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 Copyright 1919 
 
 By 
 
 Carlyle C. Mclniyre 
 
^ (': 
 
Even in these turbulent times there are 
 those whose clearer vision can discern 
 above the confusion of the moral struggle 
 the gleam of the imperturbable stars and 
 to that small brotherhood is this work 
 most fraternally dedicated. 
 
 C. C. M. 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 With a desire to render the ensuing allegory 
 as comprehensible as is possible, the writer has 
 decided to prefix these words of explanation, 
 hoping thereby to reconcile the reader with certain 
 inevitable paradoxes which are inseparable from 
 the poem. 
 
 Since the aim of "In Conclusion'* is to approxi- 
 mate truth as nearly as is possible and to elimin- 
 ate the customary illusions, pretentions, and 
 conventions of life the writer has, in the work 
 proper, seen fit to make use of the first person 
 singular throughout. It was Thoreau who said, 
 "We commonly do not remember that it is, after 
 all, always the first person who is speaking. 
 
 Perhaps the title of "In Conclusion" is in 
 itself a misnomer, since our conclusions depend 
 entirely upon the experiences of our individual 
 lives, whether those experiences be actual or 
 the interpreted experiences of others, and since 
 life is constantly subject to growth and to the 
 deepening and enriching influences of time. 
 
 Be the title appropriate or otherwise it is 
 certain that conclusions, as well as life, are sub- 
 ject to constant change and that as long as life 
 
'vi ;.; ..^ ...... . , Prologue 
 
 and experience are existent, just so long shall 
 conclusions be lacking in finality. 
 
 Since "In Conclusion'' is an expression of the 
 "truth'' as realized through the experiences of 
 a life which is probably but half completed, it 
 therefore cannot be taken as necessarily final, 
 even inasmuch as it is the sincere expression of 
 that life. 
 
 The writer has endeavored to (express the 
 truth as he has been given to see the truth, and 
 this with no intention of casting discrediting 
 reflections upon the equally sincere and equally 
 justified views of those who have been given to 
 see the truth in a radically different light. 
 
 Each of us lives in an entirely different 
 world, an individual world which our individual 
 experiences have builded about us, and in these 
 varying worlds are as many varying races of 
 men as there are different individuals in any one 
 of these countless races. No two of us think the 
 same thoughts nor see the same things. As 
 Schopenhauer has said, "Thoughts put on paper 
 are nothing more than footprints in the sand ; you 
 see the way the man has gone but to know what he 
 saw on his walk, you want his eyes." 
 
 Since this is so we are in no sense justified 
 in passing judgment upon the thoughts of others. 
 
Prologue vii 
 
 for to do so is to judge of that which we have never 
 seen or known and which, in its entirety, must for 
 all time be realized alone by its originator. 
 
 It is true that our individual thoughts are 
 largely composites of the fragments of the 
 thoughts of others and those in their turn are 
 only composites of the imperfectly understood 
 thoughts of preceding thinkers, but into each 
 individual composite there is mingled something 
 that is peculiar to the individual, who is the sole 
 possessor of that particular understanding, and 
 as a consequence, there are no two individuals 
 whose conclusions are in all essentials the same. 
 
 We each, therefore, must build an individual 
 castle of thought, though it is true that in so 
 doing we may utilize the wreckage of the thought 
 castles of others, which has been strewn about our 
 feet through the instrumentality of our own 
 Vandal-like misconceptions. 
 
 Language at its best is but a poor vehicle for 
 the transmission of thought, as must have been 
 realized by all who have sought to convey to the 
 minds of others some impression pertaining to the 
 deeper phases of life and feeling. 
 
 How often we can see, or at least feel, that 
 behind a man's words there is dwelling the ghost 
 
viii Prologue 
 
 of some deeper conviction which is longing in 
 vain to find expression. 
 
 There are few illustrations that will better 
 emphasize this point than will those beautiful lines 
 of Tennyson's, 
 
 "Break, break, break, 
 
 On thy cold grey stones, Sea! 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 O well for the fisherman's boy. 
 
 That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
 
 O well for the sailor lad, 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay \ 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 
 To their haven under the hill ; 
 
 But for the touch of a vanished hand. 
 And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me." 
 
 Where is he who can read those lines and not 
 feel the presence of things unsayable, and who 
 will not hear the fluttering of wings as the soul 
 
Prologue ix 
 
 of that master singer strives, like an encaged 
 eagle, against the narrow confines of human 
 expression? /j j ^ 
 
 Fortunate is he who in-^her innermost being 
 hears the melodious vibrations of responsive 
 chords which, like the silver strings of the harp 
 of Aeolus, are fanned into soulful symphonies by 
 the passing breath of another's aesthetic concep- 
 tions. 
 
 True it is that such natures are proportionately 
 exposed to the discords of pain and, as the harp 
 of Aeolus will, when in the grasp of the God of 
 the Tempest, chant the battle march of the 
 elements and in wrangling discontent wail its 
 agonies from the measureless depths of the void 
 of sound, even so will the aesthetic nature at 
 times be swept by chords of bitter agony which in 
 passing would gain but feeble response from the 
 less tense chords of natures unaesthetic. 
 
 As Burns has expressed the idea, 
 
 "Dearly bought the hidden treasure 
 
 Finer feelings can bestow 
 Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure 
 
 Thrill the deepest notes of woe." 
 
 But in spite of the necessary accompanying 
 
X Prologue 
 
 pain those, "Chords that vibrate sweetest 
 pleasure" are essential to the larger and deeper 
 life, and the discords serve only to emphasize the 
 harmony and the sweetness of the higher 
 pleasures. 
 
 Thus it is that the development of the race as 
 well as that of the individual is to be attained 
 only through a stimulation of that faculty which 
 recognizes and appreciates the beautiful in its 
 various forms. 
 
 It is through this channel that the imagination 
 or the great awakening power may be revivified, 
 and through which the morals of men may be 
 unified and elevated. 
 
 It was Victor Hugo who said, "The beautiful 
 is as useful as the useful." 
 
 But after all it seems that beauty, or at least 
 the appreciation of beauty, must be inherent in the 
 soul of the individual, for beauty, be it in what 
 form it may, can only appeal to the perceiver 
 in as far as he is susceptible to that appeal. 
 
 The expression of another, be it verbal or 
 otherwise, is worth no more to an individual than 
 inasmuch as it is able to awaken m him the 
 ability to feel, to comprehend, and to enjoy; in 
 short it is of service only in as far as it is able 
 to show the individual who and what he himself is. 
 
Prologue xi 
 
 It is the effort of all who strive to express the 
 deeper and more beautiful convictions of life, 
 to submit them in a form which will render them 
 most acceptable, comprehensible and effective and 
 when this has been done, the writer can only con- 
 tent himself with the realization that he has done 
 his best, and leave the reader to glean from his 
 efforts such ideas as he has succeeded in present- 
 ing in a gleanable form. 
 
 As he who in his search for gold pierces to 
 the roots of the eternal hills, so is he who in 
 quest of truth delves into the heart of things. 
 
 Sinking the shaft of his inquiry through the 
 superficiality of established illusion, he descends 
 deeper and deeper through the substratifications 
 of underlying evidences, laboring under constantly 
 increasing difficulties, and supported only by the 
 stimulus of the quest. 
 
