Poems By the Way Part 20

Lo! lo! the dawn-blink yonder, The sunrise draweth nigh, And men forget to wonder That they were born to die.

Then praise the deed that wendeth Through the daylight and the mirth!

The tale that never endeth Whoso may dwell on earth.

ALL FOR THE CAUSE.

Hear a word, a word in season, for the day is drawing nigh, When the Cause shall call upon us, some to live, and some to die!

He that dies shall not die lonely, many an one hath gone before; He that lives shall bear no burden heavier than the life they bore.

Nothing ancient is their story, e'en but yesterday they bled, Youngest they of earth's beloved, last of all the valiant dead.

E'en the tidings we are telling, was the tale they had to tell, E'en the hope that our hearts cherish, was the hope for which they fell.

In the grave where tyrants thrust them, lies their labour and their pain, But undying from their sorrow springeth up the hope again.

Mourn not therefore, nor lament it, that the world outlives their life; Voice and vision yet they give us, making strong our hands for strife.

Some had name, and fame, and honour, learn'd they were, and wise and strong; Some were nameless, poor, unlettered, weak in all but grief and wrong.

Named and nameless all live in us; one and all they lead us yet Every pain to count for nothing, every sorrow to forget.

Hearken how they cry, "O happy, happy ye that ye were born In the sad slow night's departing, in the rising of the morn.

"Fair the crown the Cause hath for you, well to die or well to live Through the battle, through the tangle, peace to gain or peace to give."

Ah, it may be! Oft meseemeth, in the days that yet shall be, When no slave of gold abideth 'twixt the breadth of sea to sea,

Oft, when men and maids are merry, ere the sunlight leaves the earth, And they bless the day beloved, all too short for all their mirth,

Some shall pause awhile and ponder on the bitter days of old, Ere the toil of strife and battle overthrew the curse of gold;

Then 'twixt lips of loved and lover solemn thoughts of us shall rise; We who once were fools defeated, then shall be the brave and wise.

There amidst the world new-builded shall our earthly deeds abide, Though our names be all forgotten, and the tale of how we died.

Life or death then, who shall heed it, what we gain or what we lose?

Fair flies life amid the struggle, and the Cause for each shall choose.

Hear a word, a word in season, for the day is drawing nigh, When the Cause shall call upon us, some to live, and some to die!

PAIN AND TIME STRIVE NOT.

What part of the dread eternity Are those strange minutes that I gain, Mazed with the doubt of love and pain, When I thy delicate face may see, A little while before farewell?

What share of the world's yearning-tide That flash, when new day bare and white Blots out my half-dream's faint delight, And there is nothing by my side, And well remembered is farewell?

What drop in the grey flood of tears That time, when the long day toiled through, Worn out, shows nought for me to do, And nothing worth my labour bears The longing of that last farewell?

What pity from the heavens above, What heed from out eternity, What word from the swift world for me?

Speak, heed, and pity, O tender love, Who knew'st the days before farewell!

DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT.

Lo, when we wade the tangled wood, In haste and hurry to be there, Nought seem its leaves and blossoms good, For all that they be fashioned fair.

But looking up, at last we see The glimmer of the open light, From o'er the place where we would be: Then grow the very brambles bright.

So now, amidst our day of strife, With many a matter glad we play, When once we see the light of life Gleam through the tangle of to-day.

VERSES FOR PICTURES.

_Day_.

I am Day; I bring again Life and glory, Love and pain: Awake, arise! from death to death Through me the World's tale quickeneth.

_Spring_.

Spring am I, too soft of heart Much to speak ere I depart: Ask the Summer-tide to prove The abundance of my love.

_Summer_.

Summer looked for long am I; Much shall change or e'er I die.

Prithee take it not amiss Though I weary thee with bliss.

_Autumn_.

Laden Autumn here I stand Worn of heart, and weak of hand: Nought but rest seems good to me, Speak the word that sets me free.

_Winter_.

I am Winter, that do keep Longing safe amidst of sleep: Who shall say if I were dead What should be remembered?