'All's Well!' by John Oxenham (best book clubs txt) 📕

my soul is sick with loss.
    "Dear one, I know. My heart broke on the Cross."

  What most I loved is gone. I walk alone.
    "My Love shall more than fill his place, my own."

  The burden is too great for me to bear.
    "Not when I'm here to take an equal share."

  The road is long, and very wearisome.
    "Just on in front I see the light of home."

  The night is black; I fear to go astray.
    "Hold My hand fast. I'll lead you all the way."

  My eyes are dim, with weeping all the night.
    "With one soft kiss I will restore your sight."

  And Thou wilt do all this for me?—for me?
    "For this I came—to bear you company."

ALPHA—OMEGA

  Curly head, and laughing eyes,—
  Mischief that all blame defies.

  Cricket,—footer,—Eton-jacket,—
  Everlasting din and racket.

  Tennis,—boating,—socks and ties,—
  Tragedies,—and comedies.

  Business,—sobered,—getting on,—
  One girl now,—The Only One.

  London Scottish,—sporran,—kilt,—
  Bonnet cocked at proper tilt.

  Dies Irae!—Off to France,—
  Lord,—a safe deliverance!

  Deadly work,—foul gases,—trenches;
  Naught that radiant spirit quenches.

  Letters dated "Somewhere—France,"—
  Mud,—and grub,—and no romance.

  Hearts at home all on the quiver,
  Telegrams make backbones shiver.

  Silence!—Feverish enquiry;—
  Dies Irae!—Dies Irae!

  His the joy,—and ours the pain,
  But, ere long, we'll meet again.

  Not too much we'll sorrow—for
  It's both "à Dieu!" and "au revoir!"

HAIL!—AND FAREWELL!

  They died that we might live,—
  Hail!—And Farewell!
  —All honour give
  To those who, nobly striving, nobly fell,
  That we might live!

  That we might live they died,—
  Hail!—And Farewell!
  —Their courage tried,
  By every mean device of treacherous hate,
  Like Kings they died.

  Eternal honour give,—
  Hail!—And Farewell!—
  —To those who died,
  In that full splendour of heroic pride,
  That we might live!

A SILENT TE DEUM

  We thank Thee, Lord,
  For all Thy Golden Silences,—
  For every Sabbath from the world's turmoil;
  For every respite from the stress of life;—
  Silence of moorlands rolling to the skies,
  Heath-purpled, bracken-clad, aflame with gorse;
  Silence of grey tors crouching in the mist;
  Silence of deep woods' mystic cloistered calm;
  Silence of wide seas basking in the sun;
  Silence of white peaks soaring to the blue;
  Silence of dawnings, when, their matins sung,
  The little birds do fall asleep again;
  For the deep silence of high golden noons;
  Silence of gloamings and the setting sun;
  Silence of moonlit nights and patterned glades;
  Silence of stars, magnificently still,
  Yet ever chanting their Creator's skill;
  For that high silence of Thine Open House,
  Dim-branching roof and lofty-pillared aisle,
  Where burdened hearts find rest in Thee awhile;
  Silence of friendship, telling more than words;
  Silence of hearts, close-knitting heart to heart
  Silence of joys too wonderful for words;
  Silence of sorrows, when Thou drawest near;
  Silence of soul, wherein we come to Thee,
  And find ourselves in Thine Immensity;
  For that great silence where Thou dwell'st alone—
  —Father, Spirit, Son, in One,
  Keeping watch above Thine Own,—
  Deep unto deep, within us sound sweet chords
  Of praise beyond the reach of human words;
  In our souls' silence, feeling only Thee,—
            We thank Thee, thank Thee,
                Thank Thee, Lord!

THE NAMELESS GRAVES

  Unnamed at times, at times unknown,
  Our graves lie thick beyond the seas;
  Unnamed, but not of Him unknown;—
  He knows!—He sees!

  And not one soul has fallen in vain.
  Here was no useless sacrifice.
  From this red sowing of white seed
  New life shall rise.

  All that for which they fought lives on,
  And flourishes triumphantly;
  Watered with blood and hopeful tears,
  It could not die.

  The world was sinking in a slough
  Of sloth, and ease, and selfish greed;
  God surely sent this scourge to mould
  A nobler creed.

  Birth comes with travail; all these woes
  Are birth-pangs of the days to be.
  Life's noblest things are ever born
  In agony.

  So—comfort to the stricken heart!
  Take solace in the thought that he
  You mourn was called by God to such
  High dignity.