 About the mouth of every shaft of inquiry is 
 to be found the usual quota of self-sufficient and 
 loquacious blockheads who, with the promptness 
 of ignorance, at once sieze upon, paw over and 
 comment upon each load of detached thought 
 as it is sent aloft by the patient delver in the 
 depths below. 
 
xii Prologue 
 
 Down in the darkness and solitude of the un- 
 discovered, the inquirer toils earnestly on, caring 
 little or nothing for comments or commenters. 
 Fiercer and fiercer grows the heat, harder and 
 more hard the underlying foundations of thought 
 through which he delves with the determination 
 of the undiscouragable. Distant and more distant 
 the verdant sod of illusion, and fainter, as he 
 works, grows the voice of companionship. Gone 
 is the light of human sympathy and appreciation 
 and still the solitary soul delves valiantly on, 
 never to be satisfied with any treasure other than 
 the innermost heart of the unknown. 
 
 Determinedly his pick eats its fiery way into 
 the stubborn depths, and into the eternal stillness 
 of that subterranean realm stabs its ringing inter- 
 jections. 
 
 When lo ! with a blinding suddenness the very 
 foundation of the world of things gives way below 
 his feet. With the intuition of an endangered 
 animal he clings desperately to the supporting 
 irregularities of the confining walls and, with 
 reeling brain, peers from his bottomless shaft into 
 the seething and moulten depths of wild insanity. 
 
 Here the inherent strength of the man de- 
 termines his fate. Either Nietzche-like he plunges 
 headlong into the bubbling void or with stalwart 
 
I 
 
 Prologue xiii 
 
 and almost superhuman stolidity he refuses to 
 yield himself, and scrambling into the suspended 
 bucket ascends from the dangerous depths of 
 the undiscoverable to dwell the remainder of his 
 days in possession of his limited faculties, and 
 to content himself with the blossoms of mystery 
 which, star-like, are scattered over the verdant 
 sod of illusion. 
 
 4e 9|( 
 
 It is not the hope of the writer that all 
 things parodoxical have been eliminated from the 
 ensuing allegory, nor is such his desire. 
 
 It requires no very persistent perusal of any 
 particular line of thought to force that thought 
 to retreat like a frightened ape into the jungle of 
 contradiction and paradox. Here the mind must 
 halt while the pursued may, in guaranteed security 
 bury itself in the inaccessible depths of the 
 unknown, unharmed and unreached by any random 
 arrows of mere surmise which may be sent in 
 pursuit. 
 
 Being born cripples we are forced oy necessity 
 to accept this swaying reed of reason as a crutch. 
 So long as we confine our rambles to the grassy 
 lowlands of life we may hobble about quite suc- 
 cessfully, but the steeper slopes of Olympus are 
 strewn with the broken and discarded crutches 
 
xiv Prologue 
 
 of those who have vainly sought the dwelling 
 place of the gods. 
 
 In approaching the conclusion of his essay, 
 "Nominalist and Realist," Emerson has said, "No 
 sentence will hold the whole truth, and the only 
 way in which we can be just is by giving ourselves 
 the lie. Speech is better than silence, silence is 
 better than speech. All things are in contact; 
 every atom has a sphere of repulsion. Things are 
 and are not at the same time and the like. All 
 the universe over, there is but one thing, this 
 Two-Face, creator-creature, mind-matter, right- 
 wrong, of which any proposition may be affirmed 
 or denied." 
 
 The source of reason is mystery and reason 
 when pushed to its ultimate will invariably go 
 to seed in a pod of parodox. Like a meteor, reason 
 appears unannounced from a limitless void of 
 gloom, trails its fiery course for a brief spell 
 through the higher atmosphere of our little world 
 and as precipitately plunges into the gloom again. 
 
 The most profound thought-edifice ever 
 builded is no more than a tower of shadows which 
 swims for an interval through the desert mirage 
 of life. 
 
 Verily meditation teaches us that all is 
 paradoxical, even unto this thing which we have 
 
Prologue xv 
 
 termed "thought," and including these peram- 
 bulating mysteries, which for want of a better 
 name we have called "men." 
 
 With this feeble attribute which is "reason" 
 we attempt to measure all about us and subse- 
 quently to appraise the virtue of all things, never 
 considering for an instant that this thing "reason" 
 which is our very instrument of measurement is 
 nothing more than a mere supposition, a surmise, 
 an unfounded hypothesis which we have accepted 
 through force of dire necessity. 
 
 What a paradox is the unreasonableness of 
 reason, the thoughtlessness of thought! 
 
 Since reason is solely a matter of comparison, 
 a judging of things new by comparison with 
 things old, a measuring of things unknown by a 
 scale formed of a combination of things which 
 are supposedly established as facts, it must follow 
 that reason can deal only with such considerations 
 as are in some sense comparable to precedent. 
 The finality, integrity and certainty of all conclu- 
 sions thus reached are seriously compromised by 
 the hypothetical nature of the factors entering 
 into the process of their deduction. 
 
 Since all precedent is in its last sense only 
 supposition it must follow that there is no actu- 
 ally established fact; for a supposition which is 
 
xvi Prologue 
 
 said to be proven through the instrumentality of 
 another supposition can not, in the final sense of 
 the word be spoken of as proven. 
 
 As that most astute thinker, Herbert Spencer, 
 has sa'id in concluding his wonderful work on 
 "The Unknowable," "He (the man of science) 
 more than any other, knows that in its ultimate 
 essence nothing can be known." 
 
 And thus it is through all things, all is fluent, 
 all things are, as far as we are concerned, founded 
 upon mere supositions which in desperation the 
 mind of man has grasped, and upon which he has 
 builded this curious leaning tower of Pisa which 
 is our society. 
 
 Adrift in the void, upon a mere hypothesis, 
 and inhabiting this superstructure of society, man 
 wraps the veils of his countless religions about his 
 eyes and swings giddily on to the realm^s of He- 
 knows-not-where. He knows not whence he came 
 nor whither he will go, but with an indifference 
 which has in it the characteristics of both the 
 Deity and the fool he bravely deals with the 
 incidents of the present. He thinks, if think he 
 can, that through all of the bewildering web of 
 things he sees a plainly discemable golden thread 
 of purpose, and in the thought is hope, and in 
 hope alone is life. 
 
V-.A^-'^* 
 
 Prologue xvii . 
 
 The only thing that he really knows is that he i ^ 
 
 knows nothing and that all knowledge is mere 
 surmise, and irony of ironies, that this realization 
 is in itself only a super-surmise. 
 
 Ye God of mysteries ! Why and wherefore J 
 
 "I stand amid the roar 
 Of the surf tormented shore, 
 And I hold within my hand 
 Grains of golden sand 
 How few ! yet how they creep 
 Through my fingers to the deep, 
 While I weep while I weep ! 
 O God ! can I not grasp 
 Them with a tighter clasp? 
 O God ! can I not save 
 One from the pitiless wave ? 
 Is all that we see or seem 
 But a dream within a dream?" 
 
 E. A. Poe. 
 
 If herein there is a reluctance shown in 
 i" accepting the trappings and draperies of any of 
 the various established creeds it is through no 
 lack of appreciation of the value of the vital 
 principle of all religion, but because, as Thomas 
 Carlyle has said, "Rituals, Liturgies, Creeds, 
 
xviii Prologue 
 
 Hierarchies, all this is not religion, all this, were 
 i'. dead as Odinism, as Fetishism, does not kill 
 religion at all." 
 
 1^0/ has it been possible for the writer to 
 conceive of a God, an Infinite or a Cause in the 
 generally accepted and personified sense of these 
 terms. The existing God of all time, force and 
 matter can not in his conception of things be 
 shrunken into the picture god of the creeds nor 
 will the wildest flights of a most fanciful imag- 
 ination enable him to mould into a conceivable 
 form the God that is. 
 
