Chapter II: Part 2

I woke from dreams of rare delight And visions of a joyous land, Where loved ones, long since lost to sight, Walked blithely with me, hand in hand:

Where every brow was free from care, And Youth's sublime ideals shone Like planets in an Alpine air, And death's sad mystery was known.

I woke,--and like a bird that waits, Uncertain where to wend its flight, My spirit lingered at the gates, Which close upon that realm of light;

Till, slowly, all around grew clear, And once again the light of day Convinced me that I still was here, Though all my dreams had passed away.

Once more I faced a world of Pain! Of quivering nerves and sure decay, Of helpless brutes, by millions, slain To feed mankind a single day!

Of shivering children, scarred with blows, Of hunted bird and tortured beast, Of War, whose hideous programme shows Its means of homicide increased.

The same old world of greed and hate, Of selfish act and paltry aim, Of private fraud and venal State, Of deeds and doers steeped in shame!

What marvel if the spirit shrinks From plunging in that turbid stream? Or if, on waking thus, one thinks That life was better in his dream?

Sweet, peaceful dreamland! I await The favored hour, to pass again Within thine asphodelian gate, Beyond the miseries of men;

To find old pleasures, long since gone, Perchance as vivid as of yore, Or else to sleep,--life's curtains drawn,-- And reawaken ... nevermore.

ROME REVISITED

O sovereign Rome, still mistress of the heart, As of the world in thy majestic prime, Grand in thy ruins, peerless in thine art, Rich in the memories of a past sublime,

Is thine the fault or mine that thou art changed, And that I tread the new Tiberian shore Convinced, alas! that we are now estranged, And that for me thy charm exists no more?

I have grown older, but am not blasé, My hair has whitened, but my heart is young, Still thrills my pulse the tomb-girt Appian Way, Still stirs my soul the ancient Latin tongue.

Whence then this transformation, that pervades Rome's very air, and leaves its blighting trace Alike upon the Pincio's colonnades And on the Mausoleum's rugged face?

The fault, dear Rome, is neither thine nor mine, But that of vandals nurtured on thy breast, Who, mad as "modern citizens" to shine, Have fashioned thee like cities of the west.

Thy time-worn face, and figure deeply bowed By countless sufferings for two thousand years, Whose proper garment seemed to be a shroud, Commanding reverence, sympathy and tears,

Are now bedecked with tawdry gems of paste; Parisian robes thy withered limbs conceal; Thy wrinkled cheeks are rouged; in vulgar taste A modern watch-fob holds the Caesar's seal!

Where once imperial Triumphs proudly passed, Electric cars roll thundering through thy streets; In Raphael's groves the automobile's blast Expels the Muses from their calm retreats.

Through sinuous miles of shops with worldly wares Bewildered pilgrims reach St. Peter's shrine; Some modern stamp each old piazza, bears; And freed from weeds, thy burnished ruins shine!

Near Hadrian's massive bridge of sculptured stone, The Tiber surges 'neath an iron frame, Across whose ugly beams the tramcars groan, And brand the river with a bar of shame.

Gods of Olympus, can ye not restore To outraged Rome her dignity of old? 'Twere better Jove and Juno to adore Than in their stead to worship only Gold!

Thy glorious statues, cruelly defaced, Thy crumbling shrines, thy marbles burnt to lime, The lone Campagna's fever-stricken waste, Where lizards bask on columns once sublime,--

The Flavian Amphitheatre's gaping wounds, The Baths of Caracalla's roofless walls, The Forum's multitude of ruined mounds, The royal Palatine's abandoned halls,--

All these indeed create a hopeless pain, When fancy strives to reconstruct the whole, Yet pathos, wakened by a wreck-strewn plain, Inspires at least nobility of soul.

But where a Syndic's greed hath left its trail The picturesque and beautiful take flight; The Past's inspiring influences fail, As stars are hidden by electric light.

Yet protests meet derision and disdain; The fatal madness spreads from land to land; Peace, Art, and Beauty everywhere are slain By greedy Traffic's hard, rapacious hand.

We laugh at lessons taught by others' fate, We see no ending to our prosperous day; Forgetting that, in turn, each ancient State Hath passed through bud and flower to decay.

Behold the retrogression of those lands Whence painting, sculpture and the drama sprung; See starved Trinacria's outstretched, empty hands, And all the classic shores by Homer sung!

In what have we surpassed them? We are taught Their art, their ethics, and their rythmic speech; Both Greece and Asia still control our thought, Their grandest works still far beyond our reach.

The breathless transfer of men, thoughts, and things, Improved designs for vaster fratricide,-- Are these the leading gifts this century brings, The twentieth, too, since Christ was crucified?

Yet thoughts that most have influenced mankind Were not sent broadcast with the lightning's speed; Nor do the works of Plato lag behind The myriad books and papers that we read!

And thou, Italia, that for ages played A role whose majesty can ne'er be told, Hast thou, like all the rest, thy trust betrayed, Adored the New, and sacrificed the Old?

Wilt thou for fashion make thy Past forlorn? Waste precious substance upon useless ships? Transport to Africa thine eldest born, And let gaunt hunger blanch thy peasants' lips?

Make poorly paid officials banded knaves? Drive starving sons by thousands from thy shore, Or let them rot in Abyssinian graves, And hide the cancer festering at thy core?

If so, 'tis certain thou must dearly pay For playing thus the war-lord's pompous part, And thou shalt feel at no far-distant day The people's dagger driven through thy heart.

Fain would I find some peaceful Pagan shrine Unspoiled as yet by vandals of to-day, Around whose shafts the sweet, wild roses twine, And on whose marble walls the sunbeams play;

There would I dream of days when life was sweet With poetry, art, and myths devoid of dread, When all the Gods in harmony could meet, And no eternal torment vexed the dead.

