Behind the Arras Part 9

Slowly therefore, Niccolo, and softly, With more memories than tongue can tell, Lower me down the slope of life, and leave me Knowing the hereafter will be well.

Close with, "Love is but the perfect knowledge, The one thing no failure can befall; Lovingkindness betters loving credence; Love and only love is best of all."

Beauty, beauty, beauty, sense and seeming, With the soul of truth she calls her lord!

Stars and men the dust upon her garment; Hope and fear the echoes of her word.

How escape we then, the rainbow's brothers, Endless being with each blade and sod?

Dust and shadow between whence and whither, Part of the tranquillity of G.o.d.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE JUGGLER]

_The Juggler_

Look how he throws them up and up, The beautiful golden b.a.l.l.s!

They hang aloft in the purple air, And there never is one that falls.

He sends them hot from his steady hand, He teaches them all their curves; And whether the reach be little or long, There never is one that swerves.

Some, like the tiny red one there, He never lets go far; And some he has sent to the roof of the tent To swim without a jar.

So white and still they seem to hang, You wonder if he forgot To reckon the time of their return And measure their golden lot.

Can it be that, hurried or tired out, The hand of the juggler shook?

O never you fear, his eye is clear, He knows them all like a book.

And they will home to his hand at last, For he pulls them by a cord Finer than silk and strong as fate, That is just the bid of his word.

Was ever there such a sight in the world?

Like a wonderful winding skein,-- The way he tangles them up together And ravels them out again!

He has so many moving now, You can hardly believe your eyes; And yet they say he can handle twice The number when he tries.

You take your choice and give me mine, I know the one for me, It's that great bluish one low down Like a ship's light out at sea.

It has not moved for a minute or more.

The marvel that it can keep As if it had been set there to spin For a thousand years asleep!

If I could have him at the inn All by myself some night,-- Inquire his country, and where in the world He came by that cunning sleight!

Where do you guess he learned the trick To hold us gaping here, Till our minds in the spell of his maze almost Have forgotten the time of year?

One never could have the least idea.

Yet why be disposed to twit A fellow who does such wonderful things With the merest lack of wit?

Likely enough, when the show is done And the b.a.l.l.s all back in his hand, He'll tell us why he is smiling so, And we shall understand.

_Hack and Hew_

Hack and Hew were the sons of G.o.d In the earlier earth than now; One at his right hand, one at his left, To obey as he taught them how.

And Hack was blind and Hew was dumb, But both had the wild, wild heart; And G.o.d's calm will was their burning will, And the gist of their toil was art.

They made the moon and the belted stars, They set the sun to ride; They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea, The wind and the purple tide.

Both flower and beast beneath their hands To beauty and speed outgrew,-- The furious fumbling hand of Hack, And the glorying hand of Hew.

Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man, And painted him rosy brown; And G.o.d himself blew hard in his eyes: "Let them burn till they smoulder down!"

And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought Hew, "We'll rest, for our toil is done."

But "Nay," the Master Workman said, "For your toil is just begun.

"And ye who served me of old as G.o.d Shall serve me anew as man, Till I compa.s.s the dream that is in my heart, And perfect the vaster plan."

And still the craftsman over his craft, In the vague white light of dawn, With G.o.d's calm will for his burning will, While the mounting day comes on.

Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild, Toils with those shadowy two,-- The faltering restless hand of Hack, And the tireless hand of Hew.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

_The Night Express_

Out through the hills of midnight, Hurtling and thundering on, The night express from the outer world Speeds for the open of dawn.

Out of the past and gloom-wrack, Out of the dim and yore, Freighted as train or caravan Was never freighted before;

Built when the Sphinx's query Was new on the lips of peace; Hurled through the aching and hollow years Till time shall have release;

Stealing and swift as a shadow, Sinuous, urging, and blind, Unpent as a joy or the flight of a bird, With oblivion behind;

Down to the morrow country Into the unknown land!

And the Driver grips the throttle-bar; Our lives are in his hand.

The sleeping hills awake; A tremor, a dread, a roar; The terror is flying, is come, is past; The hills can sleep once more.

A moment the silence throbs, The dark has a pulse of fire; And then the wonder of time is gone, A wraith and a desire.

Demonish, toiling, grim, In the ruddy furnace flare, While the Driver fingers the throttle-bar, Who stands at his elbow there?

Can it be, this thing like a shred Of the firmament torn away, Is a boarded train that Death and his crew Consorted to waylay?