 In considering the origin and motive of things 
 the human mind can not intelligently grasp the 
 idea of a beginningless universe nor can it intelli- 
 gently grasp the alternative idea of an all wise and 
 all powerful creating Cause. In fact the human 
 mind being finite is staggered and prostrated at 
 any attempt to logically deal with the God idea. 
 A man either accepts the God idea, call it what he 
 will, or else he refuses to accept it and in either 
 case his position is indefensible, and any argu- 
 ment advanced in defense of his stand only weak- 
 ens his position. 
 
 With a full realization of the shadow-like 
 foundations which buoy up his consequent philos- 
 ophy of life the writer accepts what to him 
 
li 
 
 Prologue xix 
 
 seems the firmer of the two possible foundations, 
 accepts the God idea in a general way and builds 
 thereon. 
 
 It is an old and true adage, **The more we know 
 the less we know" and only ignorance deep and 
 dense is positive in its opinions. 
 
 Faith is another name for desperation as 
 manifested by small minds. It asserts as truths, 
 beliefs which it can not prove to be facts. Hope 
 is larger in that it deals with possibilities rather 
 than with assertions. Faith is final, bigoted, 
 violently partisan and oppressive, while hope is 
 trusting, broadly catholic and lenient, open to all 
 light and intellectual improvement and above all, 
 free from all dogmatic formulas and restraints. 
 Hope builds upon dreams, calls them dreams and 
 trusts that all is well, faith builds upon dreams, 
 ;alls them facts and dogmatically asserts. 
 
 Philosophy, broadly speaking, must of course 
 embrace all things pertaining to human life and 
 human thought, including the false philosophies 
 of the vanished and fast vanishing creeds. In 
 fact even hope itself, in order to exist, must have 
 some dimly discernable silken thread anchoring it 
 to the ghost of an unrecognized and submerged 
 hilosophy. 
 
XX Prologue 
 
 Like the waxen pond-lily the flov/er of hope 
 must draw even its most beautiful conception of 
 life and cause from the underlying quagmire of 
 mere thought. In its rise toward perfection it 
 ascends through the malarial waters of earthly 
 experience inch by inch, until at last, bursting 
 into perfected form, all consideration of the en- 
 vironment of its origin is lost in an appreciation 
 of the perfected flower. 
 
 Nor is the lily of hope any less a lily because 
 it was conceived in the slime coated silt of reason, 
 among the tangled roots of mistaken philosophies, 
 and forced its waxen beauty heavenward, un- 
 sullied, through the polluting waters of human 
 experience. 
 
 These things being considered the writer has 
 experienced no little difficulty in attempting to 
 personify Hope, Philosophy, and the Creeds, and 
 to sever, for the time being, that all too evident 
 connecting thread, in order to contrast these 
 phenomena of the human mind, one with the other. 
 
 The personified philosophy of "In Conclusion" 
 is, however, that limited philosophy which Schop- 
 enhauer had in mind when, in speaking of the 
 intellect he said, "Its power of comprehension 
 never reaches beyond what philosophers call 
 'finite things,' or as they sometimes say, 'phenom- 
 
Prologue xxi 
 
 ena/ in short just the fleeting shadows of this 
 world, and the interest of the individual, the 
 furtherance of his aims and the maintenance of 
 his person. And since our intellect is thus emin- 
 ent our philosophy should be eminent too, and not 
 soar to supermundane things, but be content with 
 gaining a thorough grasp of the world of ex- 
 perience." 
 
 It is probable that the philosophy of "In 
 Conclusion" would be more readily recognized if 
 arrayed in the chain armor of Science than when 
 arrayed in the sack-cloth of the sage. 
 
 Be that as it may our scientific philosopher 
 and heir to the House of Fact herein meets Hope, 
 the child of Him to whom all Philosophies, all 
 heirs, and all facts are but incidents and in the 
 meeting there is catastrophe. 
 
 In advancing the belief that "all that is, is 
 right" the writer has not been blind to the fact 
 that suffering is a dominant factor in life. The 
 soul sickening misery and oppression of the units 
 of humanity have at times born in upon him with 
 paralyzing intensity, but in moments of clearer 
 vision the workings of the Omniscent Will as 
 manifested in the vast scale of things has con- 
 vinced him that pain in all of its instructive and 
 
xxii Prologue 
 
 disciplinary workings, is but one element enter- 
 ing into a vast and final good. 
 
 In his exquisite lament Tennyson has said, 
 
 "And I ^my harp would prelude woe 
 I can not all command the strings. 
 The glory of the sum of things 
 Will flash along the chords and go.'' 
 
 Nor would the writer imply that the present 
 conditions being "right" are final. Change is the 
 keynote of the universe and finality is a myth. 
 From the primal bog the creature man has 
 dragged his slow way up the slippery grade of 
 development, shedding one by one his brutish 
 traits and ever striving to fan into flame that 
 small spark of soul which has led him hopefully 
 on. Like a beacon in the night the vision of 
 ultimate justice among men has glowed before 
 him and even now is glowing with increased in- 
 tensity. With ever increasing will and with ever 
 increasing intelligence he presses onward and up- 
 ward toward the still distant goal of civilization. 
 
 One-third lizard, one-third man and one-third 
 angel he bends to the grade; the lights of civil- 
 ization are in sight; his thews are strengthened 
 by ages of stress and strain, his course has been 
 
Prologue xxiii 
 
 ever upward and ever upward it will be, in spite 
 of the element of swamp reptile which has per- 
 sistently clung to him. The man is gradually- 
 dominating the lizard and likewise the angel, 
 whose name is Idealism, is gradually dominating 
 the man. 
 
 All that was, was right, in the ascending scale 
 of progress; all that is, is right, for the present 
 instant only ; what is to be, will be right though it 
 differ in every detail from the right of today. 
 Progress is invincible and the world does move 
 forward perceptibly. Thus religions, nations, 
 ideals, political philosophies and faiths without end 
 have come and gone to make way for better ones 
 to come, and still man, the central figure, plods 
 steadily on. 
 
 In all of the realms of imagination and 
 reality there is nothing that is at once as pathetic 
 and as inspiring as is this great semi-blind, in- 
 articulate, groping brute-man, sullenly plodding 
 up through the ages, slipping backward now and 
 then only to rise and trudge determinedly onward, 
 his heavy half-shut eyes glowing with the fires of 
 an awakening soul and set steadily upon the light 
 of civilization which gleams upon the distant 
 leight. 
 
 In considering justice as it is manifested in the 
 
xxiv Prologue 
 
 universal scheme it is all too evident that the 
 Omniscient Will is little concerned with justice as 
 it applies to the individual. 
 
 Right is ever becoming an accomplished fact 
 and in the process are involved many painful 
 procedures which enter as factors in the great 
 final accomplishment toward which the whole 
 universe drives. These procedures being essential 
 to the great master purpose of the universe are 
 necessarily right though we as individuals are at 
 times shown no more consideration than is grain 
 within the mill. 
 
 This progress in its development strikes re- 
 morselessly at men and nations, sweeps races into 
 oblivion, turns worlds and systems into the dis- 
 card but ever marches irresistably on to its 
 appointed end. 
 
 It is only when the individual willingly loses 
 himself in the cosmic machine and falls into his 
 nitche as an infinitesimal part of a perfected whole 
 that he can hope to view the idea of justice from 
 a proper perspective. 
 
