then we know we can win through,
To each our little part — to God the whole.
'The Greatest of These'
The crowning jewel within the Treasure-House,
The fairest flower of any age or clime.
The greatest achievement of the greatest life
That ever was; or will be, in all time.
It casts its radiance to the deepest depths,
Pure, calm, and wondrous, glowing through the night;
It flashes upward on life's pinnacles
All-conquering in steadfastness and might.
Some found it long ago when earth was young,
Some gave their all to seek and draw it near.
O flower of life, O crown of life divine!—
We find it here, dear heart, we find it here.
The Thread
There's a thread flung loose,
For our help and our use,
And I hold the thread sometimes;
It's a part of the net of the 'not come yet'
That we know we shall reach betimes.
The thing is obscure,
But I know — I am sure—
Of a sense that awakes now and then,
It's a part of the sphere of a life that is near,
That we touch on, now and again.
It's a thread flung free,
That the blind may see,
It's the sign, and the 'Dinna Forget';
By its marvellous clue, we may all win through
To the land of the 'not come yet.'
On, On
My soul was away in the land of dreams,
Whatever that land may be,
But at dawning day, in the old, old
It came again to me.
Night-time and morn, and yet another day ;
Arise, my love, my fair one,
Arise, and come away.
Our work is without, in the teeming world,
Whatever that world may be,
If we do our best, we may leave the rest,
To-day is enough for you and me.
Night-time and morn, and yet another day ;
Arise, my love, my fair one,
Arise, and come away.
We have work in the world, till the end shall come,
Whatever that end may be,
And hand in hand, by God's command,
I must follow the track with thee.
Night-time and morn, and yet another day;
Arise, my love, my fair one,
Arise, and come away.
Our souls are adrift on the sea of life,
Whatever that life may be,
And there's many a shoal ere we reach the goal
Of the haven beyond the sea.
Night-time and morn, and yet another day;
Arise, my love, my fair one,
Arise, and come away.
Remembrance
When I am far away, when years have passed,
When joy grows dim, and pain, and I am old,
When heart and mind in stillness wait the last,
When all the story of my life is told—
Give me remembrance then.
For what is time that it should take from me
My golden vision? Nay, it hath not power;
See, at the last I claim it back from thee—
Amid the darkness of my latest hour
Give me remembrance then.
Let me not see the storm-clouds lowering grey,
Let me not see the ghastly track of war,
Let me be blessed e'er I go my way,
Give me again the time that is no more—
Give me remembrance then.
Show me the quiet waters of the stream,
Show me the bending trees, the radiant skies,
Give me the perfect peace, in that fair dream,
That I may smile and close my tired eyes.
Give me remembrance then.
My soul shall pass down the still water-way
Whose silent waters flow to other strands,
My little light shall fade, as fades the day—
That I may know it dawns on other lands—
Give me remembrance then.
Is it Well?
Down there — down there in the hum of the world,
Where the crowd rolls on,
Say, is it well in the hum of the world
While life rolls on?
Have you heard the voice of the hunger cry,
Or noticed the broken in heart go by,
While the crowd rolls on?
Down there — down there in the beautiful fields
Where few pass by,
Say, is it well in the beautiful fields
While life goes by?
Have you heard a voice in the swaying trees,
A message that sounds in the summer breeze
As the years go by?
Down there — down there in the quiet church
The while men pray,
Say, is it well in the old grey church
The while you pray?
Have you found the truth of the life you live,
And grasped the promise that life can give,
The while you pray?
Down there — down there in the quiet grave
Where you lie so still,
Say, is it well in the quiet grave
Where all is still?
Have you done with the storm and the tossing sea
And come to the haven where men would be—
You lie so still?
The Wind-Song
Hark to the wind on the hill,
To the wild wind open and free,
Rending and tearing at will
Over mountain, and valley, and sea.
Hark to the voice of the wind!
Hark to the wind as it sings
The wind-song, mighty or low,
That can bear you away on its wings
Wherever your spirit would go.
Hark to the voice of the wind!
Hark to the wind in its strife!
In its wild whirl over the land,
In the crash of the gale, running rife
Over ocean and islet and strand!
Hark to the voice of the wind!
Hark to the wind in the night
Flying forth to its unknown goal,
And put out on the breast of its might
To the good of your world-bound soul,
Hark to the voice of the wind!
Hark to the wind in the trees
As the wind-song sweeps through the world;
To the fluttering light sea breeze,
To the crashing of sails unfurled—
Oh hark to the voice of the wind!
Day is at Hand
Down by the twilit river side,
Under the silvery willow's shade,
See the flies circling, fishes leap,
Watch the daylight slowly fade.
The night is here; we wait and understand,
Then eastward turn; and lo! day is at hand.
So on our life an evening falls,
And with the night there cometh sleep.
Hushed is the voice that sings of joy,
Hushed is the cry of them that weep.
Why should we fear? Can we not understand?
