 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
“NO SPACE.”
It was written in darkness and grief,
And conceived in the brooding of pain;
For his song was his single relief,
Though its refuge too often proved vain.
It was blotted and blurred with his tears,
As he trembled the verses to trace;
And his eyes were half blinded with passionate fears;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
And conceived in the brooding of pain;
For his song was his single relief,
Though its refuge too often proved vain.
It was blotted and blurred with his tears,
As he trembled the verses to trace;
And his eyes were half blinded with passionate fears;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
“No space” for the gifted, who shone
Like a lamp in the shadowy night;
Who himself had no comfort alone,
Though all round with his beauty was bright.
But “space” for the ignorant fool,
Who had nothing but what he could steal;
And who copied his lore, as his lessons at school,
Yet his folly still could not conceal.
Like a lamp in the shadowy night;
Who himself had no comfort alone,
Though all round with his beauty was bright.
But “space” for the ignorant fool,
Who had nothing but what he could steal;
And who copied his lore, as his lessons at school,
Yet his folly still could not conceal.
It was wrung out of rapture and woe,
Like a page torn away from the heart,
In the thought that creates with its throe,
When the body and soul seem to part.
It had cost him an earthquake of strife,
Ere it grew to its virginal grace;
It was shaken by death, and made splendid with life;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
Like a page torn away from the heart,
In the thought that creates with its throe,
When the body and soul seem to part.
It had cost him an earthquake of strife,
Ere it grew to its virginal grace;
It was shaken by death, and made splendid with life;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
“No space” for the poem that lives,
For the word that is wingéd and burns;
That receives but from Truth what it gives,
And in showers of blessing returns.
But “space” for the pestilent lie,
For the fancy that comes from the tomb;
That has nothing to do but to rot and to die,
And go back to corruption and gloom.
For the word that is wingéd and burns;
That receives but from Truth what it gives,
And in showers of blessing returns.
But “space” for the pestilent lie,
For the fancy that comes from the tomb;
That has nothing to do but to rot and to die,
And go back to corruption and gloom.
It was fashioned with fever and hope,
And it burst from his suffering strong;
As great doors in eternity ope,
And let out revelations of song.
For it spoke of new triumph and trust,
And it flashed as a prophet the face,
That had gazed upon God who doth quicken the dust;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
And it burst from his suffering strong;
As great doors in eternity ope,
And let out revelations of song.
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And it flashed as a prophet the face,
That had gazed upon God who doth quicken the dust;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
“No space” for the lofty and fair,
For the spell that turns water to wine;
And with secrets of sunshine and air,
Makes the garments that clothe the Divine.
But “space” for the lecherous tale,
For the work of the pander and beast;
For the horrible lust, that the holiest pale
Rushes through, to its damnable feast.
For the spell that turns water to wine;
And with secrets of sunshine and air,
Makes the garments that clothe the Divine.
But “space” for the lecherous tale,
For the work of the pander and beast;
For the horrible lust, that the holiest pale
Rushes through, to its damnable feast.
It was all he could offer, his life,
Just himself, as a continent new;
That had passed from the sacrifice knife
To the heaven, in glory and dew.
There were prayers and pinions of fire,
To uplift and ennoble a race;
With the yearnings, that ever and ever aspire;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
Just himself, as a continent new;
That had passed from the sacrifice knife
To the heaven, in glory and dew.
There were prayers and pinions of fire,
To uplift and ennoble a race;
With the yearnings, that ever and ever aspire;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
“No space” for the righteous and true,
Who alone can God's victories win;
Who alone is possest of the clue,
That will guide through the sorrow and sin.
But “space” for the villain and cheat,
And the japings of jester and fool;
For the man that is mighty to drink and to eat,
And the hand made iniquity's tool.
Who alone can God's victories win;
Who alone is possest of the clue,
That will guide through the sorrow and sin.
But “space” for the villain and cheat,
And the japings of jester and fool;
For the man that is mighty to drink and to eat,
And the hand made iniquity's tool.
It was done, he had laboured for nought;
No one recked of the noble and good,
Of the world-changing lightning of thought,
That unveiled what in darkness had stood.
No one knew what a treasure was lost.
Though not blazoned in purple and lace;
No one counted the pangs of the infinite cost;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
No one recked of the noble and good,
Of the world-changing lightning of thought,
That unveiled what in darkness had stood.
No one knew what a treasure was lost.
Though not blazoned in purple and lace;
No one counted the pangs of the infinite cost;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
“No space” for the spirit, that dares
To defy what is rotten and rank;
That for weakness and misery cares,
And would fill up the desolate blank.
But “space” for the coward and knave,
For the wicked if wealthy or bold,
Though he never had lifted a finger to save,—
But the hoards of his ill-gotten gold.
To defy what is rotten and rank;
That for weakness and misery cares,
And would fill up the desolate blank.
But “space” for the coward and knave,
For the wicked if wealthy or bold,
Though he never had lifted a finger to save,—
But the hoards of his ill-gotten gold.
He had lived for his fellows in vain,
He had loved the forlorn and the low
But at last from the pitiful strain,
His brave genius snapt, as a bow.