 Be he baker, poet, agitator or farmer, let him 
 do his small part in the vast task of living, asking 
 no privilege that he is not willing that all should 
 have, serving and being served and ever lending 
 
Prologue xxv 
 
 his individual strength to the forward urge of 
 things. 
 
 When a man has fully realized that honor and 
 common decency demand that strength shall not 
 prey upon weakness, be that weakness physical, 
 mental, or material, then and only then, has that 
 man's mentality risen above the mental horizon 
 of the jungle beast. 
 
 Let a man say to himself, "I am willing to 
 fit into the master design of things in whatever 
 capacity it has been intended that we as a race 
 should fit. If the Master Builder has decreed that 
 this humanity to which I belong is to serve but as 
 a roadway over which are to march the sandled 
 feet of better things, then well content am I to 
 serve in such capacity." When a man has reached 
 this realization, that in the cosmic scheme, each 
 and every infinitesimal part is equally important, 
 and without his atom of life and service the 
 whole cosmos would have been an uncompleted 
 thing, then is he willing to be and to serve in 
 whatever capacity shall fall to his lot, and in his 
 heart there will reign a buoyant sense which is 
 stoicism, infused with the illumination of hope. 
 
 The poem as a whole is the child of necessity, 
 
xxvi Prologue 
 
 as "In Conlusion" has for some time been crying 
 for the privilege of assuming the concrete. 
 
 The writer has felt that in this day of 
 crumbling creeds, of discarded philosophies and 
 shattered illusions there is a crying need for some 
 voice to proclaim the doctrine of HOPE; the 
 doctrine of that hope which has stalked boldly 
 down the centuries casting to rearward like out- 
 worn garments its tattered and faded creeds and 
 philosophies, that hope which in spite of antagon- 
 istic philosophy reigns indomitably in the human 
 breast and which is today the sole religion of the 
 unchurched millions, that hope which knows not 
 defeat and recognizes not reason, but placidly, 
 fatefully leads humanity over the chaotic quick- 
 sands of shifting thought toward the final 
 realization of the rightness of things. This 
 doctrine of Hope he has endeavored to proclaim. 
 
PROEM. 
 
 Mnx ij0p^ alntt^ 
 
 AttJi tl|0ugl|t0 mill Jtt^ 
 
 jj^t]? tjop^ mill liu0- 
 
IN CONCLUSION. 
 
 I. 
 
 Full wearied with the ways of men, 
 
 And worn by stress of fruitless thought 
 Concerning things beyond my ken, 
 
 A restful solitude I sought. 
 I climbed me to a lonely height 
 
 That towers beside the surging sea 
 Where far below the billows fight 
 
 In frothing riot wild and free. 
 
 II 
 
 And there I sat me on the rocks 
 
 That overhang the gulf below, 
 And watched the frightened screaming flocks 
 
 Of sea mews, white as driven snow, 
 Which swim through amplitudes of space 
 
 Like thoughts released from mind^s control. 
 In vain attempt to faintly trace 
 
 The mystic mazes of the soul. 
 
30 In Conclusion 
 
 III 
 
 Like thoughts to sweep before the wind 
 
 On steady wing, direct, alone, 
 To search the pathless sky and find 
 
 New courses through the vast unknown. 
 And musing thus I looked below, 
 
 Beheld the battle of the seas, 
 And looking, longed in vain to know 
 
 Of life and all its mysteries. 
 
 IV 
 
 The truth of things, of time and place. 
 
 The purpose of this mystic scheme 
 That holds our lives in its embrace, 
 
 The motive of this living dream 
 In which we act our written parts, 
 
 Nor dare to drop from out the dance 
 Though weary grow at times our hearts 
 
 Beneath the heavy hand of Chance. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 31 
 
 I longed to know, and longing, knew 
 
 I had no right to long to know, 
 Yet willful thought would e'er pursue 
 
 The underworkings of the show; 
 Like some lost sea bird of the night. 
 
 Would throw herself against the pane 
 _Where gleamed the golden harbor light, 
 
 A beacon through the driving rain. 
 
 VI 
 
 Or like some spectral form would tread 
 
 The shell strewn hallways of the seas 
 Where roll the bones of ancient dead 
 
 To time of sea sung melodies, 
 And forms, undreamed by mortal mind, 
 
 Go shuffling through the amber gloom, 
 Weird, ghostly shapes that can not find 
 
 Their sea tossed bones a quiet tomb. 
 
32 In Conclusion i 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 VII i 
 
 And then grim Fancy's tireless way I 
 
 Would wend o'er sandy sea-swept plains , 
 
 Where somber ships ill-fated lay j 
 
 Bedraped in swaying rusty chains ; I 
 
 Where casks and chests of tarnished gold | 
 
 Are scattered o'er the yellow sand, ; 
 
 The wasted wealth of tyrants old, > 
 
 Untouched today by human hand. ] 
 
 VIII 
 
 But what to him are gold and ships 
 
 Who seeks alone the truth of things, 
 What wisdom from the ocean's lips. 
 
 What council in its murmurings? 
 No signal comes from out the deeps. 
 
 No answer from the surf-swept shore, 
 But Thought her tireless vigil keeps 
 
 And thinking, questions evermore. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 33 
 
 IX 
 
 And wrapped in wonder lifts her eyes 
 Unto the boundless void of space, 
 
 And hurls her questions at the skies, 
 And wildly dreaming, tries to trace 
 
 The purpose of the swinging spheres. 
 The hidden scheme of living things, 
 
 But wonder as she will, she hears 
 ^m No answer to her questionings. 
 
 ^ And on the wings of Fancy, flees 
 I^P More swiftly than the flight of time, 
 
 Through far etherial azure seas 
 
 On up the vaulted skies, to climb 
 To port so dimly distant placed. 
 
 No roaming dream has e'er before , 
 O'er tides of drifting ether traced 
 A trail to its forbidden shore. 
 
 X 
 
34 In Conclusion 
 
 XI 
 
 Still onward, upward, till at last 
 
 With weary wing the port is gained. 
 And countless cycling suns are passed, 
 
 But nought of value is obtained. 
 For stars uncounted drift and dream 
 
 And flash their secret signals o'er 
 The vast abyss where port lights gleam 
 
 As dim and distant as before. 
 
 XII 
 
 She sees the countless systems cast 
 
 Within the systems to the end. 
 But where the sequence ends at last 
 
 No dream of hers can comprehend; 
 She sees the systems she has known, 
 
 Like wheat from out the sower's hand. 
 Strewn out across the sky and thrown 
 
 In ways she can not understand. 
 
In Conclusion 35 
 
 XIII 
 
 And like a baffled bird that tries 
 
 To fight the tempest all in vain, 
 She turns her on her course and flies 
 
 To shelter in the mind again, 
 And still the stars swing on their way, 
 
 The tides go streaming out to sea, 
 And all the chords of nature play 
 
 One ceaseless, matchless symphony. 
 
 I 
 
 XIV 
 
 And thus my thoughts had gone in quest : 
 
 Of aught to quench my deep desire, 1 
 
 Of aught to soothe the wild unrest i 
 
 That burned within, a glowing fire, ^ 
 
 And worn and wearied had returned | 
 
 With drooping wing and sullied plume, ^ 
 , Had brought me nought for which I yearned, 
 
 And plunged me in a deeper gloom. ) 
 
36 In Conclusion 
 
 XV 
 
 I heard the surging of the sea 
 
 In slowly measured throbs ascend, 
 
 The pulsing of eternity- 
 Advancing to its endless end, 
 
 Till stricken down, a beaten thing, 
 A hound that cringes at the feet, 
 
 Proud Thought retreated, whimpering. 
 Into her kennel-like retreat. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Nor stirred her, hound-like lying low ; 
 
 With restless eyes that witnessed all. 
 She watched the hand that gave the blow 
 
 And listened for an unheard call, 
 Till thought grew madness waiting there. 
 