Our vaunted age is one of feverish haste, Of racial hatred and of loathsome cant, Of gross corruption and of tawdry taste, Of monster fortunes, with a world in want.

I am not of it, and I will not be! Its social strife and slavery I despise; Gone is its shore; I sail the open sea O'er tranquil waters and 'neath cloudless skies!

ON THE PALATINE

I tread the vast deserted stage Whereon the Caesars lived and died; The relics of Rome's golden age Lie strewn about me far and wide, Mementoes of an empire's pride, The homes of men once deified.

What are they now? Stupendous piles Of mouldering corridors and walls, On which alike the sunshine smiles And cold the rain of winter falls; A wilderness of roofless halls Whose tragic history appalls!

Below me, like an opened grave, The Forum's excavations lie, Where column, arch and architrave In solemn grandeur greet the eye, Still guarding 'neath Italia's sky The glory that can never die.

And here, above me and around, In part still shrouded by the soil, A stony chaos strews the ground, Where patient students delve and toil To bring to light Time's buried spoil, And History's tangled threads uncoil.

Halt! where thou standest Rome was born! These stones by Romulus were placed, When, on that far-off April morn, Two snow-white bulls the furrow traced For Rome's first wall, which, firmly based, Two thousand years have not effaced.

From these rude blocks how vast the bound To that huge, labyrinthine mass Through which the secret pathways wound, Where emperors, if alarmed, could pass; Yet even there could find, alas! The poignard or the poisoned glass.

What ghastly crimes these rooms recall! Here Nero watched his brother drain The fatal draught, then lifeless fall; Here, too, Caligula was slain, When, shrieking, with disordered brain, He pleaded for his life in vain.

At every turn some pallid ghost With haggard features seems to rise To join the long-drawn, murdered host That moves with sad, averted eyes, Like victims to a sacrifice, To where the Via Sacra lies.

Behold the mighty Judgment Hall, Where Nero with indifferent air Remarked the pleading of St. Paul, Nor dreamed the man before him there Would soon be read and reverenced where The Roman empire had no share!

Where are they all,--those men of pride Whose palace was the Palatine, From Romulus the fratricide To Hadrian, and Constantine, The last of all the western line Of Caesars who were deemed divine?

And all the millions who were swayed By those who dwelt upon this hill, And who in humble awe obeyed The dictates of their sovereign will,-- Are they self-conscious beings still, Or are their minds and bodies ... Nil?

I watch our planet's god decline Behind the tomb-girt Appian Way; The old, imperial Palatine Grows purple 'neath the sun's last ray; Shades of the Caesars, if ye may, The mystery of death portray!

Are there in truth Elysian Fields? And is there life beyond the grave? Or are the years that Nature yields Confined this side the Stygian wave? For those who more existence crave Is there a Power to help and save?

Alas! no answer; on their hill The murdered Caesars make no sign; Their myriad subjects, too, are still,-- Mute as the voiceless Palatine; Yet overhead the fixed stars shine, And bid us trust in the Divine!

THE FAREWELL OF THE OLD GUARD AT FONTAINEBLEAU, 1814

Stately court of Fontainebleau, Nine and ninety years ago On thy spacious esplanade, Ranged in formal dress parade, Stood the Emperor's grenadiers With their bronzed cheeks wet with tears, Waiting once again to show Love for him at Fontainebleau.

Noon had struck above the square, When adown the Horse Shoe stair In his well-known coat of gray, Worn on many a hard-fought day, Came the man adored by all As their "Little Corporal," Forced by Europe now to go Far from royal Fontainebleau.

In the ranks a sudden stir Swelled to shouts of Vive l'Empereur; Then deep silence reigned, save where On the peaceful summer air Choking sobs, but half suppressed, Came from many a faithful breast At the overwhelming blow Dealt them here at Fontainebleau.

Could the rumor, then, be true? Would he say to them adieu? Would their idol and their pride, He whom they had deified, Leave his royal grenadiers, Veteran troops of twenty years? Hark! he speaks in accents low To his Guard at Fontainebleau:--

"Comrades, brothers, we must part"; (How his lov'd tones thrilled each heart!) "It were wrong to you and France, Did I once more say 'Advance'; On the ruins of my State I at last must abdicate, And with you no more can know Happy days at Fontainebleau.

"Valiant soldiers of my Guard, Thus to part is doubly hard; Did you silence Prussian guns, March beneath Italian suns, Enter Moscow and Madrid, Fight beside the Pyramid, And survive grim Russia's snow,-- Thus to yield at Fontainebleau?

"Heroes of great wars, farewell! You have heard my empire's knell, Yet no hostile world's decree Can estrange your hearts from me; Exiled to a tiny isle, Through your tears you well may smile At the realm my foes bestow,-- Elba ... after Fontainebleau!

"Now of all who once were true I can count alone on you; Would that each might take the place Of the eagle I embrace! Let the tears which on it fall Move the souls of one and all! Never have I loved you so As to-day at Fontainebleau."

Hushed his voice; a moment more, At the passing carriage door Gleamed Napoleon's mournful eyes,-- Smouldering flames of sacrifice; Then his pallid, classic face Vanished ghostlike into space, And a dreary sense of woe Settled over Fontainebleau.

Dead are now those grenadiers; Quelled are Europe's anxious fears; By the Seine the Emperor sleeps; France her watch beside him keeps; But the lonely Horse Shoe stair Still preserves its sombre air, For the light of long ago Falls no more on Fontainebleau.

JAPAN,--OLD AND NEW

The son of a Japanese lord am I,-- A Prince of the olden time; My hair is white, though black as night In my youth and early prime; And again and again I ask myself, As the past I sadly scan, Are we better or worse? Was it blessing or curse That foreigners brought Japan?