Though they shovelled him into the ground,
As a pauper, and grudged him a place,
Let us hope that in Heaven some room he has found;
If on earth there was only—“No space.”
He had loved the forlorn and the low
But at last from the pitiful strain,
His brave genius snapt, as a bow.
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As a pauper, and grudged him a place,
Let us hope that in Heaven some room he has found;
If on earth there was only—“No space.”
Ah, “no space” for the Saviour called God,
And “no space” for the saviour called man;
And no home, save that under the sod,
For the heart with a holier plan.
But all “space” for the slayer of souls,
The destruction that leaves but a wraith;
And the palace and crown for the devils and ghouls,
Who grow fat on the ruins of faith.
And “no space” for the saviour called man;
And no home, save that under the sod,
For the heart with a holier plan.
But all “space” for the slayer of souls,
The destruction that leaves but a wraith;
And the palace and crown for the devils and ghouls,
Who grow fat on the ruins of faith.
He had written, as if with his blood,
And in letters of grandeur and flame,
Of the are that can brighten the flood,
And new marvels that yet had no name.
He had stood on the thundering mount,
With his harp, not with warrior's mace;
He had drunk of the bliss of the life-giving fount;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
And in letters of grandeur and flame,
Of the are that can brighten the flood,
And new marvels that yet had no name.
He had stood on the thundering mount,
With his harp, not with warrior's mace;
He had drunk of the bliss of the life-giving fount;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
“No space” for the singer, who struck
A fresh note on his wonderful strings,
From the Mother whose bosom gave suck,
To her child with angelical wings.
But “space” for the babbler of wrong,
The old falsehoods corroded and vile,
That dethrone the true bard with redemption his song,
And whatever they breathe on defile.
A fresh note on his wonderful strings,
From the Mother whose bosom gave suck,
To her child with angelical wings.
But “space” for the babbler of wrong,
The old falsehoods corroded and vile,
That dethrone the true bard with redemption his song,
And whatever they breathe on defile.
He had shared his small pittance and room,
With the brother who told him his lack;
To himself he had gathered the gloom,
To shed light on one sorrowful track.
Yea, his heart in magnificent sweep,
Took the world to its tender embrace,
Every hope of the height, every doubt of the deep;
But for him there was only—“No space.”
With the brother who told him his lack;
To himself he had gathered the gloom,
To shed light on one sorrowful track.
Yea, his heart in magnificent sweep,
Took the world to its tender embrace,
Every hope of the height, every doubt of the deep;
But for him there was only—“No space.”
“No space” for the hero, who gave
Of his utmost, and all uttered well,
But the sombre six feet of the grave,
And a handful of earth for its knell.
But “space” for the spoilers, who prey
On the marrow and life of the best;
Who in ashes lay gardens like Paradise grey,
With the knowledge that kills, as the pest.
Of his utmost, and all uttered well,
But the sombre six feet of the grave,
And a handful of earth for its knell.
But “space” for the spoilers, who prey
On the marrow and life of the best;
Who in ashes lay gardens like Paradise grey,
With the knowledge that kills, as the pest.
He had fought with the armies of night,
He had spoken the ransoming word,
He had seen the ineffable sight,
The last innermost mystery heard.
He had taken his stand on the seat
Of the highest, and stooped not an ace;
While his pulse with the laws of the universe beat;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
He had spoken the ransoming word,
He had seen the ineffable sight,
The last innermost mystery heard.
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Of the highest, and stooped not an ace;
While his pulse with the laws of the universe beat;
But the answer was only—“No space.”
“No space” for the teacher and wise,
Who would lead to the pasture so green,
Where the down-trodden toilers arise,
And the drift of the ages is seen.
But “space” for the guides that go ill,
That draw ever more darkly aside;
And all honour to those that dishonour their skill,
And the man from his Maker divide.
Who would lead to the pasture so green,
Where the down-trodden toilers arise,
And the drift of the ages is seen.
But “space” for the guides that go ill,
That draw ever more darkly aside;
And all honour to those that dishonour their skill,
And the man from his Maker divide.
No one dreamed he had wanted a crust,
No one heeded or wondered or wept;
And the world, in its lying and lust,
Went on dancing to doom—though he slept.
Though the mind with its music was dumb,
And the foot with its conquering pace;
Though the hand that had helped was now withered and numb;
And his epitaph only—“No space.”
No one heeded or wondered or wept;
And the world, in its lying and lust,
Went on dancing to doom—though he slept.
Though the mind with its music was dumb,
And the foot with its conquering pace;
Though the hand that had helped was now withered and numb;
And his epitaph only—“No space.”
“No space” for the kingly and grand,
Who had offered such jewels of love;
And whose heart was a heavenly land,
Like a star that had dropt from above.
But “space” for the haters of men,
And rewards for the sowers of loss;
Who the Temple had turned to the plunderers' den,
And their God again nailed to the Cross.
Who had offered such jewels of love;
And whose heart was a heavenly land,
Like a star that had dropt from above.
But “space” for the haters of men,
And rewards for the sowers of loss;
Who the Temple had turned to the plunderers' den,
And their God again nailed to the Cross.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |