THE FOREIGN LEGIONARY, 1911
| He had just come out of prison, and he stood and scowled apart, The old lust 'neath his ragged coat, and the cold hate in his heart; And he peered to right and left through the cruel sleet and rain, Then dived into the nearest street to rob and steal again. He lay wounded in the desert where the thirsty sand gleamed red, Arab spearmen thrusting at the dying and the dead; He had left the shrunken ranks to save a comrade in the rear; And he raised himself and cursed them; and went down beneath a spear. He lies and stares at Heaven through a cloud of crows and kites; While round him prowl the jackals in the lurid tropic nights. And he'll slowly bleach to powder 'neath the sunlight's livid scroll, —The man they chased from Europe whom the world denied a soul. |
THE MISSIONARY
(Freely adapted from a Foreign Tongue)
| You speak of worlds with rainbow prospects vaulted. But not for these the service that I hoard. You know the sweet; but I—the pure, exalted: My soul spreads wings to her exalted Lord. My sphere of lowly service is more spacious Than earthly masters and their tasks afford; For gentle is my Lord, and very gracious: I serve with willing hands my gracious Lord. I know dark realms where no glad light is burning, Where Life meets Death, and bows beneath his sword; But yet I fear not; for He is discerning: I lean upon my wise, discerning Lord. And when I'm stripped of all, requited latest, His kind "Well Done" my guerdon, my reward: Though yours be richer, yet my Lord's the greatest. I follow Him—the mightiest, greatest Lord. |
[Some of these poems have already appeared in The English Review, Country Life, T. P.'s Magazine and the Wesleyan Methodist Magazine. I thank the Editors for permission to reproduce them.]
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH