A Jongleur Strayed Part 11

THE LONG PURPOSES OF G.o.d

To Man in haste, flushed with impatient dreams Of some great thing to do, so slowly done, The long delay of Time all idle seems, Idle the lordly leisure of the sun; So splendid his design, so brief his span, For all the faith with which his heart is burning, He marvels, as he builds each s.h.i.+ning plan, That heaven's wheel should be so long in turning, And G.o.d more slow in righteousness than Man.

Evil on evil mock him all about, And all the forces of embattled wrong, There are so many devils to cast out-- Save G.o.d be with him, how shall Man be strong?

With his own heart at war, to weakness p.r.o.ne, And all the honeyed ways of joyous sinning, How in this welter shall he hold his own, And, single-handed, e'er have hopes of winning?

How shall he fight G.o.d's battle all alone?

He hath no lightnings in his puny hand, Nor starry servitors to work his will, Only his soul and his strong purpose planned, His dream of goodness and his hate of ill; He, but a handful of the eddying dust, At the wind's fancy shaped, from nowhere blowing; A moment man--then, with another gust, A formless vapour into nowhere going, Even as he dreams back into darkness thrust.

O so at least it seems--if life were his A little longer! grant him thrice his years, And G.o.d should see a better world than this, Pure for the foul, and laughter for the tears: So fierce a flame to burn the dross away Dreams in his spark of life so swiftly fleeing: If Man can do so much in one short day, O strange it seems that an Eternal Being Should in his purposes so long delay.

Easy to answer--lo! the unfathomed time Gone ere each small perfection came to flower, Ere soul shone dimly in the wastes of slime; Wouldst thou turn h.e.l.l to Heaven in an hour?

Easy to say--G.o.d's purposes are long, His ways and wonders far beyond our knowing, He hath mysterious ministers even in wrong, Sure is His harvest, though so long His sowing: So say old poets with persuasive tongue.

And yet--and yet--it seems some swifter doom From so august a hand might surely fall, And all earth's rubbish in one flash consume, And make an end of evil once for all . . .

But vain the questions and the answers vain, Who knows but Man's impatience is G.o.d's doing?

Who knows if evil be so swiftly slain?

Be sure none shall escape, with G.o.d pursuing.

Question no more--but to your work again!

BALLADE TO A DEPARTING G.o.d

G.o.d of the Wine List, roseate lord, And is it really then good-by?

Of Prohibitionists abhorred, Must thou in sorry sooth then die, (O fatal morning of July!) Nor aught hold back the threatened hour That shrinks thy purple cl.u.s.ters dry?

Say not good-by--but _au revoir_!

For the last time the wine is poured, For the last toast the gla.s.s raised high, And henceforth round the wintry board, As dumb as fish, we'll sit and sigh, And eat our Puritanic pie, And dream of suppers gone before, With flying wit and words that fly-- Say not good-by--but _au revoir_!

'Twas on thy wings the poet soared, And Sorrow fled when thou wentst by, And, when we said "Here's looking toward" . . .

It seemed a better world, say I, With greener gra.s.s and bluer sky . . .

The writ is on the Tavern Door, And who would tipple on the sly? . . .

'Tis not good-by--but _au revoir_!

ENVOI

Gay G.o.d of Bottles, I deny Those brave tempestuous times are o'er; Somehow I think, I scarce know why, 'Tis not good-by--but au revoir!

BALLADE OF THE ABSENT GUEST

Friends whom to-night once more I greet, Most glad am I with you to be, And, as I look around, I meet Many a face right good to see; But one I miss--ah! where is he?-- Of merry eye and sparkling jest, Who used to brim my gla.s.s for me; I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest.

Low lies he in his winding-sheet, By organized hypocrisy Hurled from his happy wine-clad seat, Stilled his kind heart and hushed his glee; His very name daren't mention we, That good old friend who brought such zest, And set our tongues and spirits free: I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest.

No choice to-night 'twixt "dry" or "sweet,"

'Twixt red or white, 'twixt Rye,--ah! me-- Or Scotch--and think! we live to see't-- No whispered word, nor ma.s.sive fee, Nor even influenza plea, Can raise a bubble; but, as best We may, we make our hollow spree: I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest.

ENVOI

Friends, good is coffee, good is tea, And water has a charm unguessed-- And yet--that brave old deity!

I drink--in tears--the Absent Guest.

TOBACCO NEXT

They took away your drink from you, The kind old humanizing gla.s.s; Soon they will take tobacco too, And next they'll take our demi-ta.s.se.

Don't say, "The bill will never pa.s.s,"

Nor this my warning word disdain; You said it once, you silly a.s.s-- Don't make the same mistake again.

We know them now, the bloodless crew, We know them all too well, alas!

There's nothing that they wouldn't do To make the world a Bible cla.s.s; Though against bottled beer or Ba.s.s I search the sacred text in vain To find a whisper--by the Ma.s.s!

Don't make the same mistake again.

Beware these legislators blue, Pouring their moral poison-gas On all the joys our fathers knew; The very flowers in the gra.s.s Are safe no more, and, lad and la.s.s, 'Ware the old birch-rod and the cane!

Here comes our modern Hudibras!-- Don't make the same mistake again.

ENVOI

Prince, vanished is the rail of bra.s.s, So mark me well and my refrain-- Tobacco next! you silly a.s.s, Don't make the same mistake again.

BALLADE OF THE PAID PURITAN

In vain with whip and knotted cord The hirelings of hypocrisy Would make us comely for the Lord: Think ye G.o.d works through such as ye-- Paid Puritan, plump Pharisee, And lobbyist fingering his fat bill, Reeking of rum and bribery: G.o.d needs not you to work His will.

We know you whom you serve, abhorred Traducers of true piety, What tarnished gold is your reward In Was.h.i.+ngton and Albany; 'Tis not from G.o.d you take your fee, Another's purpose to fulfil, You that are G.o.d's worst enemy: G.o.d needs not you to work His will.

Not by the money-changing horde, Base traders in the sanctuary, Nor by fanatic fire and sword, Shall man grow as G.o.d wills him be; In his own heart a voice hath he That whispers to him small and still; G.o.d gives him eyes His good to see: G.o.d needs not you to work His will.

ENVOI

Dear Prince, a sinner's honesty Is more to G.o.d, much nearer still, Than the bribed hypocritic knee: G.o.d needs not you to work His will.