THE VOICE

As I went down the hill I heard The laughter of the countryside; For, rain being past, the whole land stirred With new emotion, like a bride.

I scarce had left the gra.s.sy lane, When something made me catch my breath: A woman called, and called again, Elizabeth! Elizabeth!

It was my mother's name. A part Of wounded memory sprang to tears, And the few violets of my heart Shook in the wind of happier years.

Quicker than magic came the face That once was sun and moon for me; The garden shawl, the cap of lace, The collie's head against her knee.

Mother, who findest out a way To pa.s.s the sentinels, and stand Behind my chair at close of day, To touch me--almost--with thy hand, Deep in my breast, how sure, how clear, The lamp of love burns on till death!-- How trembles if I chance to hear Elizabeth! Elizabeth!

Norman Gale [1862-

MOTHER

I have praised many loved ones in my song, And yet I stand Before her shrine, to whom all things belong, With empty hand.

Perhaps the ripening future holds a time For things unsaid; Not now; men do not celebrate in rhyme Their daily bread.

Theresa Helburn [1888-

AD MATREM

Oft in the after days, when thou and I Have fallen from the scope of human view, When, both together, under the sweet sky, We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, Men will recall thy gracious presence bland, Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face; Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand, And vaunt thy skill and tell thy deeds of grace.

Oh, may they then, who crown thee with true bays, Saying, "What love unto her son she bore!"

Make this addition to thy perfect praise, "Nor ever yet was mother worshipped more!"

So shall I live with Thee, and thy dear fame Shall link my love unto thine honored name.

Julian Fane [1827-1870]

C. L. M.

In the dark womb where I began, My mother's life made me a man.

Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth.

I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her.

Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave.

For all her love, she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well, Nor knock at dusty doors to find Her beauty dusty in the mind.

If the grave's gates could be undone, She would not know her little son, I am so grown. If we should meet, She would pa.s.s by me in the street, Unless my soul's face let her see My sense of what she did for me.

What have I done to keep in mind My debt to her and womankind?

What woman's happier life repays Her for those months of wretched days?

For all my mouthless body leeched Ere Birth's releasing h.e.l.l was reached?

What have I done, or tried, or said In thanks to that dear woman dead?

Men triumph over women still, Men trample women's rights at will, And man's l.u.s.t roves the world untamed...

O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.

John Masefield [1878-

STEPPING WESTWARD

STEPPING WESTWARD

"What, you are stepping westward?"--"Yea."

--'Twould be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam In a strange Land, and far from home, Were in this place the guests of Chance: Yet who would stop, or fear to advance Though home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on?

The dewy ground was dark and cold; Behind, all gloomy to behold; And stepping westward seemed to be A kind of heavenly destiny: I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound Of something without place or bound; And seemed to give me spiritual right To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake Was walking by her native lake: The salutation had to me The very sound of courtesy: Its power was felt; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, The echo of the voice enwrought A human sweetness with the thought Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

A FAREWELL TO ARMS (To Queen Elizabeth)

His golden locks Time hath to silver turned; O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!

His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees; And lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms: But though from court to cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.