Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 4

For the souls that came were quite the same As they were before they sailed; And, as pride and hate did not abate, The hope of the voyagers failed; And, facing alone the great Unknown, The bravest spirits quailed.

Meanwhile the s.h.i.+p began to dip, And labored to and fro, For the sea, though fair, could no more bear This load of human woe; And at last the boat, with all afloat, Sank helplessly below.

Down, down it swirled to the nether world; While up from the riven main Came the gurgling sound of those who drowned, As the vortex closed again; The sea surged back to its wonted track; Once more 'twas a sun-lit plain!

But soon men saw, with deepening awe, That sea grow white with spray; Its brilliant hue was changed from blue To a deathlike, leaden gray; And a sullen roar approached the sh.o.r.e Whence the s.h.i.+p had sailed away.

Huge waves rolled in with frightful din, And spat out hissing foam, And smote the sand along the strand, And swept off many a home; And lightnings flashed and thunder crashed From heaven's ink-black dome.

"Alas!" they cried, "that our brothers died In the depths of the sea of peace; They have brought unrest to its quiet breast, Which nevermore shall cease; For the peace it lost we must pay the cost; And behold! our woes increase!"

In truth, since then how many men Have learned that the mighty deep Can heave and swell to a seething h.e.l.l, When storms its surface sweep!

For its calm hath fled, and countless dead Are the spoils it loves to heap.

But at its best, when it lies at rest On a cloudless summer day, And, tiger-like, forbears to strike, But, sated, basks at play, One seems to hear, with the psychic ear, Its murmuring wavelets say,--

"No real relief from care and grief Is found o'er distant waves; The men who sail to find it, fail, And sink to lonely graves; In the firm control of man's own soul Is alone the peace he craves."

OLD HYMN-TUNES

Dear, old-time tunes of prayer and praise, Heard first beside my mother's knee, Your music on my spirit lays A spell from which I should be free, If lapse of time gave liberty.

I listen, and the crowded years Fade, dream-like, from my life, and lo!

I find my eyelids wet with tears,-- So much I loved, so well I know Those plaintive airs of long ago!

They tell me of my vanished youth, Of faith in what so flawless seemed, Before the painful quest of truth Had proved how much I then esteemed Was other than I fondly dreamed!

They make my childhood live again; And life's fair dawn grows once more bright, While listening to the sweet refrain, Sung in the Sabbath's waning light,-- "Glory to Thee, my G.o.d, this night!"

My mother's voice, so pure and strong, My father's flute of silvery tone, The little household's strength of song, The childish treble of my own,-- I hear them once more, but ... alone!

Sweet obligato to some hymn Whose words those vanished tones recall, Float o'er me, when earth's scenes grow dim, And life's last, lingering echoes fall, Till silence settles over all!

BEFORE A STATUE OF BUDDHA

O Buddha, of the mystic smile And downcast, dreamful eyes, To whom unnumbered sacred shrines And gilded statues rise,

Whose fanes are filled with wors.h.i.+ppers, Whose hallowed name is sung By myriads of the human race In every Eastern tongue,

What means thy sweet serenity?

Our planet, as it rolls, Sweeps through the starry universe A ma.s.s of burdened souls,

Still agonized and pitiful, Despite the countless years That man has spent in wandering Through paths of blood and tears!

O Lord of love and sympathy For all created life, How canst thou view thus placidly The world's incessant strife,

The misery and ma.s.sacre Of war's destructive train, The martyrdom of animals, The tragedy of pain,

The infamous brutalities To helpless children shown, The pathos of whose joyless lives Might melt a heart of stone?

Preeminently merciful, Does not thy spirit long To guard from inhumanity The weak against the strong?

Thou biddest us deal tenderly With every breathing-thing,-- The horse that drags the heavy load, The bird upon the wing,

The flocks along the riverside, The cattle on the lea, And every living denizen Of earth and air and sea;

Yet daily in the shambles A sea of blood is spilled, And man is nourished chiefly From beasts that he has killed!

And hunters still find happiness In seeing, red with wounds, A sobbing deer, with liquid eyes, Dragged down by yelping hounds!

What is the real significance Of thine unchanging smile?

Hast thou the secret consciousness That grief is not worth while?

That sorrow is the consequence Of former lives of sin,-- The spur that goads us on and up A n.o.bler life to win?

That pain is as impermanent As shadows on the hills, And that Nirvana's blessedness Will cure all mortal ills?

But agony is agony, And small is the relief If, measured with eternity, Life's anguish be but brief.

To hearts that break with misery, To every tortured frame The present pain is paramount, Nirvana but a name.

Moreover, why should former lives Bequeath their weight of woe, If with it comes no memory To guide us, as we go?

If o'er the dark, prenatal void No mental bridge be cast, No thread, however frail, to link The present to the past?

Still silent and dispa.s.sionate!

Ah, would that I might find The key to the serenity That fills thy lofty mind!

Thou hast a joy we do not feel, A light we cannot see; Injustice, sin, and wretchedness No longer sadden thee;

No doubt to thy sublimer gaze Life's mystery grows plain, As finally full recompense Atones for earthly pain.

THE PILLARS OF HERCULES

Here ends at last the Inland Sea!

Still seems its outlet, as of yore, The anteroom of Mystery, As, through its westward-facing door, I see the vast Atlantic lie In splendor 'neath a sunset sky.

Above its distant, glittering rim Streams o'er the waves a flood of gold, To gild the mountains, bare and grim, Which guard this exit, as of old,-- The sombre sentries of two seas, The Pillars reared by Hercules;--