In England, centuries of art Give common things a mellow tone, And wake old memories in the heart Of other lives the soul has known.

Yes, other lives in some past age Start forth from canvas, or from page.

In England there are simple joys The modern world has left all sweet; In London's heart are nooks, where noise Has entered but with slippered feet; Yes, entered softly.

Friend, believe, To part from England is to grieve.

KARMA

I

We cannot choose our sorrows. One there was Who, reverent of soul, and strong with trust, Cried, 'G.o.d, though Thou shouldst bow me to the dust, Yet will I praise thy everlasting laws.

Beggared, my faith would never halt or pause, But sing Thy glory, feasting on a crust.

Only one boon, one precious boon I must Demand of Thee, O opulent great Cause.

Let Love stay with me, constant to the end, Though fame pa.s.s by and poverty pursue.'

With freighted hold her life ship onward sailed; The world gave wealth, and pleasure, and a friend, Unmarred by envy, and whose heart was true.

But ere the sun reached midday, Love had failed.

II

Then from the depths, in bitterness she cried, 'h.e.l.l is on earth, and heaven is but a dream; And human life a troubled aimless stream; And G.o.d is nowhere. Would G.o.d so deride A loving creature's faith?' A voice replied, 'The stream flows onward to the Source Supreme, Where things that ARE replace the things that SEEM, And where the deeds of all past lives abide.

Once at thy door Love languished and was spurned.

Who sorrow plants, must garner sorrow's sheaf.

No prayers can change the seedling in the sod.

By thine own heart Love's anguish must be learned.

Pa.s.s on, and know, as one made wise by grief, That in thyself dwells heaven and h.e.l.l and G.o.d.'

THE GOSSIPS

A rose in my garden, the sweetest and fairest, Was hanging her head through the long golden hours; And early one morning I saw her tears falling, And heard a low gossiping talk in the bowers.

The yellow Nasturtium, a spinster all faded, Was telling a Lily what ailed the poor Rose: 'That wild, roving Bee, who was hanging about her Has jilted her squarely, as every one knows.

'I knew when he came, with his singing and sighing, His airs and his speeches, so fine and so sweet, Just how it would end; but no one would believe me, For all were quite ready to fall at his feet.'

'Indeed, you are wrong,' said the Lilybelle proudly, 'I cared nothing for him. He called on me once And would have come often, no doubt, if I'd asked him.

But though he was handsome, I thought him a dunce.'

'Now, now, that's not true,' cried the tall Oleander.

'He has travelled and seen every flower that grows; And one who has supped in the garden of princes, We all might have known would not wed with the Rose.'

'But wasn't she proud when he showed her attention?

And she let him caress her,' said sly Mignonette.

'And I used to see it and blush for her folly.

The silly thing thinks he will come to her yet.'

'I thought he was splendid,' said pretty, pert Larkspur.

'So dark and so grand, with that gay cloak of gold; But he tried once to kiss me, the impudent fellow, And I got offended; I thought him too bold.'

'Oh, fie!' laughed the Almond. 'That does for a story.

Though I hang down my head, yet I see all that goes; And I saw you reach out, trying hard to detain him, But he just tapped your cheek and flew by to the Rose.

'He cared nothing for her, he only was flirting To while away time, as every one knew; So I turned a cold shoulder to all his advances, Because I was certain his heart was untrue.'

'The Rose it served right for her folly in trusting An oily-tongued stranger,' quoth proud Columbine.

'I knew what he was, and thought once I would warn her.

But, of course, the affair was no business of mine.'

'Oh, well,' cried the Peony, shrugging her shoulders, 'I saw all along that the Bee was a flirt; But the Rose has been always so praised and so petted, I thought a good lesson would do her no hurt.'

Just then came a sound of a love-song sung sweetly; I saw my proud Rose lifting up her bowed head; And the talk of the gossips was hushed in a moment, And the whole garden listened to hear what was said.

And the dark, handsome Bee, with his cloak o'er his shoulder, Came swift through the sunlight and kissed the sad Rose, And whispered: 'My darling, I've roved the world over, And you are the loveliest blossom that grows.'

TOGETHER

We two in the fever and fervour and glow Of life's high tide have rejoiced together; We have looked out over the glittering snow, And known we were dwelling in Summer weather, For the seasons are made by the heart I hold, And not by outdoor heat or cold.

We two, in the shadows of pain and woe, Have journeyed together in dim, dark places, Where black-robed Sorrow walked to and fro, And Fear and Trouble, with phantom faces, Peered out upon us and froze our blood, Though June's fair roses were all in bud.

We two have measured all depths, all heights, We have bathed in tears, we have sunned in laughter!

We have known all sorrows and delights - They never could keep us apart hereafter.

Whether your spirit went high or low, My own would follow, and find you, I know.

If they took my soul into Paradise, And told me I must be content without you, I would weary them so with my lonesome cries, And the ceaseless questions I asked about you, They would open the gates and set me free, Or else they would find you and bring you to me.

PEt.i.tION

G.o.d, may Thy loving Spirit work, In heart of Russian, and of Turk, Until throughout each clime and land, Armenian and Jew may stand, And claim the right of every soul To seek by its own path, the goal.

Parts of the Universal Force, Rills from the same eternal Source Back to that Source, all races go.

G.o.d, help Thy world to see it so.