It is barely two score years and ten Since the epoch-making day When a foreign fleet, through the summer heat, Came sailing up our bay; Still ring in my ears my father's words, As we watched it breast the waves,-- "If strangers land on Nippon's strand, We may one day be their slaves."

But the strangers landed, and asked for trade And a permanent "Open Door," And we deemed it best to grant the West A foothold on our shore; Their slaves in truth we have not become, Yet who can fail to find That Japan obeys in a thousand ways The will of the western mind?

We sent our sons across the seas To learn from the Western Powers Their modes of life and their modes of strife, And have made them largely ours; But before all else have we learned from them That our first great aim, must be To possess a fleet that can defeat All rivals on the sea.

Hence, all that the West hath yet devised For the slaughter of men en masse We have copied or bought, and have stopped at naught To make our fleet "first class"; And lest this might not quite suffice, Should an enemy come in sight, We have made each man throughout Japan A soldier trained to fight!

But alas for the change that hath been wrought In the millions in our fields! For the costly ships take from their lips The food that the harvest yields; They were always poor, but their load was light, Compared with their load to-day, For thousands of hands that worked the lands Are drafted now away.

And sad are the scenes in the sphere of Art In which we had won such fame; The fingers left are not so deft As they were when the strangers came; For then we toiled for Beauty's sake, And by time were we never paid; But now we have sold our art for gold And the western market's trade.

I never look at the goods now sent,-- So worthless do they seem,-- Without a sigh for the standard high Which prevailed in the old regime; When even the hilt of a Daimio's sword Was a work of months or years, And the highest reward for a triumph scored Was praise from the artist's peers.

No, the soul of my people is not the same; It was formerly sweet and kind, And happiness reigned in hearts restrained By an unspoiled, gentle mind; But now the lusts of the outer world For power, and lands, and gold, Our sons deprave, till they madly crave What others have and hold.

We have borrowed many things from the West, But one have we left alone; Of its Christian creed we had no need, And have thus far kept our own; For each of its numerous sects affirms That it has the only way, And that all the rest should be suppressed, For they lead mankind astray.

But worse than the claims of rival sects And the war of clashing creeds, Is the gulf,--heaven-wide! which we descried Between their words and deeds; For He whose sacred name they bear Was known as the Prince of Peace, And what He taught, in practice wrought, Would cause all wars to cease.

They say with truth that we used to fight For our Lords on sea and coast, But our soldiers then were as one to ten, Not a permanent armored host! Nor do we claim to obey the God They worship in the West; But, since they do, is it not true That they mock at His first behest?

His words were "Love your enemies!" And never a hostile act To friend or foe should Christians show, By whomsoever attacked; But they are really the best prepared To attack and to resist; And the Kaiser who prays is the Kaiser who says,-- "Go! Strike with the mailed fist!"

We look abroad, and everywhere The spirit of Christ is dead; Men call Him Lord, but they draw the sword In defiance of what He said; And the haughty, white-skinned Christian race Hates men of a different hue, And robs and slays in a thousand ways, With excuses ever new.

In the North and South, in the East and West In vain do the natives plead; By the Congo's waves are countless graves, Where the Paleface gluts his greed; And China's fate looms dark and grim, As its people note the means That Christians take, when gold's at stake, From the Rand to the Philippines.

We have had to choose between the rule Of the Sermon on the Mount And the brutal fact that nations act With an eye to their bank-account! And we see that the only way to shun The clutch of the Western Powers Is to learn to kill with Christian skill, And to make their weapons ours.

For we will not, like the others, bend Our necks to the white man's yoke; And poor Japan, to her latest man, Will answer stroke with stroke; So I watch to-night a solemn sight On the breast of the moonlit bay, As our gallant host for a hostile coast Prepares to sail away.

It is life or death for my native land, And I fear I may never see Those ships again, with their noble men, Return from victory; And well I know in my heart of hearts, As the past I sadly scan, That we are worse, and it was a curse That foreigners brought Japan.

1904.

THE UNFORGOTTEN HEROES

[The great temple at Miyagi in Japan was recently the scene of grand funeral observances for the horses slain in the late war with Russia, the Buddhist priests reading prayers and conducting services of a most solemn character.]

Hark! how the Orient's bells are proclaiming
Obsequies strange to the shrines of the west--
Services Christendom's cruelties shaming--
Taught by the merciful, Buddha the blest.

Peace on Manchuria's plains has descended;
Tall waves the grass where the chivalrous bled;
Murder and massacre finally ended,
Sadly the living remember their dead.

Requiem masses and prayers without number
Plead for the souls of the Muscovite brave,
While of the Japanese, wrapt in death's slumber,
Tender memorials honor each grave.

But in Gautama's compassionate teaching
Love is not limited merely to man;
Kindness to animals formed in his preaching
No less a part of his merciful plan.

Hence by the Buddhists, in counting the corses
Heaping with horror the death-trampled plain,
Not unremembered are thousands of horses,
Left unattended to die with the slain.

What did war seem to these poor, driven cattle?
What was their part in the horrible fray
Save to be shot in the fury of battle,
Or from exhaustion to fall by the way?

Dragging huge guns over rocks and through mire,
Trembling with weakness, yet straining each nerve,
Fated at last in despair to expire,
Uncomprehending, yet willing to serve!

Nothing to them were the hopes of a nation;
"Czar" and "Mikado" were meaningless sounds;
None of the patriot's deep inspiration
Softened the agony caused by their wounds.

Not for these martyrs the skill of physician,
Ether for anguish or lint for a wound;
Theirs but to lie in their crippled condition,
Thirsting and starving on shelterless ground.

Hail to these quadrupeds, dead without glory!
Honor to him who their valor reveres!
Spare to these heroes, unmentioned in story,
Something of sympathy, something of tears.

