Transcribed from the 1912 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

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THE ENGLISHMAN
AND OTHER POEMS

BY

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.
12 AND 13 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
LONDON
1912

[All rights reserved]

PREFACE
THE QUEEN’S LAST RIDE

(Written on the day of Queen Victoria’s funeral)

The Queen is taking a drive to-day,
They have hung with purple the carriage-way,
They have dressed with purple the royal track
Where the Queen goes forth and never comes back.

Let no man labour as she goes by
On her last appearance to mortal eye;
With heads uncovered let all men wait
For the Queen to pass in her regal state.
Army and Navy shall lead the way
For that wonderful coach of the Queen’s to-day.

Kings and Princes and Lords of the land
Shall ride behind her, a humble band;
And over the city and over the world
Shall the Flags of all Nations be half-mast-furled,
For the silent lady of royal birth
Who is riding away from the Courts of earth,
Riding away from the world’s unrest
To a mystical goal, on a secret quest.

Though in royal splendour she drives through town,
Her robes are simple, she wears no crown:
And yet she wears one, for widowed no more,
She is crowned with the love that has gone before,
And crowned with the love she has left behind
In the hidden depths of each mourner’s mind.

Bow low your heads—lift your hearts on high—
The Queen in silence is driving by!

CONTENTS

PAGE
The Englishman [1]
Canada [3]
The Call [5]
Coronation Poem and Prayer [7]
Two Voices [11]
A Ballade of the Unborn Dead [14]
The Truth Teller [17]
Just You [19]
Reflection [20]
Songs of Love and the Sea [21]
Acquaintance [25]
In India’s Dreamy Land [26]
Rangoon [27]
Thoughts on leaving Japan [28]
On seeing the Diabutsu—at Kamakura, Japan [30]
The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart [31]
East and West [33]
The Squanderer [34]
Compensations [35]
Song of the Rail [38]
Always at Sea [40]
The Suitors [42]
The Jealous Gods [44]
God Rules Alway [45]
The Cure [49]
The Forecast [52]
Little Girls [55]
Science [57]
The Earth [60]
The Muse and the Poet [63]
The Spinster [67]
Brotherhood [71]
The Tavern of Last Times [73]
The Two Ages [74]
If I Were [77]
Warned [78]
Forward [80]
In England [81]
Karma [83]
The Gossips [85]
Together [89]
Petition [91]
A Waft of Perfume [92]
The Plough [94]
Go Plant a Tree [96]
Pain’s Purpose [98]
Memory’s Mansion [99]
Old Rhythm and Rhyme [101]
All in a Coach and Four [103]
Songs of a Country Home [105]
Worthy the name of “Sir Knight” [108]

THE ENGLISHMAN

Born in the flesh, and bred in the bone,
Some of us harbour still
A New World pride: and we flaunt or hide
The Spirit of Bunker Hill.
We claim our place, as a separate race,
Or a self-created clan;
Till there comes a day when we like to say,
‘We are kin of the Englishman.’

For under the front that seems so cold,
And the voice that is wont to storm,
We are certain to find, a big, broad mind
And a heart that is soft and warm.
And he carries his woes in a lordly way,
As only the great souls can:
And it makes us glad when in truth we say,
We are kin of the Englishman.’

He slams his door in the face of the world,
If he thinks the world too bold.
He will even curse; but he opens his purse
To the poor, and the sick, and the old.
He is slow in giving to woman the vote,
And slow to put up her fan;
But he gives her room in the hour of doom,
And dies—like an Englishman.

CANADA

England, father and mother in one,
Look on your stalwart son.
Sturdy and strong, with the valour of youth,
Where is another so lusty?
Coated and mailed, with the armour of truth,
Where is another so trusty?
Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone,
He is yours alone.

England, father and mother in one,
See the wealth of your son.
Forests primeval, and virginal sod,
Wheat-fields golden and splendid:
Riches of nature and opulent God
For the use of his children intended.
A courage that dares, and a hope that endures,
And a soul all yours.

England, father and mother in one,
Hear the cry of your son.
Little cares he for the glories of earth
Lying around and above him,
Yearning is he for the rights of his birth,
And the heart of his mother to love him.
Vast are your gifts to him, ample his store,
Now open your door.