Beyond this blackest hour, lo! day is at hand.
The Judgment
You've forgotten the face of the woman you wronged,
And the child that you left to its fate.
You've forgotten the past, and the past is dead.
Think, ere it be too late!
It has power to hold, it has power to bind,
It is ever alive, in the sub-conscious mind,
Tho' you went your way and forgot.
You've forgotten false-witness you bore long since,
Or the gain at another's expense,
The shady business deal, that paid so well,
And you thought so common-sense.
It is deep in the heart, it is deep in the soul,
It's the rotten core of the fair-seeming whole,
Tho' you went your way and forgot.
You've forgotten the love that you paid in neglect,
The look, the speech, slighting, untrue.
The slandering words, and the words unclean,
And the soul that perhaps you slew.
But it's all writ large from the end to the start,
And the judgment is set in the heart of your heart,
Tho' you went your way and forgot.
You've forgotten the things you are here to do,
And the self that you came to create.
It is all you will have, when you have to die.
Think, ere it be too late!
Is it fit to destroy? Is it fit to endure?
It were well to think now, it were well to be sure,
Lest you go your way and forget.
Look!
Look at the human heart!
The heart's a sort of double thing.
It takes two—
A me, and a you,
To love, as men do.
Look at the body we wear!
When you've learnt a little bit.
The body of man
Is part of a plan
You may read, if you can.
Look at a human life!
Coming, passing, and past.
It takes two—
Both God and you,
To live, as men do.
Look higher — see the soul now—
Tho' we can't see it well,
There's a turn in the scroll,
But the human soul
Is a part of the whole.
Look well, from the small to the great
And you see what is meant.
Tt can all come true
But it takes two—
Both God and you.
The Climbers
Onward, brave hearts, who scale the rugged mountain,
Heedless of aught that hinders, or that harms;
Sparkling above you, see the sacred fountain,
And underneath — the everlasting arms.
Onward, alike, though fair and evil-seeming,
Yours is the faith that ever sees the way,
Yours is the hope each barren march redeeming,
Yours is the love that heralds in the day.
Onward, brave hearts, the light of life descending
Preserve you still thro' terrors and alarms;
Onward, the way for ever upward trending,
And underneath — the everlasting arms.
In the Fulness of Time
Oh work and wait, oh wait and work awhile,
Only a little while we have to stay.
No toil is lost, no drop of sweat pours down
But shall advance the spirit on its way.
It is worth while, both heart and brain assure,
It is worth while to labour and endure,
Work still and hope, wait still and be at peace
Till time be full, and so our labours cease.
To-day we cannot see to-morrow's light
Wait for the rising of to-morrow's sun,
Swiftly it travels to us through the night,
And soon the longest, darkest night is done.
It is worth while, both heart and brain assure,
It is worth while to labour and endure
Until, uprising from its bed of clay,
Spirit rejoicing, soars, and speeds away.
Is There no Way?
Still let me hear from thee,
If any way there be
That thou canst speak to me,
While this life last.
Is there no way between
That Love can pass, unseen,
Back to where Love has been
In the life past?
Seek it, and come to me,
Inborn, unknown maybe,
Still in the heart of me
Stay thou my heart.
Though whilst with mortal sight
I may not see aright,
I feel the growing light
In which thou art.
So, as it reaches me,
Speak to me still, and be
Always as part of me,
Heart of my heart.
I Think You Know
I think you know
I am not heedless, friend, nor yet unfeeling,
Unmindful of the worth of your regard;
But nature prompts me to the strict concealing
Of my real self, and makes me seem so hard.
I think you know
My gratitude; and if, occasion serving,
The chance should come to prove myself your friend,
I should rejoice to show myself deserving
To hold your friendship to the very end.
I think you know
Errors abound, and human faults enduring
Oft bring to mind 'the high that proved too high.'
Still, we present our gift in hope, assuring
Its full perfection in the By and By.
I think you know
As when on earth the sunrise gently stealing
Shows forth the glory of another day,
So selfless love, our higher life revealing,
Leads on unerring to the Heavenward way.
Moonlight at Grindelwald
O wonder-light,
O flood of glorious light
That wraps both hill and vale!
Man hath no words to tell of such a night—
Gazing awe-stricken, speechless in delight,
His thought and senses fail.
O wonder-hour,
O mystic, magic power
That holds both heart and will!
Ray of the dawn that gleams upon our death,
Light of the life beyond our latest breath—
God speaks, and we are still.
Waiting
O patient nature! Waiting for the spring,
Waiting the opening bud, the blossoming flower,
Waiting the glory that the fruit shall bring,
Waiting till death reveal its hidden power.
Eternal mystery! The seed appears
Carrying Life forward to future years.
O patient Nature! See on every hand,
In every branch of all its diverse ways
The same clear story, clear to understand,
Told and retold throughout the length of days;
Perhaps we heed not, smile and turn away,
Because we see and hear it every day?