A WINTER'S DAY

Into my garden sweet and fair Brightly the sun at noonday shines, Melting the frost from the wintry air, Warming the trellis of leafless vines.

Basking there in the genial heat, South of my sheltering vineyard wall, Strolling, I dream in my lov'd retreat,-- The smile of the sun-god over all.

Far too early a shadow dark, Cast by the neighboring mountain's crest, Stealthily creeps across the park, Bringing a chill from the sombre west.

Little by little my sunlit space Shrinks to a narrowing path of light; Further and further with dread I trace The sure advance of approaching night.

Soon will arrive its twilight pall; Then, as the potent change is felt, The fountain's drops will cease to fall And feathery films refuse to melt.

But still in the solar warmth I wait, The hand of my lov'd one clasped in mine; Is that a tear? It is growing late, And she asks how long the sun will shine.

ON THE PROMENADE

O joyous idler in the sun, In pity slacken here thy pace! A lad, whose course is nearly run, Is watching thee with wistful face.

The glow of health upon thy cheek, The youthful ardor in thy gait, Appear to him, so frail and weak, The bitter irony of Fate.

Thou art to him the vision fair Of all he once had hoped to be; What wonder, then, that in despair His longing glances follow thee?

Let not the gulf too deep appear Between thy fortune and his own! Thou didst not see that falling tear, Nor hear his low, half-stifled moan.

The pang of age compared with youth, Or hunger with the spendthrift's wealth, Gnaws not with such a cruel tooth As that of pain confronting health.

Yet must the strong ship breast the wave, The wreck lie rotting on the shore; O hopes that perish in the grave! O youthful dreams that come no more!

SOLITUDE

Had I but lived when music-loving Pan Still played his flute amid the whispering reeds, When through Arcadian groves the dryads ran, And--symbolizing well man's earlier creeds-- A host of sculptured forms, divinely fair, Portrayed the gods, and led men's thoughts to prayer,

I would have sought some beautiful retreat, Remote from cities and the din of men,-- Some tranquil shore where lake and forest meet By limpid stream or flower-lit, sylvan glen, And would have reared, where none could e'er intrude, A shrine to thee, O precious Solitude!

How hath a heedless world neglected thee, Thou coy divinity, too shy and proud To sue for followers from those who see Attraction merely in the strenuous crowd! For only those can know thee, as thou art, Who wisely seek and study thee ... apart.

No rapt enthusiast, or mystic sage, No Asian founder of a faith divine, No bard, or writer of inspired page Hath ever failed to worship at thy shrine, O Nourisher of steadfast self-control, Of noble thoughts, of loftiness of soul!

Yet no continuous homage dost thou crave, No anchorite's seclusion wouldst thou ask, Thou lov'st no misanthrope or sullen slave, But only those who, faithful to life's task, Must yet at times look upward from the clod, And seek through thee acquaintanceship with God.

OUT OF THE RANKS

From the bitter fight I have made my way To the peaceful crest of a lonely hill, But the noise and heat of the deadly fray And the smart of wounds are with me still.

No recreant I to a noble cause, Nor traitor base to a leader bold; 'Twas a fight where he won most applause Who captured most of his neighbor's gold;

Where the wounded crawled away to die, Or, hopeless, ate their bread with tears, And the only cries that rent the sky Were the shouts of frenzied financiers.

Alas for the prematurely gray, Who struggle there through joyless lives To win the means of more display For thankless children, thoughtless wives!

Alas for those whose spirits yearn For leisure, books, and sunlit fields, Who yet can never pause to learn The joy that a life of culture yields!

Still sway the mad crowds to and fro! I hear their groans and panting breath, The hideous impacts, blow on blow, The moans of those who are crushed to death!

None stoop to lift up those who fall; A thousand leap for a vacant place, Thrust weaker thousands to the wall, And trample many an upturned face!

But I, however the fight may go, Have turned my back on the sordid fray, To face the tranquil sunset-glow, And hope for the dawn of a better day.

AUTONOMY

Stand forth, my soul, and take thine own! Though all should blame thee, have no fear! Self-poised and steadfast, dare alone Thy self-elected course to steer.

Before thee lies the open sea; Beyond it is the wished-for shore; The route that seemeth best to thee Select, and hesitate no more!

For he who lives the timorous slave Of social plaudits or disdain, Drags feebly to a nameless grave A craven's ever-lengthening chain.

Are thy plans noble, just, and fair? Pursue them bravely to the end, Nor pause to question or to care What says thy foe, or what thy friend.

Succeed, and thou shalt surely find That those who longed to see thee fail, And, lingering hopelessly behind, Spat venom on thine upward trail,

Shall run to reach thee on thy path, To grasp thy hand and say "'Twas well"; Or, distant, gnaw their lips in wrath, Their envious hearts a living hell.

Forever, flint-like, set thy face Against the loss of self-control; Compel the world to keep its place; Be thou the captain of thy soul!

ORIENT TO OCCIDENT, 1906

You thought me sunk in lethargy, too deeply drugged with sleep To notice how your armored fleets kept creeping o'er the deep, Too indolent to organize, too feeble to resist, Too timid to return the blow of Europe's mailèd fist; And Asia's conquest seemed to you a matter of such ease That all your kings knew perfectly the part which each would seize. Of such a "sluggish, inert mass" why should you be afraid? You wanted ports and provinces for purposes of trade, And monster "spheres of influence", whose wealth could be controlled And plundered by your Governments to fill their vaults with gold; Hence, since it seemed so probable that none of us would fight, Why should you even hesitate to prove that Might makes Right?