England, father and mother in one,
Heed the voice of your son.
Proffer him place in your councils of state:
Let him sit near, and attend you.
Ponder his words in the hour of debate,
Strong is his arm to defend you.
Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone,
Give him his own.

THE CALL

In the banquet hall of Progress
God has bidden to a feast
All the women in the East.

Some have said ‘We are not ready,—
We must wait another day.’
Some, with voices clear and steady,
‘Lord, we hear, and we obey.’

Others, timid and uncertain,
Step forth trembling in the light,
Many hide behind the curtain
With their faces hid from sight.

In the banquet hall of Progress
All must gather soon or late,
And the patient Host will wait.

If to-day, or if to-morrow,
If in gladness, or in woe,
If with pleasure, or with sorrow,
All must answer, all must go.
They must go with unveiled faces,
Clothed in virtue and in pride.
For the Host has set their places,
And He will not he denied.

CORONATION POEM AND PRAYER

The world has crowned a thousand kings:
But destiny has kept
Her weightiest hour of kingly power
To offer England’s son.
The rising bell of Progress rings;
And Truths which long have slept,
Like prophets strange, predicting change,
Before Time’s chariot run.

The greatest Empire of the Earth.
Old England proudly stands.
Like arteries her Colonies
Reach out from sea to sea.
She clasps all races in her girth;
Her gaze the world commands;
And far and wide where strong ships ride,
The British Flag floats free.

Oh, never since the stars began
Their round of Cosmic law,
And souls evolved in ways unsolved,
And kingdoms reached their prime
Has Destiny held out to Man
A gift so full of awe,
As England’s crown which she hands down
In this stupendous time.

This is a crucial hour, when Fate
Tries Monarchs as by fire.
All rulers must be more than just—
Men starve on bread alone.
Old England’s sense of right is great:
But now let her aspire
To feel more love, and build thereof
An everlasting Throne.

The dreaming East, awake at last,
Is asking ‘when’ and ‘why’;
Wait not too long nor answer wrong,
Nor in too stern a voice.
Let England profit by her past,
And with her wise reply
Rouse hearts, within her foster kin
To hope, and to rejoice.

True wealth dwells not in things we own,
But in our use of things.
Who would command a conquered land
Must conquer first its heart.
Such might as Man has never known,
And power undreamed by kings,
And boundless strength would come at length
To one who used that art.

For now has dawned the People’s day:
A day of great unrest.
Nor king nor creed can still man’s need
Of time and space to grow.
All lands must shape a wider way,
For this eternal quest;
And Leisure yield a larger field
Where work-worn feet may go.

The Universe is all a-thrill
With changes imminent.
The World in faith, with bated breath,
Holds free the Leader’s place.
And wise is he whose heart and will
At one with Time’s intent,
Shall open wide doors long denied
To mothers of the race.

On this round globe, oh, when and where
Were fitter time and scene
For Woman’s soul to reach its goal
Than now in England’s realm.
Was not the crown its King will wear
Made glorious by its Queen?
And who steered straight its ship of State?
Victoria at the Helm!

Kings have been kings by accident,
By favour and by force,
But right of birth and moral worth,
And Empires rich and broad
For England’s King to-day are blent
Like rivers on one course.
But, ah! the light falls searching white
Down from the Throne of God.

Lord of the Earth and heavenly-spheres,
Creator of all things,
Thou who hast wrought great worlds from naught,
Give strength to England’s son.
Give courage to dispel those fears
That come to even kings,
And for his creed give Love’s full mead;
Amen. Thy Will be done.

TWO VOICES

VIRTUE

O wanton one, O wicked one, how was it that you came,
Down from the paths of purity, to walk the streets of shame?
And wherefore was that precious wealth, God gave to you in trust,
Flung broadcast for the feet of men to trample in the dust?

VICE

O prudent one, O spotless one, now listen well to me.
The ways that led to where I tread these paths of sin, were three:
And God, and good folks, all combined to make them fair to see.

VIRTUE

O wicked one, blasphemous one, now how could that thing be?

VICE

The first was Nature’s lovely road, whereon my life was hurled.
I felt the stirring in my blood, which permeates the world.
I thrilled like willows in the spring, when sap begins to flow,
It was young passion in my veins, but how was I to know?