O patient Nature! Waiting till the end.
To every story comes an end at last,
And in the ending some day there shall blend
Each patient effort of the buried past;
Each patient effort, and each heartfelt prayer,
Seed of a future, good and passing fair.
Deep in ourselves are hidden magic powers.
Waiting till time reveal them full and free.
Now the long waiting, thro' the weary hours;
Soon the great glory we shall surely see.
All, all is progress. Whither can it tend?
Let us have patience. Can we doubt the end?
The Hour-Glass
Lo, it is evening, and the day is spent,
Faint is thy breath, and faintly beats thy heart,
Spent is the sand within' the hour-glass;
Arise then, and depart.
Wherefore look back, and wherefore seek to stay?
The dews of death break on thy marble face;
The blinds are lowered and the corpse is still
That was thy dwelling-place.
Thy stately home, thy panoply of wealth,
Was it these things that thou hast sought alone?
Reaches no hand to thy hand this night,
From out the Great Unknown?
I hear the ticking of the carved clock,
I see the coverlet of wondrous lace,
And now they lay rich flowers of costly price
About thy still, white face.
O fellow men, O women rich and fair!
The sun is high, but soon the day will pass;
Turn you, and heed the stream of running sand,
Within the hour-glass.
Somewhere
Somewhere an answer to our bitter cry,
Sometime a knowledge of the reason why,
Somehow a cleansing of our every stain,
Lost in the glory that we died to gain.
Some day the freedom of the earthbound soul,
Some day the perfectness of life made whole,
Somewhere the summit of the radiant height
Fair in the morning of eternal light.
Somewhere a life of perfect love and power,
Somehow a link that strengthens hour by hour,
Somewhere a region where our souls set free,
Join in the perfectness of things to be.
An Old Companion
That little patch of sunshine
That fell across my way,
I found it up in the city
And carried it home one day.
A glint of gleaming feathers,
Two eyes, so quick and bright,
A sound of happy chuckling
To greet me, day or night.
Sharp claws that clung and scrambled,
But perched upon my hands
With soft and tender carefulness,
That only love commands.
It filled its part, that existence
So brilliant and quaint and gay;
For I call it a patch of sunshine
That fell across my way.
Retrospect
When I look back
The past shall live once more,
Your words, your deeds of kindness
Touch me, as before;
Nothing be lost of all that was bestowed,
But close abiding, cheer me on my road
When I look back.
Deep in my heart
I cherish whilst I live,
Bright gleams of memory
That the past can give;
And many a weary hour shall yet pass by
Lightly, because your memory will lie
Deep in my heart.
Friends
Across the crowded gathering
Your glance sought mine;
We asked no explanation,
We needed no other sign,
Nor questioned the reason why
We were bound to be friends, you and I.
You only clasped my hand
As others may do;
But I knew it was different then
With me, and you,
That only to pass in the crowded street
Would lighten the day when we chanced to meet.
There's a wonderful look in your eyes,
My eyes can see,
There's a wonderful tone in your voice
When you speak to me.
Only to pass, with a smile and a bow,
Seems a wonderful thing, somehow !
It's little we know of life
And of how we live,
And the marvellous rays of light
That God can give!
Who could tell me the reason why
We were bound to be friends, you and I?
In Great Waters
'The Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters'
So went they forth before the break of dawn.
Tall, grey, and spectre-like, the vessel ran—
There where the mist wreaths swathed the face of morn—
The last brave voyage began.
Spirit of God, Spirit of Love be near,
Out on the face of the waters
O Spirit of Love be near!
Women and men upon the further shore
Mourn not so bitterly the souls set free,
Theirs is the gain — to reach the open door,
Which still our straining eyes so dimly see.
Spirit of God, Spirit of Love be near,
Out on the face of the waters
O Spirit of Love be near!
The open door! Death is the chosen way;
Are we not God's, and surely He knows best?
Surely upon the everlasting arms
He bears us onward to eternal rest.
Spirit of God, Spirit of Love be near,
Out on the face of the waters
O Spirit of Love be near !
One Night
So, it is night!
The river deep and wide
Hastens resistless, on its mighty tide.
The mellow bells, that sounded from the hill,
Have ceased their ringing, and the valley is still.
So, it is night.
Yes, it is night,
Though yonder in the town
I hear the people passing up and down ;
I hear them laugh, I hear a distant song—
A snatch of music — as they pass along,
But it is night.
So, it is night,
And peace is over all.
One day, maybe in sunshine, night shall fall,
And on my soul the lengthening shadows rise—
May there be peace when death shall close my eyes
And it is night.
A Memory
Out of the years, like daylight softy stealing,
Radiant, unsullied by a vain regret,
Faithful, unclouded, all the past revealing,
Comes the fair memory that I cherish yet.
Where are you now, great spirit, strong, unending?
Beyond the strife, beyond the victors' hill,
Beyond the lines that we are still defending,
Beyond the lives that we are living still.