And yet perhaps it had been well, before you formed your plan, To study Asia's history from Persia to Japan; For though the sleeping Orient, like grain before the blast, May bow its head, it rights itself when once the storm is past. How often has the Occident invaded our domains And boasted of its victories! Yet of them what remains? Seems India exceptional? Fools, judge not by a day! The horologe of centuries moves slowly in Cathay. The brilliant son of Macedon saw, crushed and pale with fear, The vanquished East from Babylon to Egypt and Cashmere; But though the conquered Orient lay helpless, as his slave, Of Alexander's influence how much survived his grave? Of Rome's prodigious armaments, to Asian conquests led, Where is there now a souvenir save relics of the dead? And of the vast Crusading hosts, which in their madness rose And hurled themselves repeatedly upon their Moslem foes,-- What is to-day the net result? A thousand years have passed, But none of all their vaunted gains proved great enough to last; The Saviour's tomb, Jerusalem, and all the sacred lands Connected with the Christian faith are still in Asian hands!

We needed rude awakening to rouse us from our sloth; It came among our northern isles, whose heroes, nothing loth, Unbarred their ports to modern fleets, their ancient life forswore, And learned from greedy foreigners the Christians' art of war. Behold! the world in fifty years is breathless with surprise, And Europe's greatest Government has sought us for allies! That little section of our mass aroused itself, and lo! Your largest Occidental Power has reeled beneath the blow; And while our living troops receive men's rapturous acclaim, Our fallen heroes have attained the Pantheon of fame. Yet think not we deceive ourselves; you praise, but really dread The valour of the Orient, if this awakening spread; Behind this movement of the East you think you hear the low, Long murmur of the Asians,--"The foreigner must go"! What wonder that we hate you all? You look on us to-day As lions look on antelopes,--their heaven-appointed prey; You know you have no lawful right to lands that you possess; You gained them all through violence, or lying and finesse; Your cursed opium alone, despite our prayers and tears, Has ruined millions of our race for more than two score years, And when we rose indignantly to right that bitter wrong, Your heavy guns bombarded us, and you annexed ... Hong Kong! You force yourselves on us, and ask concessions, favors, mines, Protection for your mission schools, and grants of railway lines, But when we cross the seas to you, an entry you refuse, And curse, illtreat, and harry us with loathing and abuse. Japan has shown the only way of keeping for our own The fertile fields which rightfully belong to us alone; We do not wish to arm ourselves, and fighting we abhor, But self-protection forces us to learn and practise war.

Hence, if assailed, we shall not shun a struggle with the West; Not bent on conquest, like yourselves, but, rising to the test Of "Asia for the Asians", defend our threatened farms By sending to encounter you a million men in arms. You think yourselves invincible? Learn something from Japan, The fever of whose chivalry now spreads from man to man, Encouraging the Orient to hasten on the day When all enlightened Asians shall cry "Enough! Away! Go exploit helpless Africa, where you have shamed the beast, But understand, your cruel day is over in the East!" You still have many things to learn, base worshippers of gold; When you were wild barbarians, our Governments were old! Your self-conceit and arrogance we therefore laugh to scorn; We had our laws millenniums before your courts were born. You talk by electricity, you ride on wings of steam, You thunder with machinery,--and these you proudly deem The grandest triumphs of the race, forgetting that mere speed In transference of men and things is less than one great deed.

You treat us condescendingly, as if our gifts were small, But do you think Almighty God has dowered you with all? Earth's greatest continent is ours; her highest mountains rise In unapproached sublimity beneath our starry skies; Ours, too, the cradle of the race; and at our Buddha's shrine Unequalled numbers of mankind adore him as divine. How dare you speak of Asian thought with pity or a sneer, When practically all you know originated here? What had you been, if our ideals, in art and faith expressed, Had not come down through Greece and Rome to civilize your West? The great religions of the world are all of Asian birth, And thence went forth resistlessly to dominate the earth. Of six we granted one to you; and you profess its creeds, But what a sorry travesty you make of it in deeds! The Christ taught love to enemies; His followers to-day Have trained the whole male Christian world their fellow men to slay! The very Bible that you prize was writ by Asian hands; Your prophets, saints, and patriarchs were all of Eastern lands; The Son of God, as you believe, was born a humble Jew; The Virgin Mother equally no other parents knew; Yet you have robbed and tortured Jews, and murdered them at will Through eighteen Christian centuries,--are killing thousands still!

The "Star of Empire," as you claim, has "westward" made its way; But what if now in Eastern skies it heralds a new day? You fondly dreamed its brilliant course had ended there with you, But on it moves, old lands to greet, and belt the globe anew! Its kindling rays revivify our nations, which have slept While round the world our influence through you has slowly crept. The coming century's great deeds lie not at Europe's doors; A grander stage awaits mankind,--the vast Pacific's shores; And we not only skirt that sea from Tokyo to Saigon, Our coastline fronts the western world from Syria to Ceylon! Again shall we supply to you the part of life you need; Again your slaves of strenuous toil shall live at slower speed; Once more, as pilgrims to a shrine, your chiefs shall come to me, And learn of my philosophy, as children at my knee. You cannot cut me from your past, nor cancel what you owe For all my sages gave to you two thousand years ago; For after twenty centuries you think, and speak, and pray Still much as I instructed you in Syria and Cathay. Keep you, then, the material, I hold the mental, realm; For you the ship's machinery, for me the guiding helm!

THE CAPTIVE

I opened the cage of my pet canary; Timid, it faltered a moment there, Then, at my call, became less wary, And blithely sprang to the buoyant air.

Brief was its dream of freedom's rapture; A window barred its sunward flight; It beat its wings in fear of capture, But found no way to the world of light.

Out in the park two birds were mating, Building together their tiny nest; Keenly the captive watched them, waiting, Pressing the glass with its throbbing breast.

Leaving at length the window-casing, Lighting by chance on a neighboring shelf, It stood before a mirror, facing The pretty form of its own sweet self.