 Confined, submissive as the brute, 
 And rising, called in wild despair, 
 
 ''Give unto me truth absolute." 
 
In Conclusion 37 
 
 XVII 
 
 And lo ! a hand was on my head, 
 
 A husky voice was in my ear, 
 And o'er my beating heart was spread 
 
 The shadow of an unknown fear, 
 For spectral forms, diversely dressed 
 
 In guises strange, surrounded me 
 Upon the headland's lofty crest. 
 
 Above the wild, complaining sea. 
 
 I 
 
 XVIII 
 
 patriarch with grizzled beard. 
 
 With toothless jaws and hoary head. 
 With eyes bedimmed with age and bleared 
 
 With years of stressful thought which shed 
 No light upon the truth of things. 
 
 Spoke first of all the ghostly throng. 
 While I with wildest wonderings 
 
 By his weird words was swept along. 
 
38 In Conclusion 
 
 XIX 
 
 "My son/' said he, "dissolve thy dream, 
 'Tis but a bubble filled with breath, 
 
 Thou art a leaf upon the stream 
 
 Which flows but to the land of death. 
 
 Thine only life is here and now, 
 Thou art a toy of Fate's decree 
 
 With 'Finis' written on thy brow; 
 My name is called 'Philosophy/ 
 
 XX 
 
 "I heard you crying," said the sage, 
 
 "A cry I oft have heard before, 
 The slogan of each passing age, 
 
 A cry unanswered evermore, 
 A cry which ever wildly rings 
 
 From out the hopeful heart of youth 
 To die among its echoings, 
 
 'Give unto me the TRUTH! the TRUTH!' 
 
In Conclusion 39 
 
 XXI 
 
 "The truth, my son, is but a dream, 
 
 A phantom of the Great Unknown ; 
 The truth is but the color scheme 
 
 Across the skies at sunset thrown ; 
 The truth is but the shifting sand, 
 
 Reshaped by every gust of men; 
 The clay within the potter's hand. 
 
 Constructed and destroyed again. 
 
 XXII 
 
 Yea, even as the sparks will fly 
 
 From out the forge's glowing womb, 
 And rise into the inky sky 
 
 To fade into the ebon gloom, 
 So truth will ever rise and fall. 
 
 And creeds and faiths will ever show 
 That truth is never truth at all. 
 
 As far as minds of men can know. 
 
40 In Conclusion 
 
 XXIII 
 
 "The hollow creeds are all in vain, 
 
 Their fancied gods have followed fast, 
 Each one to have its transient reign 
 
 And fade into the endless past, 
 But minds of men will ever build 
 
 New creeds and faiths where others fail, 
 And human hearts with blindness filled 
 
 Will pray to gods with no avail.*' 
 
 XXIV 
 
 And lifting up one palsied hand, 
 
 With purpled veins and fingers long, 
 He pointed to the ghostly band 
 
 And sneered at all the spectral throng. 
 "Behold/' said he, "the creeds of men, 
 
 The fabled dreams and blind beliefs, 
 The childish myth of 'faith,' and then 
 
 Content you with such vain reliefs. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 41 
 
 XXV 
 
 "But think you not, my son," said he, 
 
 "That things which you can not conceive 
 Do not exist eternally, 
 
 For, in the scheme of things that weave 
 Their varied threads through time and space, 
 
 There is intention, thought, and will, 
 And though in vain you try to trace 
 
 The great design, it weaveth still. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 "The truth herself, in spite of all 
 
 The long parade of passing thought, 
 In spite of dreams that rise and fall, 
 
 Within the grasp of Fate is caught 
 And wrapped in robes of gleaming gold, 
 
 Is set upon a lofty throne 
 To reign in state, and reigning hold 
 
 The scepter of the great unknown. 
 
42 In Conclusion 
 
 XXVII 
 
 "Yea, Truth herself, must ever be 
 
 The absolute of things that are; 
 The ruler of Infinity ; 
 
 The motive of each swinging star ; 
 And minds of men will ever strive, 
 
 Will long to reach her shrine in vain, 
 And withered hopes will oft revive. 
 
 But hopes revived will fail again. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 "The mind of man is e'er possessed 
 
 By wildest dreams and vain desire. 
 Is filled with longing and unrest, 
 
 A fierce, consuming, inward fire 
 And as the twilight moths will rise 
 
 Toward the torch, by fancy caught. 
 And deem the flame a golden prize 
 
 Such is the fate of human thought. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 43 
 
 XXIX 
 
 "But think you will for think you must, 
 
 Though all your thoughts you think in vain. 
 Though all your dreams but end in dust, 
 
 For thoughtlessness is worse than pain. 
 You can not hope to bail the sea 
 
 Of truth, nor stem the tide of fact 
 With tea cups of mentality. 
 
 But better fail than not to act. 
 
 XXX 
 
 'But when your dreams are dreamed and done. 
 
 The creeds, the prayers, the faiths of man, 
 When all their cycling course is run, 
 
 They end the race where they began. 
 And thought will pause and turn her gaze. 
 
 By some strange freak of fancy caught, 
 Upon the folly of her ways 
 
 And ask in wonder, *What is thought?' 
 
44 In Conclusion 
 
 XXXI 
 
 "A hand that clutches at the gloom 
 
 Which shrouds the mystic form of things, 
 A voice which cries against its doom 
 
 And dies among its echoings, 
 A bleeding fist that mangled falls 
 
 Ere yet it jars the close'd gate, 
 A writhing, conquered thing that calls 
 
 In accents most disconsolate." 
 
 XXXII 
 
 And, as the sage thus spoke to me, 
 
 A murmur from the ghostly throng 
 Rose high above the surging sea 
 
 In one complaining common song; 
 Around us swept the motley crowd 
 
 Of spectres dressed in strange disguise. 
 With cowl and surplice, veil and shroud, 
 
 And all with hollow sightless eyes. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 45 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 The priesthood of the Great Soudan, 
 
 Of Egypt and of far Cathay, 
 The torture fiends of Hindustan, 
 
 Had gathered for the coming fray. 
 All orders of the fiends of prayer 
 
 Had risen from their beds of blood 
 To battle on the headland there 
 
 Above the wild complaining flood. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 And charging forth with gnashing teeth, 
 With frothing lips and demon's glee, 
 
 They cursed the skies and all beneath, 
 And fell upon Philosophy. 
 
 But, strange to say, the ancient Sage 
 ' Awoke, a giant in their path, 
 
 He fought with strength of blinding rage, 
 And smote them in his heated wrath. 
 
4-6 In Conclusion 
 
 XXXV 
 
 I gloried as I watched the mill 
 
 And saw the Sage with ready staff 
 Beat out the lives of creeds until 
 
 They gave him way like driven chaff. 
 There stealthy monks with torture screws 
 
 And druids old with cruel knives 
 Were forced in fiendish war to lose 
 
 The final battle of their lives. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 They fled before the rising ire 
 
 Which glowed upon the Sage's face, 
 Their one controlling, vain desire 
 
 To get them from the fated place. 
 And like a herd of frightened sheep 
 
 They hurled them from the mountain side. 
 From off the headland's lofty steep, 
 
 Into the frothing, streaming tide. 
 
