‘The hammer, Self-Control, beat hard on it; (Ere Thou cam’st questioning,) And with each blow, rose fiery sparks of pain; I bear their scars, on body, soul, and brain. Long, long I toiled; and yet, dear Lord, unfit, And all unworthy, is the heart I bring, To meet Thy questioning.’ ENGLAND, AWAKE! A beautiful great lady, past her prime, Behold her dreaming in her easy chair; Gray robed, and veiled; in laces old and rare, Her smiling eyes see but the vanished time, Of splendid prowess, and of deeds sublime. Self satisfied she sits, all unaware That peace has flown before encroaching care, And through her halls stalks hunger, linked with crime. England, awake! from dreams of what has been, Look on what _is_, and put the past away. Speak to your sons, until they understand. England, awake! for dreaming now is sin; In all your ancient wisdom, rise to-day, And save the glory of your menaced land. BE NOT ATTACHED ‘Be not attached.’ So runs the great command For those who seek to ‘know’ and ‘understand.’ Who sounds the waters of the deeper sea Must first draw up his anchor and go free. But not for me, that knowledge. I must wait Until again I enter through life’s gate. I am not brave enough to sail away To farther seas, and leave this beauteous bay. Love barnacled, my anchor lies; and oh! I would not lift it if I could, and go All unattached, to find those truths which lie Far out at sea, beneath a lonely sky. Though peace of heart, and happiness of soul, Await the seeker at that farther goal, With love and all its rapture and its pain, Close to the shores of earth I must remain. Nor yet would I relinquish my sweet dream To gain possession of the Fact supreme. I am attached, and well content to stay, Learning such truths as love may send my way. AN EPISODE Along the narrow Moorish street A blue-eyed soldier strode. (Ah, well-a-day) Veiled from her lashes to her feet She stepped from her abode, (Ah, lack-a-day). Now love may guard a favoured wife Who leaves the harem door; (Ah, well-a-day) But hungry hearted is her life When she is one of four. (Ah, lack-a-day.) If black eyes glow with sudden fire And meet warm eyes of blue— (Ah, well-a-day). The old, old story of desire Repeats itself anew. (Ah, lack-a-day.) When bugles blow the soldier flies— Though bitter tears may fall (Ah, lack-a-day). _A Moorish child with blue_, _blue eyes_ _Plays in the harem hall_. (Ah, well-a-day.) THE VOICE OF THE VOICELESS