Falling in love with its own reflection, Thinking it always another bird, Bravely it tried to win affection, Warbling tones I had never heard.

Hopeless alas! its tender wooing, Vainly it trilled its sweetest note, Coldly received was its ardent sueing, Silent the mirrored songster's throat.

Wearied at last, it flew off sadly, Back to the cage's open door, Back to the home it left so gladly Only a little hour before.

Dead are the lovers so fondly mated! Gone is their nest; it was blown away! But safe in the narrow cage it hated The captive sings on its perch to-day.

WEARINESS

Snowy sails, silvery sails, Gleaming in the sun, Leaving scores of jewelled trails In the course you run,

On your white wings bear away All my care and pain; I would for at least to-day Be a child again.

Just to thrill with youthful fire, Kindling heart and brain, Just to know the old desire Lofty heights to gain;

Just to hold the simple faith Into which I grew, When my God was not a wraith, And all men were true!

Shadowed sails, clouded sails, Life hath made me know That you leave no jewelled trails, Proudly though you go;

Drops that floods of diamonds seem Are but dazzling spray, Fleeting as a happy dream, Swift to fade away.

Distant sails, waning sails, Waft me to some shore Where corroding care prevails Never, nevermore!

Where the flotsam of the deep Finds its wanderings cease, And the shipwrecked sink to sleep On the strand of peace.

A MAY MONODY

Beside my opened window pane, Each morning in this month of May A blackbird sings in dulcet strain Two liquid notes, which seem to say "Come again! Come again!"

Alike in sunshine and in rain, Now loud and clear, now soft and low, He warbles forth the same refrain, Which haunts me with its hint of woe,-- "Come again! Come again!"

What bird, whose absence gives him pain, Doth he thus tenderly recall? What longed-for joy would he regain By those two words which rise and fall,-- "Come again! Come again!"

Sometimes, when I too long have lain And listened to his plaintive air, An impulse I cannot restrain Hath moved me too to breathe that prayer,-- "Come again! Come again!"

O vanished youth, when faith was plain, When hopes were high, and manhood's years Showed dazzling summits to attain; O days, ere eyes grew dim with tears,-- "Come again! Come again!"

O friends, whose memory leaves no stain, O dearly loved and early lost! Do you your love for me retain Beyond the silent sea you crossed? "Come again! Come again!"

Alas! sweet bird, all life moves on; The seed becomes the ripened grain, And what is past is gone, is gone! Cease calling, therefore,--'tis in vain--, "Come again! Come again!"

MY LOST FRIENDS

One by one they have slipped from Earth, And vanished into the depths of space, And I, beside my lonely hearth, Find none to take their place.

Never a word of fond farewell Fell from their lips ere they were gone; Never a hint since then to tell If after night came dawn!

Latest of all to thus depart, Still is thy hand-clasp warm in mine; Wilt thou not tell me where thou art? Canst thou impart no sign?

Wild are the winds above thy grave; Cold is the form I loved so well; But what to thee are storms that rave, Or the snow that last night fell?

Out in the awful void of night, Numberless suns and planets roll; Has one of all those isles of light Received thy homeless soul?

Mute is the sky as an empty tomb; Trackless the path, and all unknown; What means this journey through its gloom, Which each must make alone?

Vain is the task; I strive no more To learn the secret of their fate; Till sounds for me the muffled oar, I can but hope and wait.

But well I know they have gone from me Into the silent depths of space, Across a vast, uncharted sea, Whose shores I cannot trace.

TO SLEEP AND TO FORGET

To sleep and to forget,--O blessèd guerdon! The day is waning, and the night draws near; My failing heart grows weary of its burden; Why should I therefore hesitate or fear To sleep and to forget?

Though bright my skies with transient gleams of gladness, And sweet the breath of many a summer sea, Yet, under all, a haunting note of sadness Forever lures me in its minor key To sleep and to forget.

Of petty souls whose joy is defamation, Of malice, envy, cruelty, and greed Each day supplies its sickening revelation, And makes imperative my spirit's need To sleep and to forget.

Let others bravely plan for death's to-morrow, And crave fresh progress toward a higher goal! Appalled by Earth's long tragedy of sorrow, I humbly ask one favor for my soul, When this life's sun is set,-- To sleep and to forget.

IN SILENCE

She sees our faces bright and gay, Our moving lips, our laughing eyes, But scarce a word of what we say Can pass the zone that round her lies;--

A zone of stillness,--strange, profound, Invisible to mortal eye, Upon whose verge the waves of sound In muffled murmurs break and die.

Across that silent void she strains To catch at least some wingèd word, And, though she fails, still smiles and feigns The poor pretence of having heard.

That smile! Its pathos wrings the heart Of many a friend, who yet conceals The tears that from his eyelids start, The grief and pity that he feels.

And she, aware of our distress, And sadly conscious of her own, Still bravely speaks, nor dares confess That our real meaning is unknown.

What rapture, when the closing door Shuts out the world and gives release, And on her quivering nerves once more Descends the benison of peace!

No longer forced to dimly read Men's meanings from their lips and looks, Her greatest joy, her only need The sweet companionship of books!

Do we thus ever fully know The boon of leaving far behind The world's dull tales of crime and woe, The gossip of its vacant mind?

What if her loss be really gain, That zone of silence a defence, A compensation for her pain, A quickening of her psychic sense?

Perhaps when fall at last away The chains which bind her spirit here, A voice divine will gently say In tones which reach alone her ear,--

"While others in that world of sin Heard evil things, to thee unknown, Apart from that defiling din Thy spirit grew, in strength, alone.

"They must through other lives return To slowly earn thy strength of soul; Through suffering only couldst thou learn The virtue that hath made thee whole."

