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

For that was a terrible Meeting-Place.

  VICTORY DAY
  An Anticipation

  As sure as God's in His Heaven,
  As sure as He stands for Right,
  As sure as the hun this wrong hath done,
  So surely we win this fight!

  Then!—
  Then, the visioned eye shall see
  The great and noble company,
  That gathers there from land and sea,
  From over-land and over-sea,
  From under-land and under-sea,
  To celebrate right royally
            The Day of Victory.

  Not alone on that great day,
  Will the war-worn victors come,
  To meet our great glad "Welcome Home!"
  And a whole world's deep "Well done!"
  Not alone! Not alone will they come,
  To the sound of the pipe and the drum;
  They will come to their own
  With the pipe and the drum,
  With the merry merry tune
  Of the pipe and the drum;—
  But—they—will—not—come—alone!

  In their unseen myriads there,
  Unperceived, but no less there,
  In the vast of God's own air,
            They will come!—
  With never a pipe or a drum,
  All the flower of Christendom,
  In a silence more majestic,—
  They will come! They will come!
  The unknown and the known,
  To meet our deep "Well done!"
  And the world-resounding thunders
  Of our great glad "Welcome Home!"

  With their faces all alight,
  And their brave eyes shining bright,
  From their glorious martyrdom,
            They will come!
  They will once more all unite
  With their comrades of the fight,
  To share the world's delight
  In the Victory of Right,
  And the doom—the final doom—
  The final, full, and everlasting doom
  Of brutal Might,
            They will come!

  At the world-convulsing boom
  Of the treacherous Austrian gun,—
  At the all-compelling "Come!"
  Of that deadly signal-gun,—
  They gauged the peril, and they came.
  —Of many a race, and many a name,
  But all ablaze with one white flame,
  They tarried not to count the cost,
  But came.
  They came from many a clime and coast,—
  The slim of limb, the dark of face,
  They shouldered eager in the race
  The sturdy giants of the frost,
  And the stalwarts of the sun,—
  Britons, Britons, Britons are they!
            Britons, every one!
  It shall be their life-long boast,
  That they counted not the cost,
  But, at the Mother-Country's call, they came.
  They came a wrong to right,
  They came to end the blight
  Of a vast ungodly might;
  And by their gallant coming overcame.
  Britons, Britons, Britons are they!
            Britons, every one!

  It shall be their nobler boast,—
  It shall spell their endless fame,—
  That, regardless of the cost,
  They won the world for Righteousness,
  And cleansed it of its shame.
  Britons, Britons, Britons are they!
            Britons, every one!

  And now,—again they come,
  With merry pipe and drum,
  Amid the storming cheers,
  And the grateful-streaming tears,
  Of this our great, glad, sorrowing Welcome-Home.
  They shall every one be there,
  On the earth or in the air,
  From the land and from the sea,
  And from under-land and sea,
  Not a man shall missing be
  From the past and present fighting-strength
  Of that great company.
  Those who lived, and those who died,
  They were one in noble pride
  Of desperate endeavour and of duty nobly done;
  For their lives they risked and gave
  Very Soul of Life to save,
  And by their own great valour, and the Grace of God, they won.
  Britons, Britons, Britons are they!—
            Britons, every one!

WHEN HE TRIES THE HEARTS OF MEN

  As gold is tried in the furnace,
  So He tries the hearts of men;
  And the dwale and the dross shall suffer loss,
  When He tries the hearts of men.
  And the wood, and the hay, and the stubble
  Shall pass in the flame away,
  For gain is loss, and loss is gain,
  And treasure of earth is poor and vain,
  When He tries the hearts of men.

  As gold is refined in the furnace,
  So He fines the hearts of men.
  The purge of the flame doth rid them of shame,
  When He tries the hearts of men.
  O, better than gold, yea, than much fine gold,
  When He tries the hearts of men,
  Are Faith, and Hope, and Truth, and Love,
  And the Wisdom that cometh from above,
  When He tries the hearts of men.

POISON-SEEDS

  Is there, in you or me,
  Seed of that poison-tree
  Which, in its bitter fruiting, bore
  Such vintage sore
  Of red calamity—
  Black wine of horror and of Death,
  And soul-catastrophe?
  Search well and see!