The thought of you, my fainting soul sustaining,
Nerves me to fight, and gain the path you trod.
So may I come, the way at last attaining,
To seek — and find you — at the feet of God.
The Hut
There's a little plantation of sounted pines
High up there on the hill.
Fewer they grow
As the seasons go
And the winter gales blow chill.
I can remember the little rude hut
Builded by children's hands,
And the widespread view,
Like a dream come true,
Of the wonderful far-off lands!
The hut was of branches ill-woven
Yet it seemed to be passing fair;
With a rickety door,
And a trodden earth floor,
And I know it was good to be there!
Oh the freedom and peace of the country!
The hours that could not last.
The breeze from the bay
At the close of day,
And the shadows that fell too fast.
As I sit by myself in the stillness
It comes again to me
With the sunset glow
On the valley below,
And the gleam of the glittering sea!
'Life's Little Day'
'Hast thou passed by?'
'Nay, I am yet full young.
Why should I go?
The flowers are fair, and birds with magic song
Flit to and fro.'
'Hast thou passed by?'
'Nay, I would linger here.
I am full strong,
The sun is high, the heavens yet bright and clear,
The day is long.'
'Hast thou passed by?'
'Nay, but I go full soon.
The sun is low,
Besetting shadows tinge the afternoon—
Soon — soon I go.'
'Hast thou passed by?'
'Yea, I am wellnigh sped.
Cold night winds blow,
The flowers fall, the hurrying birds are fled,
See — now I go.'
Autumn 1917
I stand, and as I stand the days go by,
And as they go fruit ripens on the tree,
The yellow berries turn to red and brown;
Time changes them and me.
Do I forget my little life runs out?
Do I forget the moments hurry on?
To-day I stand and watch awhile,
To-morrow, and the dawn will see me gone.
God! is it possible we should forget!
Ah, help us in our weakness and our need,
The darkness falls, and we are lost to hope,
Strangers and sojourners indeed.
I feel the coming winter in the air,
I see the summer vanish in decay,
Where are the flowers that were so fair—
Was it not yesterday?
What shall remain amid the constant change
Of fading summer, failing light and love?
All, all we cling to, broken, lost or dead—
Undying hope yet answers 'God above.'
The Promise
You kept your promise—
Tho' men scorned or blamed;
Beaten to earth, unheeded and ashamed,
You kept your promise still.
You kept your promise—
In the days of ease
Tho' all men flattered, and you sought to please,
You kept your promise still.
You kept your promise,
Tho' within, some force
Goaded and lured; and drove you from your course;
You kept your promise still.
You kept your promise,
So the Lord of all
When life is done, when sounds the great recall,
Shall keep His promise then.
The Prison-House
If only now the quickened breath might cease,
If only now the labouring heart were stilled;
If it might be the hour of my release
And all life's purpose were at last fulfilled.
Not yet, not yet! may I have courage still,
Long is the time, O weary aching years;
O wretched flesh, riven with ceaseless ill,
My prison-house, my prison-house of tears.
If only now One looked from Heaven and said
'It is enough,' and I wete free to go
Unfettered, free, arisen from the dead—
O wondrous dream, would it were only so!
Not yet, not yet, but time shall loose the bond,
Set wide the door, and let my way be plain
To wider life, to other worlds beyond
My prison-house, my prison-house of pain.
I Believe
I do believe in Faith, let come what will,
I do believe in Hope, through good or ill,
I do believe in Love triumphant, found
Rising immortal from the charnel-ground.
I always want to feel the heart of me
Kindling, awaking to the things to be,
I always want the spirit life to grow
More near, more clear, with every year I know.
Blinded, and holden in our foolishness,
We cry for mercies that we all possess.
We pray for Light, and lo! the Light is there,
We pray for Grace, and Grace is everywhere.
O hungry souls, 'mid orchards ripe and sweet,
O thirsty souls, brooks singing at your feet,
Q lost, who seek a guide upon your way,
O multitudes, who never think or pray.
Take now the golden fruit the moment brings,
Drink from the mystery at the heart of things ;
No atom, no event of every day
But calls aloud, and surely points the way.
I do believe all crooked paths come straight, -
I do believe the latest not too late.
I do believe that even you and I
Will rise-to greatness in the by and by.
From Day to Day
They gladden those who pass,
The hard-wrung smile,
The kindly interest,
The words so hard to speak—
Like silvery dew upon the trampled grass
They bring new life, maybe, to those who pass.
We hold strange powers from God
To blight or bless,
Make or unmake
By deed, by word and thought;
And often so we fail or we succeed
By those we shackled, or by those we freed.
Teeming with consequence
The weary round.
Each effort counts,
A milestone on the way.
Make but the best of what experience brings,
And passing so, we wake to fairer things.