AT THE VILLA OF THE EMPEROR FREDERICK III AT SAN REMO

San Remo's palms in beauty stand
Beside the storied sea,
Where azure band and golden sand
Are wedded ceaselessly;
For from the deep, which seems to sleep,
The slow waves, long and low,
Their journeys done, break one by one
In rhythmic ebb and flow.

Before me lies a fair retreat,
Whose every breath brings balm
From plants replete with odors sweet
And many a fronded palm;
Hence at its gate I, spellbound, wait
To feast my gladdened eyes
On buds that wake and flowers that make
A perfumed paradise.

Alas, that love could not avail
To guard this sweet repose!
That strength should fail, and life prove frail
And fleeting as the rose!
So fair! and yet, who can forget
The heir to Prussia's throne,
Who here fought death with labored breath,
And faced the great Unknown?

O Spirit of the Fatherland,
O love that changeth not,
Thy filial hand hath made this strand
A consecrated spot;
For on the wall, where roses fall,
Bronze words recall his fate,--
A sceptre won ... when life was done,
An empire gained ... too late!

"Halt, wanderer from a German shore!"
(Thus runs the sad refrain,)
"Here dwelt thine Emperor, here he bore
With fortitude his pain;
Hear'st thou the lone, low monotone
Of billows tempest-tossed?
In that long roll the German soul
Still mourns for him she lost."

San Remo's stately palms still rise
Beside the storied shore;
But he now lies 'neath northern skies,
At peace forevermore,
In that calm, deep, untroubled sleep,
Whose secret none may know,
While, one by one,--their courses run,--
The long waves ebb and flow.

IN A COLUMBARIUM

The autumn sun still bravely streams Along the tomb-girt Appian Way, And warms the heart of one who dreams Of all its splendor on the day When Scipio triumphed, bringing home The spoils of Africa to Rome.

On this same road the conqueror came, Called "Africanus, the Divine" By thousands who adored his fame, And proudly watched the endless line Of Punic captives in his train, And trophies, won on Zama's plain.

To-day the vast Campagna rolls In stately grandeur to the sea, But where are now the countless souls Whose dwelling-place this used to be, When all its space to Ostia's gate Lay peopled and inviolate?

Ask of the Claudian arches gray Which stride toward Rome in broken lines; Ask of the lizards at their play On relics of the Antonines; Ask of the fever-blighted shore, Where Roman galleys ride no more!

Yet some poor traces still remain Of those who here have lived and died; For underneath this solemn plain The Christian catacombs still hide,-- A city of sepulchral gloom, The martyrs' labyrinthine tomb.

Moreover, in this classic soil, Where sleeps so much of ancient Rome, A simple peasant at his toil Discovered 'neath the upturned loam The spot to which I now have come,-- A Roman Columbarium.

Down through its modern, open door A flood of mellow sunshine falls In golden waves from roof to floor, Revealing in its moss-grown walls The "dove-cotes", where one still discerns The fragments of old funeral urns.

One vacant niche, whose ampler space Betokens special love and care, Contained no doubt a sculptured face Above the hallowed ashes there; While, just beneath, faint letters spell A faithful woman's fond farewell.

How often on love's wingèd feet She doubtless sought this dear recess, To deck with floral offerings sweet Her sepulchre of happiness, Whose script, despite two thousand years, Preserves the memory of her tears!

Rome's annals hint not of the name Of him whose dust lay treasured here, But could the fleeting breath of fame Have made him to her heart more dear? A word of tenderness outweighs In woman's soul a world of praise.

What though, remote from pomp and state, At Caesar's court he could not shine? Less blest had surely been his fate Upon the lustful Palatine! And mutual love, wherever viewed, Is life's supreme beatitude.

Alas! the urn no longer stands Within the little alcove dim; Gone also are the faithful hands That hung sweet roses on its rim; And vanished even is the bust Which watched above the sacred dust.

Yet still its words of love survive The shocks and tragedies of time, And bid our drooping hearts revive, Inculcating the faith sublime That, while the urn in ruin lies, Love soars immortal to the skies.

DISCOURAGEMENT

"Forward, comrades, ever forward"! Shout the leaders in the fight; "Scale the ramparts! Plant the standard On the citadel of light!

"Break the chains of superstition! Crush corruption! Free the slave! Plant the flowers of love and mercy On the past's ensanguined grave!

"Toward the strongholds of oppression Lead again the hope forlorn! See! the night is disappearing; Lo! the coming of the morn"!

Bravely said; yet men have spoken Just as bravely long ago, When the hair had raven blackness Which is now as white as snow;

And alas! how many thousands Have responded to that call, Whose forgotten corpses moulder By the still beleaguered wall!

Forms have changed and words have altered, But the things remain the same; Still doth man enslave his brother,-- Always master, save in name.

Still are God's dumb creatures tortured, Racial hatreds never cease, And man's greatest self-delusion Is the shibboleth of "Peace."

Hence, while youth, with hope and courage, Loudly vents its noble rage; Age, profoundly disillusioned, Sad and silent leaves the stage.

Round the classic Inland Ocean, Where the Roman world held sway, Storied shores are iridescent With the splendor of decay;

Persia, Syria, Egypt, Athens, Proud Byzantium, Carthage, Spain,-- In their mournful desolation Hear the old sea's sad refrain:--

"Rising, falling, waxing, waning, Men and nations come and go; Reaching glory, then declining, As the ebb succeeds the flow.

"All florescence is but fleeting: Each in turn enjoys its day, Hath its seed-time, bud and flower, And as surely fades away.

"Growth, maturity, decadence,-- Form mankind's unchanging role, And the dead past's sombre ruins Are prophetic of the whole."

"Nay," you cry in bitter protest, "Shall man have no perfect end, No millennial culmination, Toward which all the ages tend?