  Yea—search and see!
  And, if there be—
  Tear up its roots with zealous care,
  With deep soul-probing and with prayer,
  Lest, in the coming years,
  Again it bear
  This same dread fruit of blood and tears,
  And ruth beyond compare.

  Each soul that strips it of one evil thing
  Lifts all the world towards God's good purposing.

THE WAR-MAKERS

  Who are the Makers of Wars?
    The Kings of the earth.

  And who are these Kings of the earth?
    Only men—not always even men of worth,
    But claiming rule by right of birth.

  And Wisdom?—does that come by birth?
    Nay then—too often the reverse.
    Wise father oft has son perverse;
    Solomon's son was Israel's curse.

  Why suffer things to reason so averse?
    It always has been so,
    And only now does knowledge grow
    To that high point where all men know—
    Who would be free must strike the blow.

  And how long will man suffer so?
    Until his soul of Freedom sings,
    And, strengthened by his sufferings,
    He breaks the worn-out leading-strings,
    And calls to stricter reckonings
  Those costliest things—unworthy Kings.

  Not all are worthless. Some, with sense of duty,
  Strive to invest their lives with grace and beauty.
  To such—high honour! But the rest—self-seekers,
  Pride-puffed—out with them!—useless mischief-makers!

  The time is past when any man or nation
  Will meekly bear unrighteous domination.

  The time is come when every burden-bearer
  Must, in the fixing of his load, be sharer.

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING?

  Is life worth living?
  It depends on your believing;—
  If it ends with this short span,
  Then is man no better than
  The beasts that perish.
  But a Loftier Hope we cherish.
  "Life out of Death" is written wide
  Across Life's page on every side.
  We cannot think as ended, our dear dead who died.

  What room is left us then for doubt or fear?
  Love laughs at thought of ending—there, or here.
  God would lack meaning if this world were all,
  And this short life but one long funeral.

  God is! Christ loves! Christ lives!
  And by His Own Returning gives
  Sure pledge of Immortality.
  The first-fruits—He; and we—
  The harvest of His victory.
  The life beyond shall this life far transcend,
  And Death is the Beginning—not the End!

GOD'S HANDWRITING

  He writes in characters too grand
  For our short sight to understand;
  We catch but broken strokes, and try
  To fathom all the mystery
  Of withered hopes, of death, of life,
  The endless war, the useless strife,—
  But there, with larger, clearer sight,
  We shall see this—

HIS WAY WAS RIGHT

(From Bees in Amber.)

PART TWO: THE KING'S HIGH WAY THE KING'S HIGH WAY

  A wonderful Way is The King's High Way;
  It runs through the Nightlands up to the Day;
  From the wonderful WAS, by the wonderful IS,
  To the still more wonderful IS TO BE,—
            Runs The King's High Way.

  Through the crooked by-ways of history,
  Through the times that were dark with mystery,
  From the cities of man's captivity,
  By the shed of The Child's nativity,
  And over the hill by the crosses three,
  By the sign-post of God's paternity,
  From Yesterday into Eternity,—
            Runs The King's High Way.
  And wayfaring men, who have strayed, still say
  It is good to travel The King's High Way.

  Through the dim, dark Valley of Death, at times,
  To the peak of the Shining Mount it climbs,
  While wonders, and glories, and joys untold
  To the eyes of the visioned each step unfold,—
            On The King's High Way.
  And everywhere there are sheltering bowers,
  Plenished with fruits and radiant with flowers,
  Where the weary of body and soul may rest,
  As the steeps they breast to the beckoning crest,—
            On The King's High Way.

  And inns there are too, of comforting mien,
  Where every guest is a King or a Queen,
  And room never lacks in the inns on that road,
  For the hosts are all gentle men, like unto God,—
            On The King's High Way.

  The comrades one finds are all bound the same way,
  Their faces aglow in the light of the day;
  And never a quarrel is heard, nor a brawl,
  They're the best of good company, each one and all,—
            On The King's High Way.