Some Verses from the Abyss
Written in the East End before the war
I. How Long?
Oh, it's weary is life, and I'm sick o' the strife
And the struggle o' making ends meet;
Work and work, and I dared not shirk,
For what would the little 'uns eat?'
The widow toils while her eyes can see;
God have mercy on such as she!
'Oh the room is unclean and not fit to be seen,
And gladly I'd put the place right,
But on and on, till the day is gone,
And halfway through the night.'
The sweated are labouring night and day;
God have mercy on such as they!
'Oh it's dizzy I feel — but quick at the wheel
On, on — I must manage to rouse—
Stitch and stitch, at the clothes of the rich,
A penny-three-farthings a blouse.'
The widow must toil for the sweater's dole;
God have mercy upon his soul!
And who is concerned with the wage that is earned,
And the unemployment blight?
Will the statesmen rise? For with them it lies
To set these evils right.
The priest and the Levite went their way—
God have mercy on such as they!
II. A Prayer of the Lost
'Like as a father pitieth his own children'
I Thought I heard the door of Heaven unclose,
I thought I heard the angels' footsteps near,
I thought——
Pity me now, O Father of Right,
Pity me now, in Thy Heaven of light.
I know it was the creaking gate of Hell,
I know the footsteps, what they really were,
I know——
Pity me still, O Spirit of Love,
Pity me still, in Thy Heaven above.
I bow my head, I clasp my hands in prayer,
I ask for restoration and for peace,
I ask——
Pity me now, O Father of Power,
Pity me now, in this darkest hour.
I lift my eyes, and lo! the sun is high,
I hope it brings fresh light of life to me,
I hope——
Ah God! my only hope is from above,
Pity me now, O Father of Love.
III. There Also
In the hot, foetid breath of the alley,
At the toil that men dare not forgo,
In the turmoil and strife of the struggle for life,
And the pulses of life beating low.
God! It is there, over there,
With scarce any to care;
The toilers are driven to drink and despair.
Wilt Thou not save?
Hear the curses and blows of the drunkard,
The cry of the helpless in pain,
See the terrified wife, and the child's ghastly life,
And the tears that are falling like rain.
God! Art thou there — anywhere?
While the helpless are driven to death and despair—
Canst Thou not save?
Oh, the pale, wasted face at the window,
The girl that lies chained to Her bed,
Through the long weary years, full of sorrow and tears——
Hush, hush, she is dead!
God! Thou art there, everywhere.
We must suffer and dare
And carry the load we are given to bear;
Thou wilt save.
IV. Wastrels — At the Corner
'Our poor unemployed — even the wastrel class, have been brought to their unenviable pass through no fault of their own. Even in the few cases where they are deliberately shiftless, what, pray, do they get out of life? Their days are spent in semi-starvation; they find difficulty in keeping body and soul together, and when they are able to pick up a few pennies by furtive, unsteady work, there is little opportunity for them to spend this money in any satisfactory way, outside the public-house.' — Wealth and Want (p. 148), W. B. Northrop (Francis Griffiths).
They're wastrels.
And why are they wastrels then?
Our system's to blame
For the half of their shame
If they 're wastrels.
'Wastrels, wastrels!' hear the cry come back.
We're brothers.
At least we say we are brothers!
Then do what you can
For vagabond man
If we're brothers.
'Brothers, brothers!' hear the cry come back.
They're 'citizens.'
And how are they citizens, pray?
If they vote, and they fight
They've the nominal right
To be citizens.
'Citizens, citizens!' hear the cry come back.
They're idle.
And why are they idle then?
The half of them made
For a decent trade
And they're idle!
'Idle, idle!' hear the cry come back.
They're wastrels.
And why are they wastrels then?
The country's to blame
For the half of their shame—
And they're wastrels!
'Wastrels, wastrels!' hear the cry come back.
V. The Public-House
'With no homes but hovels to go to, with no recreation but drink, with no companionship but misery, with no hope or prospect in life, there seems for them no logical end but wastrelism.' — Wealth and Want (p. 149), W. B. Northrop.
There's one bright place in the street,
Clean and smart, and gaily lit,
Where a man can go and sit
If he's got some coppers left to pay his way.
Stop at home? Lor' bless yer soul,
In that crowded, filthy 'ole!
D'ye take me for a lunatic? — no fear!
'There's one bright place in the street.
And my mates they're all in 'ere
Tellin' yarns and drinking beer
Till we just forget the hang o'things outside.
From a glass or two at first,
Man! I've raised a reg'lar thirst—
Makes me 'appy as I never was before.
'There's one bright place in the street.
Waste o'breath to talk-to me,
I've to live the life, you see,
Try a year of it, and come to me again!
We 'as feelin's same as you,
Likes a bit o' pleasure too;
Just tell me where's it comin' from but 'ere?'
There's one bright place in the street.
See the toiling, sweated wife,
Or the man that's failed in life,
Spending money that should go to purchase food.