"Must all races prove decadent? Shall not one produce in time Perfect types of men and women In a world devoid of crime?"

Scan the lurid past, and tell us On what ground you base your hopes! Does an endless line of failures Warrant brighter horoscopes?

Hath not every race and nation Sunk from grandeur to decay? What shall save us, then, from ruin? Are we better men than they?

"Great inventors", say you? Granted; Such material gifts are ours; Every age hath some distinction, Every race its special powers.

But the progress is not lasting, And the special powers decline; Man's advance is never constant In one grand, unbroken line.

Nor is ground, once lost, recovered; Greece and Rome are not replaced! All the sites of pagan learning Still lie desolate and waste.

What know we,--except in physics--, That the ancients did not know? Are we wiser than the sages Of two thousand years ago?

More devout than Hebrew prophets? More upright than Antonine? More accomplished than the Grecians, Or than Buddha more divine?

And if such men could not hinder Fate's resistless rise and fall, How can we expect exemption From the common lot of all?

Let us frankly face the prospect That man's progress here may fail; That the race may never triumph, But again descend the scale,

Till the last surviving savage To his glacial cave retires, And earth's tragic drama closes, As humanity expires!

And why not? All weaker species To the stronger yield their place; May the same law not be needed Through the boundless realms of space?

By whatever beings peopled, Worlds that fail to meet the test May like fruitless blossoms perish; God will winnow out the best.

Would you know our planet's value? View the star-strewn dome of night! In that shoreless sea of splendor What is one faint wave of light?

Worlds by millions are revolving Through that vast, unfathomed main; Should our tiny orb make shipwreck, Worlds by millions would remain;

Where perchance a real advancement May prevail from pole to pole, Without losses, without lapses, Toward a final, perfect goal.

This at least can not be doubted,-- That our globe will one day roll Cold and lifeless thro' its orbit, Like a corpse without its soul.

Will mankind have reached perfection Ere that epoch has begun, Or grown bestial, as the heat-waves Issue feebly from the sun?

None may know. Through blood-stained cycles We have thus far made our way: Of the unknown depths beneath us We are nothing but the spray.

MÉSALLIANCE

With gentle manners, winsome face, And forehead fit to wear a crown, How brilliant might have been her place, Had she not mated with a clown,--

A Caliban of modern date, Ill-dressed, ill-shapen, ill at ease, With halting speech and awkward gait, And manners certain to displease!

What secret motive could have led This charming girl her life to stain By condescending thus to wed A husband whom she must disdain?

Far worthier men had vainly sought To win her for herself alone; What potent spell could Love have wrought To draw her to a tactless drone?

A palace she might well have graced. And led its functions like a queen; Instead, her life has run to waste, The wraith of what it might have been.

For boorishness hath brought its blight; Her rare accomplishments are marred, And every path, with promise bright, By stupid tyranny is barred.

Yet still she bravely moves through life, Ignoring her pathetic fall;-- A loveless, broken-hearted wife; Alas, the pity of it all!

IN A MODERN CITY

Dreary fog and drizzling sleet, And a lamp-lit track of slime; Phantoms dim in the misty street, Vanishing, streaked with grime; Overhead in a spurious night, Formed by the vapors dun, Wraith-like globes of haloed light, Mocking the hidden sun;--

Children, shod in sodden shoes, (That is a sight that hurts;) Women, furrowing filthy ooze In thin, bedraggled skirts; Horses, lashed with cruel zest, Ploughing the fumid fog; Hark! ... a car, with no arrest, Killing a howling dog;--

Clanging trams, with haggard men Forcing their way within,-- Some compressed in a steaming-pen, Others soaked to the skin; Smoke and soot in the murky sky, Death in the tainted air, Each aware, were he to die, None in the crowd would care;--

Here and there a carriage fine, Cleaving the reeking mass; Scowling faces, ranged in line, Watching the rich man pass; Envy's gleam in many an eye, Hate in many a threat; Why should he be warm and dry, And they be cold and wet?

Pictures these of the "Passing Show," Scenes in a world gone wrong, Wretched weaklings, born to woe, Crushed by the brutal strong! Breaking hearts that crave release, Slaves to a ceaseless strife! ... I will go back to sylvan peace And a sight of the Source of Life.

MY BORES

I take their hands with placid smile And words which social rules enforce, Though sadly conscious all the while Of something very like remorse, Because beneath the mask I wear I really wish they were not there.

Their visits I at heart resent; The half-read volume haunts my thought; The urgent note remains unsent; The verse, unfinished, comes to naught; And all because, on some pretence, They waste their time at my expense.

Yet no grim misanthrope am I, Who fears, distrusts, and hates his race; I merely wish them to pass by, And seek some other lounging-place; For, frankly, I should love them more A little further from my door.

In vain I make no answering calls; They blandly smile and come again! Nay, even bring within my walls More curious strangers in their train, "Who wished so much your home to see!" Why do they never think of me?

The few I want I can invite; Hence why should others thus intrude? How dare they give themselves the right, Unasked, to spoil my solitude? And why presume I care to know More triflers in their world of show?

Their idle life, on pleasure bent, Their mania for some silly game, Their hours in stupid gossip spent,-- Would give me self-contempt and shame; Between us is no common ground On which a comradeship to found.

A word or two upon the street Suffice me with the most of men; Beyond a greeting, when we meet. I care not if we speak again; My books and Nature's charming face Such human consorts well replace.

Not all, indeed; for who but yearns To call some kindred heart his own? Some friend to whom he fondly turns, And with whom he is still alone, Since each, while absolutely free, Respects the other's privacy.

To such his pent-up love o'erflows; With such his soul's seclusion ends; For each the other's nature knows, And every motive comprehends; So perfectly do both agree, So close their bond of sympathy!