I ft Conclusion 
 
 47 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 And when the heated fray was o'er 
 
 We thought ourselves at last alone, 
 And standing on the lofty shore 
 
 We heard the ocean's undertone, 
 The mouthing of the hungry sea, 
 
 Like some she-tiger wild for blood, 
 Whose white teeth clashed with savage glee 
 
 About the boulders in the flood. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 watched the face of him who stood 
 
 Beside me on the lonely height. 
 And read his thoughts as only could 
 
 A kindred soul who sought the light. 
 I saw the saddened heart of him 
 
 Portrayed upon his furrowed face. 
 And saw his eyes with woe aswim 
 
 Still mutely question time and space. 
 
48 I n C n c lusi o n 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Oh ! prayerless soul ! The void how deep ! 
 
 How helpless are the hands that lift 
 Themselves in anguish as we weep, 
 
 When blind illusion's curtains shift! 
 Oh, dream returned ! Thy homing sail 
 
 Brings not the treasure which ye sought ! 
 Oh, heart of mine, of what avail 
 
 This Juggernaut of deeper thought! 
 
 XL 
 
 And thus oppressed I sat me still. 
 
 Nor cared to hear nor witness more, 
 My heart was steeped in woe until 
 
 I longed to leap me from the shore, 
 While o'er the mountains and the sea 
 
 There fell a dark and gloomy shade, 
 And sadness o'er the soul of me 
 
 Her robe of ebon blackness laid. 
 
In Conclusion 49 
 
 XLI 
 
 But still, beneath the gloom and woe 
 
 There burned a glowing vital spark, 
 There still were thoughts that would not go 
 
 Nor yield them to the densest dark, 
 A fire that like some midnight flame 
 
 But glowed the brighter for the gloom, 
 And o'er my bowing soul there came 
 
 A wild defiance of its doom. 
 
 XLII 
 
 id looking at Philosophy 
 
 I saw his face grow cold and stern. 
 His thoughtful eyes were set on me, 
 
 I saw their depths with menace burn. 
 ^ His gnarl'ed staff was lying by, 
 \ He seized it in his withered hand, 
 And '*blood'' was written in his eye, 
 
 A sign that I could understand. 
 
50 In Conclusion 
 
 XLIII 
 
 I rose me to the coming fray 
 
 With vivid thoughts of witnessed deeds, 
 With recollections of the way 
 
 He slew the countless charging creeds. 
 I set upon the waiting sage 
 
 Who chuckled now a mirthless laugh 
 And, sneering at my puny rage, 
 
 He smote me with his crooked staff. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 He seized upon me then, as though 
 
 He sought to throw me from the cliff 
 Into the frothing seas below, 
 
 And chuckled to himself as if 
 He thought the spinning worlds would be 
 
 Far better off than now, without 
 A doubter of Philosophy 
 
 To spread infection 'round about. 
 
In Conclusion 51 
 
 XLV 
 
 But lo ! a hand was on my head, 
 
 A voice of strength was in my ear, 
 And o'er my failing heart was shed 
 
 A light that burned with lustre clear, 
 And by my side, encased in mail. 
 
 There stood a form whose face revealed 
 A courage that could never fail. 
 
 And "HOPE'* was written on his shield. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 And in his hand he held a blade 
 
 Of gleaming steel and pattern old. 
 The helmet on his head was made 
 
 Of burnished sheets of beaten gold. 
 His stalwart limbs when e'er they moved 
 
 Below the mail in which he dressed. 
 In rythmic undulations proved 
 
 The mighty strength which he possessed. 
 
52 In Conclusion 
 
 XLVII 
 
 "Take heart O Soul/' he said to me 
 
 In accents strange and strongly true; 
 "Arise and watch and you shall see 
 
 How much the blade of Hope can do." 
 And holding high his gleaming blade 
 
 He charged with laughter to the fray, 
 And with one sweeping stroke he laid 
 
 The Sage across the stony way. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Then lifting high his trusty blade 
 
 With foot upon his fallen foe, 
 This declaration there he made, 
 
 "The God of Right has willed it so. 
 I conquer in the name of Truth 
 
 Whose subject I have been from birth, 
 I conquer in the name of Youth, 
 
 Of Happiness, of Life, and Worth. 
 
In Conclusion 53 
 
 XLIX 
 
 ''My name is HOPE. I hold the place 
 
 Of envoy from the Master Mind. 
 I bring unto the human race 
 
 The light that Knowledge fain would find 
 By delving mole-like through the crust 
 
 Of mouldy thought, with blinded eyes, 
 With eyes too filled with earthly dust 
 
 To read the teachings of the skies/' 
 
 And stooping low he caught the sage 
 
 And hurled him to the growling sea, 
 Whose hungry maw with angry rage 
 
 At once consumed Philosophy. 
 I loked at HOPE in silent awe, 
 
 Nor dared to speak a fleeting doubt 
 Concerning that I heard and saw. 
 
 So utter was the Sage's rout. 
 
54 In Conclusion 
 
 LI 
 
 But deep within my soul there thrilled 
 
 A chord that answered to the things 
 The Sage had said, ere HOPE had killed 
 
 And fed him to the sea that flings 
 Its ghostly arms about the stones 
 
 And wails like vampires drunk with gore, 
 In fiendish, hollow, ghoulish tones 
 
 Along the spume-swept, rocky shore. 
 
 LII 
 
 But like a flood of April's sun 
 
 Too strong for clouds or fleeting rain, 
 When once his gruesome task was done. 
 
 The face of HOPE was wreathed again 
 In smiles, so bright that even I 
 
 Forgot the shadows that were hung 
 Across my soul's beclouded sky, 
 
 And far gloomy curtains flung. 
 
In Conclusion 55 
 
 LIII 
 
 And HOPE advanced him to my side 
 
 Where, stripping off his shield and blade, 
 He sat him down and gayly tried 
 
 To ease the wound the Sage had made. 
 And sitting thus upon the cliff, 
 
 He spoke of things, of time, and men, 
 Until my heart rejoiced as if 
 
 It ne'er would feel a woe again. 
 
 LIV 
 
 Said he, '1 heard while on the height 
 
 That towers to rearward of the sea, 
 The echoes of the fiendish fight 
 
 That raged about Philosophy; 
 I heard the teachings of the Sage ; 
 
 I saw you lend a willing ear; 
 At last I gloried in your rage 
 
 And, drawing blade, I waited near. 
 
56 In Conclusion 
 
 LV 
 
 " 'Twas written in the book of life 
 
 That creeds and thoughts should play their parts, 
 That living should be made of strife, 
 
 Of puzzled heads, and aching hearts, 
 That man should pass from stage to stage, 
 
 From childish hope to creeds of pain. 
 From blind belief to thoughtful age, 
 
 And then from thought to hope again. 
 
 LVI 
 
 "And long ago the Master Mind 
 
 Alloted to my special care 
 All gloomy hearts that I could find, 
 
 And bade me light His beacons there; 
 He placed a blade within my hand 
 
 So keen that all must fall before. 
 He gave me strength to wield it, and 
 
 He sent me to this Earthly shore. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 57 
 
 LVII 
 
 "I came in ages long ago, 
 
 Long, long before the budding scheme 
 Of human life had bloomed to show 
 
 The beauty. of its Maker's dream, 
 Back where lush grasses stood in rank, 
 
 Knee deep in tepid, slumbrous seas, 
 And silence reigned o*er marsh and bank, 
 
 Unwaked through dead eternities. 
 