Do you think we'd say our prayers
If we'd lived a life like theirs,
Be respectable, and thrifty, and the rest?—
It is well we never had to stand the test.
VI. 'Dancin' to the Orgins'
Oh it's dancin' to the orgins at the corner of the street,
That's what I loves to do!
Heel and toe, and round-about, and steppin' in so neat
They comes ter look at you!
A-dancin' to the orgins, a-dancin' to the orgins,
With your 'ead a-turnin' round, and the street a-turnin' round,
A-dancin' to the orgins when they come!
There's one-legged Bill o' Saturday, and Sneezer Thursday night,
What brings the grand pianer with the moke;
I've a penny in mi stockin' so's to keep it out o'sight,
If father knew it wouldn't be no joke!
A-dancin' to the orgins, a-dancin' to the orgins,
If your shoes is pretty sound, you can fairly spin around,
A-dancin' to the orgins when they come.
Wish I 'ad a 'at and costoom, 'like what Lizzie Lowther's got!
But she'll never learn to step it, same as me.
And I'd rather have the dancin' than I'd take the bloomin' lot—
It's the only bit o' pleasure as I see.
A-dancin' to the orgins, a-dancin' to the orgins,
Oh mi 'ead goes whirlin' round, and I scarcely touch the ground
A-dancin' to the orgins, when they come!
VII. Waifs
This a stormy night,
Windy and wild—
But I hear a cry
As the storm sweeps by
Like the cry of a weeping child.
Go from your homes of plenty,
Go from your bright fireside,
Where thousands teem in the swarming stream
Of the City's reeking tide!
Women are weary,
And men unmanned,
Little ones cry,
But the world goes by—
There's a deal too much on hand.
Look at the wan white faces,
Read in the hungering eyes
The voiceless prayer that is pleading there,
The story that never lies.
From attic and alley
See how they come!
Neglected, half wild,
Cold, hungry, defiled,
The children of hovel and slum.
Look at their hopeless existence,
And the curse that is brooding there;
And God so do, to me and to you,
If we see and we do not care.
The Waters of Strife
'I proved thee also at the Waters of Strife.'
Martyrs, bent by burdens, all-enduring,
Crippled maybe, swept by sickness and by pain,
Unknown, undaunted, falling in your thousands!
All the world lost, far more than all to gain.
Te Martyrum candidatus laudat exercitus. (1)
Martyrs, unflinching, who took the foremost place,
Who left your homes, and gladly gave your all.
Martyrs, Martyrs, you who knew nor love nor grace—
But found them e'er you heard the great recall.
Te Martyrum candidatus laudat exercitus.
Martyrs, spent and shattered, dumbly sinking,
Were you lowest, were you least in days now dead,
Heedless, or careless, ignorant, unthinking?
'The last shall be first,' surely Someone has said?
Te Martyrum candidatus laudat exercitus.
Martyrs, Martyrs of our fairest and our best,
Knightly dowered, self-forgetting ; smiling, cool,
Out on the top there, cheering on the rest!
As you used upon the playing-fields at school.
Te Martyrum candidatus laudat exercitus.
Martyrs, Martyrs who have found the spirit way,
And learned to know true values at their worth,
What is beyond you, who shall say you nay,
That trod the martyr's road upon the earth?
Te Martyrum candidatus laudat exercitus.
Could we but know, we should not seek to bind you,
Could we but see, we should not mourn to-day.
Forward, beloved, strife and death behind you—
Forward, oh forward! on the victor's way.
Te Martyrum candidatus laudat exercitus.
(1) The Noble Army of Martyrs praise Thee.
A Soldier Marching Song
'Keep your face always towards the sunshine, and the shadows will fall behind you.'
Oh! it's night, grey night, but I feel the golden light
Of the sunshine,
And there's brightness on my way, for it lies by night and day
In the sunshine.
Then forward, never fear, if the skies be grey or clear,
There is summer ever near: and there's sunshine.
So with joyful stride and strong, I can take my way along
In the sunshine;
I am singing on my way, and I cannot go astray
In the sunshine.
I am singing as I go, and I hardly seem to know
How the chances come and go — in the sunshine.
Oh! it's right, all right, for I see the golden light
Of the sunshine;
And though battle rages high, we can live and we can die
In the sunshine.
Face the sunlight in your mind, and the shadows fall behind;
Seeking — even here we find — blessed sunshine.
The Picture
I have a picture on a little shelf
Worth more than my words could say;
Yet its worth to the world will be less than nought,
When they sell up my home one day.
I have a picture on a little shelf,
And I turn to it day by day;
They would throw it away with some other odd lots,
When they sell up my home one day.
I have a picture on a little shelf,
And I kneel by it when I pray—
And I hope it may lie on my cold, still breast,
When they sell up my home one day.
Forgotten Things
Vast and insatiable the hungry sea,
Mighty the winds that tear and sweep the earth,
Deep, deep the hidden things, that dream unknown,
Lost in the consciousness that gave them birth.