  So, gallantly travel The King's High Way,
  With hearts unperturbed and with souls high and gay,
  There is many a road that is much more the mode,
  But none that so surely leads straight up to God,
            As The King's High Way.

THE WAYS

  To every man there openeth
  A Way, and Ways, and a Way,
  And the High Soul climbs the High Way,
  And the Low Soul gropes the Low,
  And in between, on the misty flats,
  The rest drift to and fro.
  But to every man there openeth
  A High Way, and a Low.
  And every man decideth
  The Way his soul shall go.

AD FINEM

  Britain! Our Britain! uprisen in the splendour
  Of your white wrath at treacheries so vile;
  Roused from your sleep, become once more defender
  Of those high things which make life worth life's while!

  Now, God be thanked for even such a wakening
  From the soft dreams of peace in selfish ease,
  If it but bring about the great heart-quickening,
  Of which are born the larger liberties.

  Ay, better such a rousing up from slumber;
  Better this fight for His High Empery;
  Better—e'en though our fair sons without number
  Pave with their lives the road to victory.

  But—Britain! Britain! What if it be written,
  On the great scrolls of Him who holds the ways,
  That to the dust the foe shall not be smitten
  Till unto Him we pledge redeemèd days?—

  Till unto Him we turn—in deep soul-sorrow,
  For all the past that was so stained and dim,
  For all the present ills—and for a morrow
  Founded and built and consecrated to Him.

  Take it to heart! This ordeal has its meaning;
  By no fell chance has such a horror come.
  Take it to heart!—nor count indeed on winning,
  Until the lesson has come surely home.

  Take it to heart!—nor hope to find assuagement
  Of this vast woe, until, with souls subdued,
  Stripped of all less things, in most high engagement,
  We seek in Him the One and Only Good.

  Not of our own might shall this tribulation
  Pass, and once more to earth be peace restored;
  Not till we turn, in solemn consecration,
  Wholly to Him, our One and Sovereign Lord.

EVENING BRINGS US HOME

  Evening brings us home,—
  From our wanderings afar,
  From our multifarious labours,
  From the things that fret and jar;
  From the highways and the byways,
  From the hill-tops and the vales;
  From the dust and heat of city street,
  And the joys of lonesome trails,—
          Evening brings us home at last,
          To Thee.

  From plough and hoe and harrow, from the burden of the day,
  From the long and lonely furrow in the stiff reluctant clay,
  From the meads where streams are purling,
  From the moors where mists are curling,—
          Evening brings us home at last,
          To rest, and warmth, and Thee.

  From the pastures where the white lambs to their dams are ever crying,
  From the byways where the Night lambs Thy
  Love are crucifying,
  From the labours of the lowlands,
  From the glamour of the glowlands,—
          Evening brings us home at last,
          To the fold, and rest, and Thee.

  From the Forests of Thy Wonder, where the mighty giants grow,
  Where we cleave Thy works asunder, and lay the mighty low,
  From the jungle and the prairie,
  From the realms of fact and faerie,—
          Evening brings us home at last,
          To rest, and cheer, and Thee.

  From our wrestlings with the spectres of the dim and dreary way,
  From the vast heroic chances of the never-ending fray,
  From the Mount of High Endeavour,
  In the hope of Thy For Ever,—
          Evening brings us home at last,
          To trust and peace, and Thee.

  From our toilings and our moilings, from the quest of daily bread,
  From the worship of our idols, and the burying of our dead,
  Like children, worn and weary
  With the way so long and dreary,—
          Evening brings us home at last,
          To rest, and love, and Thee.

  From our journeyings oft and many over strange and stormy seas,
  From our search the wide world over for the larger liberties,
  From our labours vast and various,
  With our harvestings precarious,—
          Evening brings us home at last,
          To safety, rest, and Thee.

  From the yet-untrodden No-Lands, where we sought Thy secrets out,
  From the blizzards of the Nightlands, and the
      blazing White-Lands' drought,
  From the undiscovered country
  Where our IS is yet to be,—
          Evening brings us home at last,
          To welcome cheer, and Thee.

  From the temples of our living, all empurpled with Thy giving,
  From the warp of life thick-threaded with the gold of Thine inweaving,
  From the days so full of splendour,
  From the