The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 12

The world is full of warfare 'twixt the evil and the good; I watched the battle from afar as one who understood The shouting and confusion, the b.l.o.o.d.y, blundering fight-- How few there are that see it clear, how few that wage it right!

The captains flushed with foolish pride, the soldiers pale with fear, The faltering flags, the feeble fire from ranks that swerve and veer, The wild mistakes, the dismal doubts, the coward hearts that flee-- The good cause needs a n.o.bler knight to win the victory.

A man whose soul is pure and strong, whose sword is bright and keen, Who knows the splendour of the fight and what its issues mean; Who never takes one step aside, nor halts, though hope be dim, But cleaves a pathway thro' the strife, and bids men follow him.

No blot upon his stainless shield, no weakness in his arm; No sign of trembling in his face to break his valour's charm: A man like this could stay the flight and lead the wavering line; Ah, give me but a year of life--I'll make that glory mine!

Religion? Yes, I know it well; I've heard its prayers and creeds, And seen men put them all to shame with poor, half-hearted deeds.

They follow Christ, but far away; they wander and they doubt.

I'll serve him in a better way, and live his precepts out.

You see, I waited just for this; I could not be content To own a feeble, faltering faith with human weakness blent.

Too many runners in the race move slowly, stumble, fall; But I will run so straight and swift I shall outstrip them all.

Oh, think what it will mean to men, amid their foolish strife, To see the clear, unshadowed light of one true Christian life, Without a touch of selfishness, without a taint of sin,-- With one short month of such a life a new world would begin!

And love!--I often dream of that--the treasure of the earth; How little they who use the coin have realised its worth!

'Twill pay all debts, enrich all hearts, and make all joys secure.

But love, to do its perfect work, must be sincere and pure.

My heart is full of virgin gold. I'll pour it out and spend My hidden wealth with open hand on all who call me friend.

Not one shall miss the kindly deed, the largess of relief, The generous fellowship of joy, the sympathy of grief.

I'll say the loyal, helpful things that make life sweet and fair, I'll pay the grat.i.tude I owe for human love and care.

Perhaps I've been at fault sometimes--I'll ask to be forgiven, And make this little room of mine seem like a bit of heaven.

For one by one I'll call my friends to stand beside my bed; I'll speak the true and tender words so often left unsaid; And every heart shall throb and glow, all coldness melt away Around my altar-fire of love--ah, give me but one day!

What's that? I've had another day, and wasted it again?

A priceless day in empty dreams, another chance in vain?

Thou fool--this night--it's very dark--the last--this choking breath-- One prayer--have mercy on a dreamer's soul--G.o.d, this is death!

A LEGEND OF SERVICE

It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!) To hear, one day, report from those who came With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy, To tell of earthly tasks in His employ.

For some were grieved because they saw how slow The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow; And some were glad because their eyes had seen, Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green.

At last, before the whiteness of the throne The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone; Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought, And thus his tidings to the Master brought "Lord, in the city Lupon I have found Three servants of thy holy name, renowned Above their fellows. One is very wise, With thoughts that ever range beyond the skies; And one is gifted with the golden speech That makes men gladly hear when he will teach; And one, with no rare gift or grace endued, Has won the people's love by doing good.

With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest; But, Lord, I fain would know, which loves Thee best?"

Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look The hearts of all are like an open book: "In every soul the secret thought I read, And well I know who loves me best indeed.

But every life has pages vacant still, Whereon a man may write the thing he will; Therefore I read the record, day by day, And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way.

But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three Who serve me there, and take this word from me: Tell each of them his Master bids him go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow; There he shall find a certain task for me: But what, I do not tell to them nor thee.

Give thou the message, make my word the test, And crown for me the one who loves me best."

Silent the angel stood, with folded hands, To take the imprint of his Lord's commands; Then drew one breath, obedient and elate, And pa.s.sed the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate.

First to the Temple door he made his way; And there, because it was a holy-day, He saw the folk in thousands thronging, stirred By ardent thirst to hear the preacher's word.

Then, while the people whispered Bernol's name, Through aisles that hushed behind him Bernol came; Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious might, With lips prepared and firm, and eyes alight.

One moment at the pulpit step he knelt In silent prayer, and on his shoulder felt The angel's hand:--"The Master bids thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." Then Bernol's hidden face Went white as death, and for about the s.p.a.ce Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply; Till Bernol looked around and whispered, "_Why?_"

But answer to his question came there none; The angel sighed, and with a sigh was gone.

Within the humble house where Malvin spent His studious years, on holy things intent, Sweet stillness reigned; and there the angel found The saintly sage immersed in thought profound, Weaving with patient toil and willing care A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair: A seamless robe for Truth's great bridal meet, And needing but one thread to be complete.

Then Asmiel touched his hand, and broke the thread Of fine-spun thought, and very gently said, "The One of whom thou thinkest bids thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." With sorrow and surprise Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes.

The broken thought, the strangeness of the call, The perilous pa.s.sage of the mountain-wall, The solitary journey, and the length Of ways unknown, too great for his frail strength, Appalled him. With a doubtful brow He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered "_How?_"

But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go, With cold, disheartened voice, "I do not know."

Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek The third and last to whom G.o.d bade him speak, Scarce twenty steps away whom should he meet But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the street, With ready heart that faced his work like play, And joyed to find it greater every day!

The angel stopped him with uplifted hand, And gave without delay his Lord's command: "He whom thou servest here would have thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." Ere Asmiel breathed again The eager answer leaped to meet him, "_When?_"

The angel's face with inward joy grew bright, And all his figure glowed with heavenly light; He took the golden circlet from his brow And gave the crown to Fermor, answering, "Now!

For thou hast met the Master's hidden test, And I have found the man who loves Him best.

Not thine, nor mine, to question or reply When He commands us, asking 'how?' or 'why?'

He knows the cause; His ways are wise and just; Who serves the King must serve with perfect trust."

February, 1902.

THE WHITE BEES

I

LEGEND

Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest of the shepherds, Saying, "I will make you keeper of my bees."

Golden were the hives and golden was the honey; golden, too, the music Where the honey-makers hummed among the trees.

Happy Aristaeus loitered in the garden, wandered in the orchard, Careless and contented, indolent and free; Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure, till the fated moment When across his pathway came Eurydice.

Then her eyes enkindled burning love within him; drove him wild with longing For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like face; Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him, over mead and mountain, On through field and forest, in a breathless race.

But the nymph, in flying, trod upon a serpent; like a dream she vanished; Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead!

Lonely Aristaeus, sadly home returning, found his garden empty, All the hives deserted, all the music fled.