Deep as the hidden things within the heart—
Dead aspirations of dead bygone years,
Old sins, old ecstasies, dear cherished hopes,
Or love, that we have blotted out in tears.
From out my memories, I take them now
Once in a way, old treasures and old fears,
Raise from the dust forgotten things that were,
While old-time voices whisper in my ears.
Forgotten things that once were all in all,
Things of the moment, long since thrown aside,
Things firm engrafted, life of inner life,
Forgotten things that were perhaps denied.
Vast and insatiable life's hungry sea,
Mighty the winds that tear and rack the soul,
Deep, deep the hidden things sleeping unknown,
We yet must pass to our mysterious goal.
Ordered procession of a wondrous fate,
Set with forgotten things that tried our worth,
Things yet unknown our wandering steps shall seek,
Perhaps in worlds beyond this little earth.
O dead forgotten things! May it not be
Amid your pile, that I behold one day,
Gleaming, alas! beyond my outstretched arms—
The Light of Life, that once I cast away.
His Cross
He was born in the East of London,
And he never had a chance;
Nobody cared how he lived or he fared,
But he fought for us all in France.
From a poor little half-famished urchin,
To a struggling youth let us pass.
For work he would pray, but they turned him away,
Yet he fought for us all in France.
On some 'blind-alley' job 'he subsisted,
For a trade he had never a chance.
No one had need of the ill-nourished weed—
But we wanted him out in France.
He was called to the Colours one morning;
A son of the Empire at last,
It was somewhat delayed, 'but they found him a trade,
And he fought for us all in France.
He came of the roughest surroundings,
Knew nothing of love or of care;
He was bandied about till they singled him out,
To fight for us over there.
He had slunk before monied employers,
And stolen to buy himself bread.
They were turning that day when he showed them the way,
And they followed the way he led.
He was left for a thief and an outcast,
Till the great war gave him a chance,
And he ranked with the best, when they laid him to rest,
With the cross on his grave, in France.
Shall we go through the years and forget him?
Nay! Help to redeem the past!
Through a lifetime of loss such men carry their cross,
Till they sink by the way at last.
Do you feel it's a shocking indictment?
Then look to the future and think,
How the strength of a chain will always remain
The strength of its weakest link.
The Old Piano
Your yellow keys,
Your faded yellow keys!
How oft in other days I used to scan them,
And strive with small unwilling hands to span them;
Long years ago.
Long years ago!
Ah, many years ago
Those other hands of wonder and of power
Brought forth the spirit of a twilit hour
And clothed my dreams.
Your yellow keys,
Poor jangling yellow keys!
In gentle reverence I touch them lightly,
Old silvery melody still echoes slightly,
Through wild discord.
She sits intent,
Smiling in quiet content,
She hears the music of another day;
For sight grows dim and sounds are far away
Now she is old.
So one last hymn
She asks for; one last hymn:
'Then when Thy voice shall bid our conflict cease,
Call us, O Lord, to Thine eternal peace.'
Amen — Amen.
The Business Deal
Throw the old papers away then,
Throw the old papers in there.
So — in the fire, and the flame leaps higher.
Have I copied them all elsewhere?
Oh yes, I have copied them all elsewhere.
Turn a man down if you will then,
It's business — money there!
Forget, as you feel you have wiped off the deal,
You have copied it down elsewhere.
Forget! you have copied it down elsewhere,
'How's That?'
How seldom I seem to touch upon the things that I want to do!
I had dreamed of such different things to-day.
I am seedy and strained and unfit to play,
But the Captain has told me I've got to stay—
For he says I may pull them through!
How seldom I can break away from the things that I have to do!
I sicken and freeze on the dreary ground,
But I'm here, and of course I'm in honour bound
To play the game to the whistle's sound—
'How's that?' — Was it really through?
How seldom we can touch upon the success that may heal the soul!
It's a slippery field and there's many a fall,
I am winded and lame — but they're passing the ball—
'Go on, go on!' — 'Shoot, shoot!' comes the call—
'How's that?' — 'A goal! A goal!'
The Mountain Tarn
A sunlit tarn is dreaming on the mountain,
Brown as the peat-marsh whence its waters flow,
Where pansied lustre holds no count of time,
And depths unfathomed dimly shine below.
At times rare travellers may pause beside it,
And rest a moment on the grassy rise.
Did one so come, stand spell-bound, and behold
Once more the glory of a woman's eyes?
A living consciousness is wrapped about it.
Those depths nigrescent, like a mirror show
Old scenes, so dear, that cling like clinging hands,
Beloved hands that will not let me go.
Mahdia Point
I see a yellow-stranded coast,
And a Point that juts to the sea,
With ruins of ancient temples
Bare to the sun and the storm-wind,
Where the land stands out to the sea.
It comes to my mind unsought-for,
Bare, yellow and glowing and free,
Like the heart of a fierce amber cairngorm
Girt by the glittering setting
Of the sleeping, sun-bright sea.