 LVIII 
 
 "Back on the faded trail of time 
 
 I watched as human life began, 
 A senseless clot of clinging slime 
 
 In those dark pools silurian : 
 I followed up the climbing scale, 
 
 With ever ready arm and blade. 
 Which like some all-determined snail 
 
 Crept slowly up the trying grade.^ 
 
58 In Conclusion 
 
 LIX 
 
 "And lo ! at last I saw evolved 
 
 A man complete with mind and heart : 
 I saw the cruder man dissolved 
 
 And marveled in our Maker's art. 
 And as some lonely hermit sees 
 
 The blooming of a rose divine 
 And revels in its fragrancies, 
 
 So I received this man of mine. 
 
 LX 
 
 "I watched with joy the Master Hand 
 
 Reach down with taper, and ignite 
 The torches of his longings, and 
 
 I saw his face grow tense and bright : 
 I saw the burning queries glow 
 
 Behind the windows of his eyes ; 
 And saw his mind awake, and throw 
 
 Its countless questions at the skies. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 59 
 
 LXI 
 
 ''And then I saw that not in vain 
 
 Had been the session of my wait, 
 That now at last were joy and pain, 
 
 And human hearts would vacillate 
 From lofty heights of happiness 
 
 To deepest depths of misery. 
 And in their folly and distress 
 
 My men at last had need of me. 
 
 LXII 
 
 *'And so through all the fleeting years 
 
 I fight the ghosts of their despair, 
 I trade them sunshine for their tears. 
 
 And flush their souls of woe and care; 
 My blade is at their least command 
 
 In doting age as well as youth ; 
 I take each proffered, groping hand 
 
 And place it in the grasp of Truth. ' 
 
6o In Conclusion 
 
 LXIII 
 
 "I hear them crying in the night 
 
 The same old cry forever new, 
 'Show unto us a clearer light ! 
 
 Point out to us the high and true !' 
 And seizing on my trusty blade 
 
 I trail them through the inky gloom, 
 And, finding them, at last persuade 
 
 And lead them from their somber doom. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 "But fain are men to dwell in need, 
 
 To haunt the dark and dreary ways, 
 And loath to listen to, or heed 
 
 The voice that speaks of life to praise. 
 They call for Truth, and then refuse 
 
 The proffered hand that Truth would give, 
 And in their blinded longings lose 
 
 The light of Truth, and longing live. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 61 
 
 LXV 
 
 ''And you have called within the hour/' 
 
 He said with smile bewreathed face, 
 "For Truth and superhuman power 
 
 To comprehend all time and space, 
 And Truth has stood beside you here. 
 
 Her hand has hovered o'er your head, 
 And yet your heart beat wild with fear. 
 
 Your craven soul was filled with dread. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 "The Truth, herself, is absolute 
 
 In that the Truth is one and all 
 In that her precincts constitute 
 
 The all unbounded realms that fall 
 Beyond the spheres of time and place 
 
 Of mere effect and hidden Cause 
 And altogether plainly trace 
 
 The mystic beauty of her laws. 
 
62 In Conclusion 
 
 LXVII 
 
 *'The Truth is Master, child, and man. 
 
 Is clod and stream and growing thing, 
 
 The Truth is all the mighty plan 
 
 Through which the countless systems swing, 
 
 The Truth is life, is joy, and breath, 
 
 The penciled chart, and He who drew, 
 
 The Truth is music, woe, and death. 
 The scanned, and still the scanner too. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 "The Truth is you and even I, 
 
 And even still the dreams you dream. 
 The false is Truth, though you may try 
 
 In vain to understand the scheme. 
 There is no false. Could we but see 
 
 The full intent of things we call 
 'The false in life,' it then would be 
 
 That we would understand it all. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 63 
 
 LXIX 
 
 *'But can the bowls upon the shelves, 
 
 The spinning clay upon the wheel, 
 Propound these questions to themselves, 
 
 Or ask the potter to reveal 
 The secrets of his varied arts, 
 
 Or bid him tell to full extent 
 The nature of their destined parts. 
 
 The end for which they each were meant? 
 
 LXX 
 
 "Nor need the sands upon the shore 
 
 Decry the fate that has denied 
 That they should know their goal, before 
 
 They yield them to the sweeping tide; 
 For He, who holds the streaming seas 
 
 As helpless bondsmen to His will, 
 Has watched through dim eternities 
 
 Each grain of sand and watches still. 
 
64 In Conclusion 
 
 LXXI 
 
 "And yet you drifting human sands, 
 
 Before you yield to certain laws, 
 With weeping eyes and wringing hands 
 
 Decry your fate and curse the Cause 
 Who sweeps you on to things unknown, 
 
 Nor hears nor cares to hear your plea. 
 For what advice can crumbled stone 
 
 Submit to All Infinity? 
 
 LXXII 
 
 '*You vainly strive to gain reply, 
 
 You blindly boast in your conceit, 
 And simple men will ever try 
 
 To hide the fact of their defeat. 
 But those, whose search for Truth entails 
 
 Their fervent prayers and bowing heads, 
 Are fools who fish for plunging whales 
 
 With bended pins and cotton threads. 
 
In Conclusion 65 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 ''Like fiery blossoms of the night 
 
 The rockets of theology- 
 Have raised their swaying stems of light 
 
 Toward the distant Galaxy, 
 But wearied, ere they well began, 
 
 They hung their sprays of crimson bloom 
 Across the mental dusk of man. 
 
 And faded in a deeper gloom. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 "The trail from out the distant past, 
 
 Is thickly strewn with sticks that lay 
 A mute rebuke to those who cast 
 
 Their glances rearward o'er the way, 
 And all the restless thoughts of men 
 
 That e'er have wandered off in quest 
 Of Truth, have wandered back again 
 
 To know that search is only jest. 
 
66 In Conclusion 
 
 LXXV 
 
 "For how may Truth deciphered be 
 
 By thought, while thought is yet so small, 
 While Truth is all infinity, 
 
 The thought, the thinker, one and all? 
 No, thought is not the scale to span 
 
 That boundless, all unmeasured sky, 
 Nor is the tea-spoon skull of man 
 
 The bowl to bail its oceans dry. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 "All human life is as a spur 
 
 Upon the tooth'ed wheel of time. 
 That cog but one of all that whir 
 
 Within the mighty mill sublime ; 
 But every spur upon the wheel, 
 
 As long as all the wheels shall run, 
 May trust the Miller Man, and feel 
 
 That he is watching every one. 
 
In Conclusion 67 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 ''Nor need the spinning spurs demand 
 
 That they should know the Master's mind, 
 That metal teeth should understand 
 
 The purpose of the meal they grind, 
 Suffice that they as teeth fulfill 
 
 The end for which they first were cast, 
 Mute subjects of a Master's will, 
 
 For such will be their fate at last. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 ''Nor need the spurs refuse to move, 
 
 For move they will upon their way. 
 Though they in vain should want to prove 
 
 Themselves above their Master's sway. 
 And so, thou Soul, it is with you 
 
 Who vainly questions through the years 
 The purpose that is woven through 
 
 The swinging systems of the spheres. 
 
68 In Conclusion 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 ''What need have you to know the cause 
 
 Of all that is or yet shall be? 
 Of what concern to you the laws 
 
 That govern all eternity ? 
 And why should you, whose life is laid 
 
 Within the hollow of His hand, 
 Behold the future all afraid 
 
 Because you can not understand? 
 