BLINDED!

  You that still have your sight,
  Remember me!—
  I risked my life, I lost my eyes,
  That you might see.

  Now in the dark I go,
  That you have light.
  Yours, all the joy of day,
  I have but night.

  Yours still, the faces dear,
  The fields, the sky.
  For me—ah me!—there's nought
  But this black misery!

  In this unending night,
  I can but see
  What once I saw, and fain
  Would see again.
  O, midnight of black pain!
  Come, Comrade Death,
  Come quick, and set me free,
  And give me back my eyes again!

* * * * *

  Nay then, Christ's vicar,
  You who bear our pain,
  Ours be it now to see
  Your dark days lighted,
  And your way made plain.

SAID THE WOUNDED ONE:—

  Just see that we get full value
  Of that for which we have paid.
  The price has been a heavy one,
  But the goods are there—and _we've paid-.
  We've paid in our toil and our woundings;
  We've paid in the blood we've shed;
  We've paid in our bitter hardships;
  We've paid with our many dead.

  It's not payment in kind we ask for,
  Two wrongs don't make much of a right.
  All we ask is—that, what we have paid for,
  You secure for us, all right and tight.

  The Peace of the World's what we're after;
  We've all had enough of King Cain,
  And the Kaiser and all his bully-men,
  With their World-Power big on the brain.

  No!—we fought with a definite object,
  And it's this—and we want it made plain,—
  That it's God, and not any devil,
  That's to rule in the world again,

OUR SHARE

  And we ourselves? Are our hands clean?
  Are our souls free from blame
  For this world-tragedy?
  Nay then! Like all the rest,
  We had relaxed our hold on higher things,
  And satisfied ourselves with smaller.
  Ease, pleasure, greed of gold,—
  Laxed morals even in these,—
  We suffered them, as unaware
  Of their soul-cankerings.
  We had slipped back along the sloping way,
  No longer holding First Things First,
  But throning gods emasculate,—
  Idols of our own fashioning,
  Heads of sham gold and feet of crumbling clay.
  If we would build anew, and build to stay,
  We must find God again,
  And go His way.

POLICEMAN X

  "Shall it be Peace?
  A voice within me cried and would not cease,—
  'One man could do it if he would but dare.'"
    (From "Policeman X" in "Bees in Amber.")

EPILOGUE, 1914

  He did not dare!
  His swelling pride laid wait
  On opportunity, then dropped the mask
  And tempted Fate, cast loaded dice,—and lost;
  Nor recked the cost of losing.

    "Their souls are mine.
    Their lives were in thy hand;—
    Of thee I do require them!"

  The Voice, so stern and sad, thrilled my heart's core
  And shook me where I stood.
  Sharper than sharpest sword, it fell on him
  Who stood defiant, muffle-cloaked and helmed,
  With eyes that burned, impatient to be gone.

    "The fetor of thy grim burnt offerings
    Comes up to me in clouds of bitterness.
    Thy fell undoings crucify afresh
    Thy Lord—who died alike for these and thee.
    Thy works are Death;—thy spear is in my side,—
    O man! O man!—was it for this I died?

  Was it for this?—
    A valiant people harried, to the void,—
    Their fruitful fields a burnt-out wilderness,—
    Their prosperous country ravelled into waste,—
    Their smiling land a vast red sepulchre.—
            —Thy work!

  For this?—
    —Black clouds of smoke that vail the sight of heaven;
    Black piles of stones which yesterday were homes;
    And raw black heaps which once were villages;
    Fair towns in ashes, spoiled to suage thy spleen;
    My temples desecrate, My priests out-cast;—
    Black ruin everywhere, and red,—a land
    All swamped with blood, and savaged raw and bare;
    All sickened with the reek and stench of war,
    And flung a prey to pestilence and want;
          —Thy work!

  For this?—
    —Life's fair white flower of manhood in the dust;
    Ten thousand thousand hearts made desolate;
    My troubled world a seething pit of hate;
    My helpless ones the victims of thy lust;—
    The broken maids lift hopeless eyes to Me,
    The little ones lift handless arms to Me,
    The tortured women lift white lips to Me,
    The eyes of murdered white-haired sires and dames
    Stare up at Me.—And the sad anguished eyes
    Of My dumb beasts in agony.
          —Thy work!

