English

Let other men to other faiths defer,
This is my creed, I live by it alone:
Not unto gods of self or carven stone
Do I bow down 'mid mists of mind that blur;
Let myriad schools their myriad truths aver,
Place Superstition on her ancient throne,
Or callous Reason to reign in ice alone;
Earth's truth was never taught by her, or her.

This is my creed, where each man hath his own,
God is a spirit, love with insight blends;
Make to thyself earth's rarest, highest friends,
Truth, wisdom, beauty: let all else alone;—

Uncle Sam and Johnny Bull
Went out one day and got so full
Of friendly admiration,
They swore they'd never fallen out
And ne'er again would brag about
Which had the bigger nation.

Said John: “In seventeen seventy-six
We had a rawther nawsty mix
About some bloomin' tea:
We've clean forgot the blawsted row—
Let's talk about alliance now!”
Said Sam: “Have one with me!

“We'll strike that Anglo-Saxon air
The race is singing everywhere;
And sing it while we quaff—
‘God save the Queen!’ one stanza be!

The world is a loom wherein life is the thread
That breaks only once and the weaver is dead!
Through the warp of our purpose the woof of each deed
Must fly with the shuttle though poor fingers bleed.

We are all busy weavers, think just as we may;
The loom will keep going, the shuttle will play;
Fast weaving the cloth as it moves right and left;
Or useful or useless depends on the weft.

Some weaving for pleasure, some weaving for nought,
Unraveling the fabric they aimlessly wrought;

Let the world roll blindly on!
Give me shadow, give me sun,
And a perfumed eve as this is:
Let me lie,
Dreamfully,
When the last quick sunbeams shiver
Spears of light athwart the river,
And a breeze, which seems the sigh
Of a fairy floating by,
Coyly kisses
Tender leaf and feathered grasses;
Yet so soft its breathing passes,
These tall ferns, just glimmering o'er me,
Blending goldenly before me,
Hardly quiver!

I have done with worldly scheming,
Mocking show, and hollow seeming!
Let me lie

The woods are haggard and lonely,
The skies are hooded for snow,
The moon is cold in heaven,
And the grasses are sere below.

The bearded swamps are breathing
A mist from meres afar,
And grimly the Great Bear circles
Under the pale Pole Star.

There is never a voice in heaven,
Nor ever a sound on earth,
Where the spectres of winter are rising
Over the night's wan girth.

There is slumber and death in the silence,
There is hate in the winds so keen;
And the flash of the north's great sword-blade

Too much of sameness dulls our sense,
Which, like a bowstring, should be tense,
To send those arrows swift and clear,
To cleave the ether of the sphere,
And strike the living heart of song,
And from the electric centre thrill the listening throng.

Too little of the love we feel,
Too little of the hate we know;
Where we should pray, we only kneel,
And all the real life forego.

How can our song be true and loud,
And lifted to the morning cloud,
Across the fields of sunlit dew?

O friends, I cannot comfort, but will share with you your grieving,
In the valley of the shadow where you sit in helpless tears;
Greater is the parting anguish, than the joy of first receiving
The sweet gift that was your treasure through five happy, golden years.

When I laid within your arms the dear babe that God had given,
There was hidden in the future all the tears that you must weep,
Ah! the little ones so tangled in our heart-strings, they are riven
In the parting, are but treasures lent not given us to keep.

I TOO have searched for Beauty in this life,
For loveliness amongst the woes of men,
The spark of joy which shines from out the strife,
The will-o'-wisp's white dancing o'er the fen;
To find the spur which urges, goads the soul
To toil through depths to greater heights above
Where Beauty is the mighty, final goal
And roads to Beauty run through vales of love.

I too have sought the guerdon hard to gain,
Elusive river sweeping to the sea,
But well I know a glimpse is worth the pain
Of seeking that which ever seems to flee.

Manannan , god of the winds and the sea,
Flat on his back on the sands lay he,
Trolling a song right merrily:
“Come hither, come hither, thou little wind,”
(Such and such was the song he sang)
“Come hither; I've something for thee to find.”
(Oh! how mellow the echoes rang!)
“Find me a wave with a sea-green base,
A rollicking, wandering, roisterous wave,
With a crest o' foam, and a laughing face,
A bit o' blue where the wind-flaws part,
And a sunbeam pricking his homeless heart—
Ho! but I love the knave!”

Oh! the day was dark and dreary,
For clouds swept o'er the sun,
The burden of life seemed heavy,
And its warfare never done;
But I heard a voice at twilight,
It whispered in my ear,
“Oh, doubting heart, look upward,
Dear soul, be of good cheer.
Oh, weary heart, look upward,
Dear soul, be of good cheer.”

And lo! on looking upward
The stars lit up the sky
Like the lights of an endless city,
A city set on high.
And my heart forgot its sorrow
These heavenly homes to see—
Sure in those many mansions