The Englishman and Other Poems | Page 8

things;
From the dwarfing of
wealth, and from poverty's stings.
And from silly mothers of fuss and
show,
And from dissolute fathers whose aims are low,
I would take
you, and shield you, and set you free,
Dear little Mothers, of Men to
be.
And then were the wish of my heart fulfilled,
Around about you, the
world should build
A wall of Wisdom, with Truth for its Tower,

Where mind and body would wax in power,
Till the tender twig was
a splendid tree -
Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.
It is only a dream; but the world grows wise,
And a mighty truth in
the dream seed lies
That shall gladden the earth, in its time and place.

WE MUST BETTER THE MOTHERS TO BETTER THE
RACE.
A dream? nay, a vision, which all must see,
Dear little
Mothers, of Men to be.

SCIENCE
Alone I climb the steep ascending path
Which leads to knowledge. In
the babbling throngs
That hurry after, shouting to the world
Small
fragments of large truths, there is not one
Who comprehends my
purpose, or who sees
The ultimate great goal. Why, even she,
My
heaven intended Spouse, my other self,
Religion, turns her beauteous
face on me
With hatred in the eyes, where love should dwell.
While
those who call me Master blindly run,
Wounding the ear of Faith with
blasphemies,
And making useless slaughter in my name.
Mine is the difficult slow task to blaze
A road of Facts, through
labyrinths of dreams
To tear down Maybe and establish IS:
And
substitute I Know for I Believe.
I follow closely where the Seers have
led:
But that intangible dim path of theirs,
Which may be trodden
but by other Seers,
I seek to render solid for the feet
Of all mankind.
With reverent hands I lift
The mask from Mystery: and show the face

Of Reason, smiling bravely on the world.
The visions of the
prophets, one by one,
Grew visible beneath my tireless touch:
And
the white secrets of elusive stars
I tell aloud, to listening multitudes.
To fit the better world my toil ensures,
Time will impregnate with a
better race
The Future's womb: and when the hour is ripe,
To ready
eyes of men, the alien spheres
Shall seem as friendly neighbours: and
my skill
Shall make their music audible to ears
Which will be tuned
to those high harmonies.
Mine is the work to fashion, step by step,
The shining Way that leads
from man to God.
Though I demolish obstacles of creeds
And blast
tradition, from the face of earth,
My hand shall open wide the door of
Truth,
Whose other name is Faith: and at the end
Of this most holy
labour, I shall turn
To see Religion, with enlightened eyes,
Seeking
the welcome of my outstretched arms.
While all the world stands
hushed and awed before
The proven splendour of the Fact Supreme.

THE EARTH
To build a house, with love for architect,
Ranks first and foremost in
the joys of life.
And in a tiny cabin, shaped for two,
The space for
happiness is just as great
As in a palace. What a world were this
If
each soul born received a plot of ground;
A little plot, whereon a
home might rise,
And beauteous green things grow!
We give the dead,
The idle vagrant dead, the Potter's Field;
Yet to
the living not one inch of soil.
Nay, we take from them soil, and sun,
and air,
To fashion slums and hell-holes for the race.
And to our
poor we say, 'Go starve and die
As beggars die; so gain your
heritage.'
II
That was a most uncanny dream; I thought the wraiths of those Long
buried in the Potter's Field, in shredded shrouds arose;
They said, 'Against the will of God
We have usurped the fertile sod,

Now will we make it yield.'
Oh! but it was a gruesome sight, to see those phantoms toil; Each to his
own small garden bent; each spaded up the soil;
(I never knew Ghosts laboured so.)
Each scattered seed, and watched,
till lo!
The Graves were opulent.
Then all among the fragrant greens, the silent, spectral train Walked, as
if breathing in the breath of plant, and flower, and grain.
(I never knew Ghosts loved such things;
Perchance it brought back
early springs
Before they thought of death.)
'The mothers' milk for living babes; the earth for living hosts; The clean
flame for the un-souled dead.' (Oh, strange the words of Ghosts.)

'If we had owned this little spot
In life, we need not lie and rot
Here
in a pauper's bed.'
THE MUSE AND THE POET
The Muse said, Let us sing a little song
Wherein no hint of wrong,
No echo of the great world need, or pain,
Shall mar the strain.
Lock fast the swinging portal of thy heart;
Keep sympathy apart.
Sing of the sunset, of the dawn, the sea;
Of any thing or nothing, so there be
No purpose to thy art.
Yea, let us make, art for Art's sake.
And sing no more unto the hearts
of men,
But for the critic's pen.
With songs that are but words, sweet
sounding words,
Like joyous jargon of the birds.
Tune now thy lyre, O