    Outrage on outrage thunders to the sky
    The tale of thy stupendous infamy,—
    Thy slaughterings,—thy treacheries,—thy thefts,—
    Thy broken pacts,—thy honour in the mire,—
    Thy poor humanity cast off to sate thy pride;—
    'Twere better thou hadst never lived,—or died
    Ere come to this.
    Thou art the man! The scales were in thy hand.
    For this vast wrong I hold thy soul in fee.
    Seek not a scapegoat for thy righteous due,
    Nor hope to void thy countability.
    Until thou purge thy pride and turn to Me,—
    As thou hast done, so be it unto thee!"

  The shining eyes, so stern, and sweet, and sad,
  Searched the hard face for sign of hopeful grace.
  But grace was none. Enarmoured in his pride,
  With brusque salute the other turned, and strode
  Adown the night of Death and fitful fires.

  Then, as the Master bowed him, sorrowing,
  I heard a great Voice pealing through the heavens,
  A Voice that dwarfed earth's thunders to a moan:—
    Woe! Woe! Woe!—to him by whom this came.
    His house shall unto him be desolate.
    And, to the end of time, his name shall be
   A byword and reproach in all the lands
   He rapined … And his own shall curse him
   For the ruin that he brought.
   Who without reason draws the sword—
   By sword shall perish!
   The Lord hath said … So be it, Lord!"

AND AFTER! ……. ………………….. WHAT?

  God grant the sacrifice be not in vain!
  Those valiant souls who set themselves with pride
  To hold the Ways … and fought … and fought … and died,—
  They rest with Thee.
          But, to the end of time,
  The virtue of their valiance shall remain,
  To pulse a nobler life through every vein
  Of our humanity.

  No drop of hero-blood e'er runs to waste,
  But springs eternal, Fountain pure and chaste,
  For cleansing of men's souls from earthly grime.
  Life knows no waste. The Reaper tolls in vain,
  In vain piles high his grim red harvesting,—
  His dread, red harvest of the slain!
  God's wondrous husbandry is oft obscure,
  But, without halt or haste, its course is sure,
  And His good grain must die to live again.

  From this dread sowing, grant us harvest, Lord,
  Of Nobler Doing, and of Loftier Hope,—
  An All-Embracing and Enduring Peace,—
  A Bond of States, a Pact of Peoples, based
  On no caprice of royal whim, but on
  Foundation mightier than the mightiest throne—
  The Well-Considered Will of All the Lands.
  Therewith,—a simpler, purer, larger life,
  Unhampered by the dread of war's alarms,
  A life attuned to closer touch with Thee,
  And golden-threaded with Thy Charity;—
  A Sweeter Earth,—a Nearer Heaven,—a World
  As emulous in Peace as once in War,
  And striving ever upward towards The Goal.

   So, once again, through Death shall come New Life,
   And out of Darkness, Light.

"POLICEMAN X," which appeared first in Bees in Amber, was written in 1898. The Epilogue was written in 1914. "Policeman X" is the Kaiser. "Policeman"—because if he had so chosen he could have assisted in policing Europe and preserving the peace of the world. "X"—because he was then the unknown quantity. Now we know him only too well.

  THE MEETING-PLACE
  (A Warning)

  I saw my fellows
  In Poverty Street,—
  Bitter and black with life's defeat,
  Ill-fed, ill-housed, of ills complete.
          And I said to myself,—
    "Surely death were sweet
    To the people who live in Poverty Street."

  I saw my fellows
  In Market Place,—
  Avid and anxious, and hard of face,
  Sweating their souls in the Godless race.
          And I said to myself,—
    "How shall these find grace
    Who tread Him to death in the Market Place?"

  I saw my fellows
  In Vanity Fair,—
  Revelling, rollicking, debonair,
  Life all a Gaudy-Show, never a care.
          And I said to myself,—
    "Is there place for these
    In my Lord's well-appointed policies?"

  I saw my fellows
  In Old Church Row,—
  Hot in discussion of things High and Low,
  Cold to the seething volcano below.
          And I said to myself,—
    "The leaven is dead.
    The salt has no savour. The Spirit is fled."

  I saw my fellows
  As men and men,—
  The Men of Pain, and the Men of Gain,
  And the Men who lived in Gallanty-Lane.
          And I said to myself,—
    "What if those should dare
    To claim from these others their rightful share?"

  I saw them all
  Where the Cross-Roads meet;—
  Vanity Fair, and Poverty Street,
  And the Mart, and the Church,—when the Red Drums beat,
  And summoned them all to The Great Court-Leet.
          And I cried unto God,—
    "Now grant us Thy grace!"

* * * * *