I look on the shimmering yellow haze
Of the African spring-time sun,
And the Arab grave-field stretching
Up to the distant village,
Till they meet and melt into one.
I turn to the yellow-stranded coast
Where the ice-like ground-plants grow,
By the ruinous Roman temples
Bare to the sun and the storm-wind—
As I saw it years ago,
It comes sometimes, breathlessly real,
As once it was seen by me;
And again I am lost in the glamour
That breathes in the sun and the spring-time,
And the sweep of the shaded sea.
Finem Respice
I saw him pass; the boy with the yellow hair,
With the open face, and the fearless, confident air.
What of him then?
Schools are not all.
Books are not all.
But here it lies with the parent,
And there it lies with the State,
With teacher and friend to mould and to tend,
That he come by a worthy fate.
I saw him pass; the pallid slum-born lad,
With the pitiful clothes, and the face that is old and sad.
What of him then?
A reckoning here,
For the country to fear.
What can be done by the parents—
The refuse let rot by the State?
Let it pull up our trade, 'in the coming decade,
Lest he meet with a similar fate.
I saw her pass; with a smile, and a shy surprise,
The child with the sunny curls, and the Heaven that dawned in her eyes.
What of her then?
She has turned from her play
For it's woman's day.
It lies with the friends and the parents,
But also it lies with the State.
She will give of her all, at her country's call,
Let it give her a worthy fate.
I stood near by, when the schoel gate opened wide,
And the children passed in their eager, tumultuous tide.
The pride of our dead,
The hope that is left
To a country bereft.
Rise, citizens, patriots, parents,
And all who must legislate!
They can carry us through, but it rests with you—
And their fate is the country's fate.
The Knowledge of God
It comes from where the wind comes
The knowledge of God to me.
It comes from the trackless regions
As the mish creeps up from the sea.
It comes in the cry of the curlew
Far over the night-wrapped fell,
In that silence of expectation
That steals on the soul like a spell.
In the breaking of waves in the night-time
Like the great world's throbbing heart,
In the magical rays of morning
That cleave the mists apart.
It touches all life with wonder
And opens the eyes to see—
It comes from where the wind comes
The knowledge of God to me.
It the Office
I may dream of the fells, and the country-side,
I may dream of the horse I shall never ride,
I may dream of the wonders that books may hide;
But how seldom dreams come true.
Alas!
How seldom dreams come true!
I may dream of the leisure to think and to read,
I may dream of the chance of a noble deed,
I may dream of enough to supply my need;
But how seldom dreams come true.
Alas!
How seldom dreams come true!
I may dream of the river at close of day,
I may dream of the throb of the ocean's way,
Of love, and of moments that slipped away
To the land where dreams come true,
Some day,
To the land where dreams come true.
'The Crossways'
To all those, brought together by the Great War, to whom these lines may recall again an echo of the past.
Oh the tinkling from the Crossways of an evening!
It's the tune to which old memories
Like the haunting tunes one hears,
thro' the passing of the years,
As one turns away to hide a vain regret.
Tinkling, tinkling of an evening!
I am there, near by, and the stars are bright and high,
Softly twinkling.
I am listening — and thinking,
And the background of my dream
Is the distance-hallowed theme
Of the music; coming, going — tinkling, tinkling.
I can sit in the verandah, and can hear the shift train pass,
I can lie awake and hear the sea-birds play,
They are laughing, thin and high, as the night-flocks hasten by—
And I hear the workers singing on their way!
Tinkling, tinkling of an evening!
I am there still, near, and the stars are bright and clear,
Softly twinkling.
I am listening — and thinking,
And the background of my dream
Is the oft-repeated theme
Of the music; coming, going—tinkling, tinkling.
There are episodes in life we all remember,
Some more nearly, some more clearly than the rest.
In recesses of the heart, where they have their lot and part,
There we find them, of our worst, and of our best.
Tinkling, tinkling of an evening !
I am there, near by, as the stars come out on high,
Softly twinkling.
I am listening — and thinking,
And the background of my dream
Is the ever-haunting theme
Of the music; coming, going—tinkling, tinkling.
A Watchword
'Espérance en Dieu.' [1]
Though all you love lie dead, or worse than dead,
Though all you hoped for came to less than nought;
Though sickness grip you; weakened, worn by pain,
Abandoned, half distraught.
Yet hope, hope ever as you breathe,
Hope on.
Hope is the breathing of a larger life,
Hope is the ether of the worlds to be,
Hope is the stirring of the inborn powers
That sleep in you and me.
Then hope, hope ever as you breathe,
Hope on.
Deep in the earth, but struggling to the light,
Lie the pale shoots of spring-time still to be.
So in the soul is striving towards the light
New life we yet shall see.
Then hope, hope ever as you breathe,
Hope on, hope on.
- ↑ French for "Hope in God".