The second was the silent road, where modest mothers dwell,
And hide from eager, curious minds, the truth they ought to tell.
That misnamed road called ‘Innocence’ should bear the sign ‘to Hell.’
With song and dance in ignorance I walked that road and fell.

VIRTUE

O fallen one, unhappy one, but why not rise and go
Back to the ways you left behind, and leave your sins below,
Nor linger in this sink of sin, since now you see, and know.

VICE

The third road was the fair high way, trod by the good and great.
I cried aloud to that vast crowd, and told my hapless fate.
They hurried all through door and wall and shut Convention’s gate.
I beat it with my bleeding hands: they must have heard me knock.
They must have heard wild sob and word, yet no one turned the lock.

Oh, it is very desolate, on Virtue’s path to stand,
And see the good folks flocking by, withholding look and hand.

And so with hungry heart and soul, and weary brain and feet,
I left that highway whence you came, and sought the sinful street.

O prudent one, O spotless one, when good folks speak of me,
Go, tell them of the roads I came; the road ways fair, and three.

A BALLADE OF THE UNBORN DEAD

They walked the valley of the dead;
Lit by a weird half light;
No sound they made, no word they said;
And they were pale with fright.
Then suddenly from unseen places came
Loud laughter, that was like a whip of flame.

They looked, and saw, beyond, above,
A land where wronged souls wait;
(Those spirits called to earth by love,
And driven back by hate).
And each one stood in anguish dumb and wild,
As she beheld the phantom of her child.

Yea, saw the soul her wish had hurled
Out into night and death;
Before it reached the Mother world,
Or drew its natal breath.
And terrified, each hid her face and fled
Beyond the presence of her unborn dead.

And God’s Great Angel, who provides
Souls for our mortal land,
Laughed, with the laughter that derides,
At that fast fleeing band
Of self-made barren women of the earth.
(Hell has no curse that withers like such mirth.)

‘O Angel, tell us who were they,
That down below us fared;
Those shapes with faces strained and grey,
And eyes that stared and stared;
Something there was about them, gave us fear;
Yet are we lonely, now they are not here.’

Thus spake the spectral children; thus
The Angel made reply:
‘They have no part or share with us;
They were but passers-by.’
‘But may we pray for them?’ the phantoms plead.
‘Yea, for they need your prayers,’ the Angel said.

They went upon their lonely way;
(Far, far from Paradise);
Their path was lit with one wan ray
From ghostly children’s eyes;
The little children who were never born;
And as they passed, the Angel laughed in scorn.

THE TRUTH TELLER

The Truth Teller lifts the curtain,
And shows us the people’s plight;
And everything seems uncertain,
And nothing at all looks right.
Yet out of the blackness groping,
My heart finds a world in bloom;
For it somehow is fashioned for hoping,
And it cannot live in the gloom.

He tells us from border to border,
That race is warring with race;
With riot and mad disorder,
The earth is a wretched place;
And yet ere the sun is setting
I am thinking of peace, not strife;
For my heart has a way of forgetting
All things save the joy of life.

I heard in my Youth’s beginning
That earth was a region of woe,
And trouble, and sorrow, and sinning:
The Truth Teller told me so.
I knew it was true, and tragic;
And I mourned over much that was wrong;
And then, by some curious magic,
The heart of me burst into song.

The years have been going, going,
A mixture of pleasure and pain;
But the Truth Teller’s books are showing
That evil is on the gain.
And I know that I ought to be grieving,
And I should be too sad to sing;
But somehow I keep on believing
That life is a glorious thing.

JUST YOU

All the selfish joys of earth,
I am getting through.
That which used to lure and lead
Now I pass and give no heed;
Only one thing seems of worth—
Just you.

Not for me the lonely height,
And the larger view;
Lowlier ways seem fair and wide,
While we wander side by side.
One thing makes the whole world bright—
Just you.

Not for distant goals I run,
No great aim pursue;
Most of earth’s ambitions seem
Like the shadow of a dream.
All the world to me means one—
Just you.

REFLECTION

Twice have I seen God’s full reflected grace.
Once when the wailing of a child at birth
Proclaimed another soul had come to earth,
That look shone on, and through the mother’s face.

And once when silence, absolute and vast,
Followed the final indrawn mortal breath,
Sudden upon the countenance of death
That supreme glory of God’s grace was cast.

SONGS OF LOVE AND THE SEA