Poems of Power.

by Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x.

NOTE

The final word in the t.i.tle of this volume refers to the DIVINE POWER in every human being, the recognition of which is the secret to all success and happiness. It is this idea which many of the verses endeavour to ill.u.s.trate.

E. W. W.

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 pa.s.s, 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!

THE MEETING OF THE CENTURIES

A curious vision on mine eyes unfurled In the deep night. I saw, or seemed to see, Two Centuries meet, and sit down vis-a-vis Across the great round table of the world: One with suggested sorrows in his mien, And on his brow the furrowed lines of thought; And one whose glad expectant presence brought A glow and radiance from the realms unseen.

Hand clasped with hand, in silence for a s.p.a.ce The Centuries sat; the sad old eyes of one (As grave paternal eyes regard a son) Gazing upon that other eager face.

And then a voice, as cadenceless and gray As the sea's monody in winter time, Mingled with tones melodious, as the chime Of bird choirs, singing in the dawns of May.

THE OLD CENTURY SPEAKS

By you, Hope stands. With me, Experience walks.

Like a fair jewel in a faded box, In my tear-rusted heart, sweet Pity lies.

For all the dreams that look forth from your eyes, And those bright-hued ambitions, which I know Must fall like leaves and perish, in Time's snow, (Even as my soul's garden stands bereft,) I give you pity! 'tis the one gift left.

THE NEW CENTURY

Nay, nay, good friend! not pity, but G.o.dspeed, Here in the morning of my life I need.

Counsel, and not condolence; smiles, not tears, To guide me through the channels of the years.

Oh, I am blinded by the blaze of light That shines upon me from the Infinite.

Blurred is my vision by the close approach To unseen sh.o.r.es, whereon the times encroach.

THE OLD CENTURY

Illusion, all illusion. List and hear The G.o.dless cannons, booming far and near.

Flaunting the flag of Unbelief, with Greed For pilot, lo! the pirate age in speed Bears on to ruin. War's most hideous crimes Besmirch the record of these modern times.

Degenerate is the world I leave to you, - My happiest speech to earth will be--adieu.

THE NEW CENTURY

You speak as one too weary to be just.

I hear the guns--I see the greed and l.u.s.t.

The death throes of a giant evil fill The air with riot and confusion. Ill Ofttimes makes fallow ground for Good; and Wrong Builds Right's foundation, when it grows too strong.

Pregnant with promise is the hour, and grand The trust you leave in my all-willing hand.

THE OLD CENTURY

As one who throws a flickering taper's ray To light departing feet, my shadowed way You brighten with your faith. Faith makes the man Alas, that my poor foolish age outran Its early trust in G.o.d! The death of art And progress follows, when the world's hard heart Casts out religion. 'Tis the human brain Men worship now, and heaven, to them, means--gain.

THE NEW CENTURY

Faith is not dead, tho' priest and creed may pa.s.s, For thought has leavened the whole unthinking ma.s.s, And man looks now to find the G.o.d within.

We shall talk more of love, and less of sin, In this new era. We are drawing near Unatla.s.sed boundaries of a larger sphere.

With awe, I wait, till Science leads us on, Into the full effulgence of its dawn.

DEATH HAS CROWNED HIM A MARTYR (Written on the day of President McKinley's death)

In the midst of sunny waters, lo! the mighty Ship of State Staggers, bruised and torn and wounded by a derelict of fate, One that drifted from its moorings in the anchorage of hate.

On the deck our n.o.ble Pilot, in the glory of his prime, Lies in woe-impelling silence, dead before his hour or time, Victim of a mind self-centred in a G.o.dless fool of crime.

One of earth's dissension-breeders, one of Hate's unreasoning tools, In the annals of the ages, when the world's hot anger cools, He who sought for Crime's distinction shall be known as Chief of Fools.

In the annals of the ages, he who had no thought of fame (Keeping on the path of duty, caring not for praise or blame), Close beside the deathless Lincoln, writ in light, will shine his name.

Youth proclaimed him as a hero; time, a statesman; love, a man; Death has crowned him as a martyr,--so from goal to goal he ran, Knowing all the sum of glory that a human life may span.

He was chosen by the people; not an accident of birth Made him ruler of a nation, but his own intrinsic worth.

Fools may govern over kingdoms--not republics of the earth.

He has raised the lovers' standard by his loyalty and faith, He has shown how virile manhood may keep free from scandal's breath.

He has gazed, with trust unshaken, in the awful eyes of Death.

In the mighty march of progress he has sought to do his best.

Let his enemies be silent, as we lay him down to rest, And may G.o.d a.s.suage the anguish of one suffering woman's breast.