Part 19 (1/2)
What if my wife was troubled in a dream And suffered many things on His account?
A Roman governor must be a man!
They say the temple's veil was rent in twain-- The sky was darkened and the sun was hid.
He said I had no power to crucify Except that it be given from above.
He did not know the strength of Pilate's arm!
'Tis said He cried, ”My G.o.d, my G.o.d, why hast Thou now forsaken me?” The earth did quake, The tombs were cracked, and then the shrouded dead Stalked ghost-like through the fields and open streets!
Look! Look! What is yon robe of s.h.i.+ning white?
Behold the Man--the Man of Galilee!
With outstretched arms He stands on Olivet, The shadows purpling o'er Gethsemane.
I hear Him cry in agony of soul, ”How often would I, O Jerusalem, Have gathered unto Me thy children as A hen her brood beneath her wing, but ye Would not come.” Herod, canst thou hear His voice?
It is impossible! It can not be!
He must not know that I am Pilate! Still He calls my name! I can not, dare not go!
What would the people think? I will Be free. There is no blood upon my hands.
See, I wash them clean and am myself Again. Oh! Now the spell is gone. Though not The king, I am governor of the Jews!
THE VIRILE SPIRIT
[_Written after reading a letter in which the writer said: ”I covet for our country a great war--one that will stir our virile spirits and send forth our youth to fight and die for our country.”_]
What is courage? To face the bursting sh.e.l.l When rhythmic sheets of fire discover gulfs Of death, yet rather steel than daunt the heart; When comrades fall beneath the knapsack's weight, Foot froze and bleeding on the icy road, To hear the blasts from towering snow-crowned Alps Sing only martial airs that stir the blood!
It is a n.o.ble thing to die in war-- To sacrifice the breath of life; to feel The pain of hunger and of cold, yet flinch Not that one's country may be great or free.
Many a generation yet unborn Will bless the name of Valley Forge, and hold In reverence the field of Gettysburg.
But war is not the only thing that tries The bravest soul. To live does sometimes take More courage than to close with death; and oft The coward shrinks from living when the brave Man scorns to die. We need no bugle note To rouse our manhood's strength. The call to men Is clear and strong. It is not to repel The Hun, the Teuton, or the Slav, nor yet To drive the Yellow Peril from the seas.
We must send forth our men to live, not die-- We need to save, not kill our fellow man, To smite the Minotaur of Sin, and stop The tribute greater now than all the tolls Of war. The beast in man is ravenous And must be slain. He feeds upon the fruits Of toil, and blights the home with poverty; He drags the innocent to dens of shame To satisfy his brute carnality.
No fiery dragon in the days of myth Laid waste a land or blasted life with breath More foul or appet.i.te insatiate.
This is the enemy that we must fight.
No dreadnaughts now afloat, no submarines, No legions that may ever bivouac on Our sh.o.r.es, no Zeppelins disgorging fire Portend the dire disasters wrought upon Our nation's strength by Avarice and l.u.s.t.
The sword of Theseus is too dull a blade, The arm of Beowulf not strong enough To battle with Cupidity and Sin.
We need the breastplate of a righteous life, Our loins must be girt about with truth, The heart protected by the s.h.i.+eld of faith, And in the right hand there must ever be The spirit's sword, which is the Word of G.o.d!
And even clothed and weaponed thus it takes A heart as fearless as the dauntless Dane's To strike the Mammon of Unrighteousness-- To grapple with this Grendel that invades The mead-halls still and ravishes our youth.
BLUEBIRD.
Bluebird in the cedar bush-- Fresh and clean as the evergreen, Through a rift of leaves, Or my eye deceives.
But silent! Hus.h.!.+
He calls, he calls!
The first spring note From a feathered throat My heart enthralls; And my pulses leap As a child from sleep On Christmas morn, at the blast of horn, To meet, to greet, The choral sweet From bluebird in the cedar bush: _At last, at last The snow and sleet Of winter's blast Have pa.s.sed, have pa.s.sed, And spring is here, good cheer, good cheer!_ The call comes ringing in to me From Bluebird in the cedar tree.
AN AUTUMN MINOR
Russet and amber and gold, Crimson and yellow and green, And far away the blue and gray, A twinkling silver sheen.