 LXXX 
 
 "Or why upraise your voice in prayer 
 
 To tell Him of the things He knows, 
 And plead with Him to have a care, 
 
 To take advice which you propose? 
 Or why request that He should move 
 
 Or halt His changeless scheme, because 
 Your finite mind would fain improve 
 
 The master purpose of His laws? 
 
In Conclusion 69 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 "Or why demand that you should call 
 
 The Cause by any given name. 
 While human minds are yet so small 
 
 And human words so halt and lame? 
 Of what avail are written creeds, 
 
 Are painted gods and printed prayers, 
 Since worth depends on worthy deeds 
 
 And not on hollow, lofty airs? 
 
 LXXII 
 
 'What though that power which ''GOD" implies, 
 
 Who drives the suns, like scattered sheep 
 Across the uplands of the skies. 
 
 Has not intrusted to your keep 
 The secrets of His realm, that runs 
 
 Beyond the farthest stars that stray 
 About the pasture of the suns, 
 
 Are you to grumble or to pray?'* 
 
yo In Conclusion 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 And, like some strong and heady wine 
 
 Which wildly races through the brain, 
 The words of HOPE had flowed through mine. 
 
 And cleansed it of mistrust and pain. 
 My heart was filled with deep content, 
 
 And pulsed with love for friend and foe; 
 My woes were gone, but where they went 
 
 I knew not then, nor cared to know. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 And life for me had changed its form, 
 
 Like some rare rose in twilight's gloom 
 Had burst into a velvet storm 
 
 Of gorgeous color and perfume, 
 And in my heart, serene and deep. 
 
 There reigned an all-consuming trust. 
 That He who had my life in keep 
 
 Would use me well, for He is just. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 71 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 I knew Him not, nor cared to know, 
 
 Since He was all and I was nought, 
 Since He had seen it fit to show 
 
 That I was ever in His thought. 
 And o'er my helpless human head 
 
 I felt the presence of His hand. 
 And all mistrust of life had fled, 
 
 Though I could never understand. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 And HOPE, with gentle smiling face, 
 
 Again took up his shield and blade, 
 ^And rose him from his resting place. 
 
 While o'er his features brightly played 
 ^ A wild delight as he perceived 
 
 The vanquished ghosts of my despair. 
 And knew a heart had been relieved 
 
 Of useless sorrow, gloom, and care. 
 
^2 In Conclusion 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 "My Soul/' said he, "I leave with you 
 
 The cheer of life I seek to give, 
 The good of life that I would do 
 
 For all the gloomy souls that live. 
 The light of trust in Vested Power, 
 
 The firm conviction all is right. 
 The staunch belief at midnight's hour 
 
 That dawn will follow after night. 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 'T charge you to collect the toll 
 
 From all the joys today can give. 
 To live in heart, in mind, and soul, 
 
 The life that every man should live, 
 To live and help your brother man 
 
 To help himself, and so help you, 
 To live and do what good you can 
 
 And then to die when all is through. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 73 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 ''To die with stalwart strength, and know 
 
 That over all the Master Mind 
 Perceives the progress of the show, 
 
 And death is but as He designed. 
 And trust that good must be concealed 
 
 Behind the shadow of the shroud, 
 And know that sunshine unrevealed 
 
 Is sunshine still, behind the cloud. 
 
 XC 
 
 "For He whose seeming ruthless hand 
 
 Bestrips the poppy of its flame, 
 Who smites the roses where they stand, 
 
 And lays the broken lilies lame 
 Across the clods from which they grew, 
 
 Has purpose though you can not see 
 Nor hope to know the things He knew 
 
 When He designed immensity. 
 
74 In Conclusion 
 
 XCI 
 
 **So die and lay you down to rest, 
 
 With human fears and doubts dissolved, 
 With firm belief that all is best 
 
 As in the mystic scheme evolved, 
 No matter if that scheme demand 
 
 That you as one shall cease to be, 
 That you as one shall understand 
 
 No more of all its mystery. 
 
 XCII 
 
 "And, if to Him who rules, it seems. 
 
 That men should play a sleeping part. 
 Mere ciphers in the Land of Dreams, 
 
 A cipher be, with cheerful heart. 
 And know that He who bids you cease 
 
 To comprehend the ways of men. 
 Can bring you silence, rest, and peace. 
 
 And when He wills, create again. 
 
In Conclusion 75 
 
 XCIII 
 
 "Or if as man in vain would know, 
 
 This death is but a transient pause, 
 A halt within the moving show, 
 
 In full accordance with its laws, 
 A readjusting of the scenes 
 
 Upon the curtained stage of time, 
 A rearrangement of the screens 
 
 To bring about effects sublime. 
 
 XCIV 
 
 "And man an actor treads again 
 
 A future stage of better things, 
 Bestripped of robes of Earthly pain, 
 
 And rearrayed in figurings 
 As brilliant as the gems that gleam 
 
 Where dewy roses bow and blow; 
 If this perchance is not a dream. 
 
 Then surely death is shorn of woe. 
 
76 In Conclusion 
 
 xcv 
 
 *'But I must wend me on my way 
 
 To fight the ghosts of men's despair, 
 To turn their mental night to day." 
 
 And speaking thus he left me there. 
 With springing step he climbed the height 
 
 That towers to rearward of the sea. 
 And from his golden shield the light 
 
 Was thrown in showers of brilliancy. 
 
 XCVI 
 
 And lo! I found myself alone 
 
 'Neath sunset skies as red as blood, 
 The summer day was nearly flown, 
 
 The flowing tide had reached its flood, 
 The wheeling birds had ceased their flight 
 
 And settled on the rocks to rest. 
 The sun, an orb of crimson light, 
 
 Was burning in the distant west. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 77 
 
 XCVII 
 
 And gone was all the phantom throng, 
 
 No sign of warrior, sage or creed, 
 And though I hunted well and long, 
 
 I found no trace of bloody deed. 
 No gnarl'ed staff nor broken bones. 
 
 No sod bestained with wasted blood. 
 But on the cliff the scattered stones, 
 
 And in the sea the moaning flood. 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 And in my heart there was a peace, 
 
 A deep content, that ne'er beforf' 
 Had bid my aching heart to ceas^ 
 
 Its useless pain for evermore, 
 A deep content that smiled at pain, 
 
 That laughed to scorn all childish doubt. 
 That crushed the ravings of the brain. 
 
 And put all woe to wildest route. 
 
78 In Conclusion 
 
 XCIX 
 
 A.nd standing thus upon the cliff, 
 
 I saw the humble haunts of men 
 Hang out their evening lamps, as if 
 
 They sought to call me home again. 
 And then and there this vow I made 
 
 That down through all the future years 
 No fate should bid me be afraid, 
 
 No sorrow blind me with its tears. 
 
 For God is ever at the wheel 
 
 Which swings the cosmos on its race, 
 Which heads the universal keel 
 
 Across the time-swept sea of space, 
 His eye is on the distant goal, 
 
 That mystic port we fain would see, 
 The final haven of the soul 
 
 In far dim realms of mystery. 
 
In Conclusion 
 
 79 
 
 V ENVOY 
 
 Long years have gone as years will go, 
 
 Since I have dreamed upon that height, 
 But time has only served to show 
 
 That wrong is but the seed of right; 
 And still the stars swing on their way, 
 
 The tides go streaming out to sea. 
 And all the chords of nature play 
 
 One ceaseless, matchless symphony. 
 
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