Charles Hamilton Musgrove

An Earthworm once loved a Star. In the hush of the summer night,
He lay quite close to the ground and gazed on its golden light;
He looked from his house of clay, and dreamed of wonderful things,
Till, lo! (as he thought) his longing brought forth miraculous wings.

The Butterfly soared in the air, straight toward the beckoning spark;
His wings grew weary and chill, but the Star smiled through the dark;
His wings grew heavy and cold, the wings that he dreamed love gave,
And he folded them there in the starlight, and the dust became his grave.

It wouldn't be fair to Belshazzar
    When speaking of madness and mirth,
To draw from his revel a moral
    For conscienceless sin in the earth,
For 'tis certain the King of Chaldea
    Took note of the hand on the wall,
But here at the Feast of the Passions
    We never take heed at all.

The same gods grin at the banquet--
    The idols of silver and gold--
While we drink from the cups of the Temple
    As they did in the days of old,
But the finger of God is unheeded,
    His warning misunderstood,
As "Mene" is written in lightning,
    And "Tekel" inscribed in blood.

No lesson of Nebuchadnezzar
    Turned out with his swinish kin
Creeps in like a baneful vision
    At the Babylonian din;
We have stilled the tongue of our Dan...

(Battleships of the Coronation Naval Review, Spithead, England, June 24, 1911.)


Hail, sceptered Mars, great god of wars!
    Hail, Carnage, queen of blood!
And hail those muffled armaments--
    Thy fettered vulture brood!
Their sable wings are laureled and
    Their necks are ribboned gay,
And silken folds their talons hide
    This kingly holiday.

Grotesque and grim, in chains of gold,
    They go with solemn mien,
Their horrid plumes bedizened for
    The eyes of king and queen;
But padded claw and mummer's crest
    Have served not to disguise
Those iron beaks that thirst for blood,
    Those wakeful, wolfish eyes.

Ten condors with unsated maws,
    Four lesser birds of prey,
An eagle with undaunted eye
    From ...

I.

"He has eyes like the Christ,"
    The mother said, and smiled;
"He will be wise and good,
    My wondering little child.
God grant him strength to do
    Whate'er his tasks may be,
But spare him, if Thou wilt,
    O, spare him Calvary!"


II.

Grim where the black bars cast
    Their shadows o'er his bed,
He waits to pay the cost
    Of blood his hands have shed.
The mother kneels and sobs:
    "God, he shall always be,
In spite of Cain's red brand,
    A stainless child to me."

Here is a tale the North Wind sang to me:
    Hell hath set Mammon o'er a frozen land,
    Crowned him with gold, put gold into his hand,
And men forsake their God to bow the knee
Again unto this world-old deity
    Whose rule is wheresoe'er man's feet go forth,
    Whether they track the grim and icy North,
Or Afric's scorching sweeps of sandy sea.
About his throne they crawl and curse and weep;
    The tenfold pangs of darkness and of cold
Bite at their hearts, and hound them as they creep,
    Thief-like, to catch his scattered crumbs of gold;--
And over all still burns God's warning scroll:
"What profit it if ye shall lose your soul?"

Here is one picture of the human world:
An unreaped field and Death, the harvester,
Taking his rest beside a gathered sheaf
Of poppy and white lilies. At his side
Passion, with pilfered hour-glass in her hand
Jarring the sluggish sands to haste their flow.

(Written on the ter-centenary of John Milton, December 9, 1908.)


Immortal singer, in whose glorious brain
    Unearthly melodies were born to make
    A nocturn for the blessed Master's sake,
I see thee pass through heaven's gates again;
I hear thee singing that majestic strain,
    Which soothed the heart affliction could not break,
    And proved the faith no worldly ills could shake;
And then I see thee join God's holy train,
    But, wonder of all wonders! where the light
    Breaks from a thousand suns, the seraphs, shod
With flaming sandals, lead thee; and my sight
    Dims with the vision, till fresh from His rod,
I see thee lift those orbs, once quenched in night,
    And gaze into the steadfast eyes of God!

Beyond the wall the passion flower is blooming,
    Strange hints of life along the winds are blown;
Within, the cowled and silent men are kneeling
    Before an image on a cross of stone,
And on their lifted faces, wan as death,
I read this simple message of their faith:
            "The trail of flame is ashen,
                And pleasure's lees are gray,
            And gray the fruit of passion
                Whose ripeness is decay;
            The stress of life is rancor,
                A madness born to slay;
            They only miss its canker
                Who live with God and pray."

Beyond the wall lies Babylon, the mighty;
    Faint echoes of her songs come drifting by;
Within there is a hymn of consecration,
    A psalm that lif...

Beyond the tumult and the proud acclaim,
    Beyond the circle where the glory beats
    With withering light upon the mighty seats,
They hear the far-resounding trump of fame;
On other lips they hear the one-loved name
    In vaunting or derision, and they weep
    To know that they shall never lull to sleep
Those tired heads, crowned with desolating flame.
Beyond the hot arena's baleful glow,
    Beyond the towering pomp they dimly see,
They sit and watch the fateful pageants go
    Through war's red arch, or up to Calvary,
The First Love still within their hearts impearled--
Mothers of all the masters of the world!

I.

With the light just quenched in their eyes
They lie in their graves 'neath the skies,
And the fresh clod rests
Heavy upon their breasts.
The white rose dies
Upon the new-made mound, and underneath
The lily shrivels in the shriveling hand.
Pale guests of sovereign Death,
They sought their silent beds at his command,
And it seems
Strange that their life-long dreams
Shall find them no more,--never bid them arise
And go forth with a glory in their eyes.


II.

Still, voiceless, cold,
They lie in their shrouds and hold
The crumbling links that make
A chain for Memory's sake,
Broken, alas! too soon.
Blithe morn and brazen noon
And eve with garb of gray and gold,
Know them no more in the dark ways they take.
...

I.

Wind of the North, I know your song
    Out on the frozen plain,
But here in the city's streets you seem
    Only a cry of pain.


II.

I know the note of your lusty throat
    Where the black boughs toss and roar,
But here it is part of the old, old cry
    Of the hungry, homeless poor.


III.

I know the song that you sing to God,
    Joyous and high and wild,
But here where His creatures herd and die,
    'Tis the sob of a little child.

I.

Silent as ever, stoic as of old,
The scattered nomads of that dusky race
Whose story shall forever be untold,
Sit mid the ruins of their dwelling place
And watch the white man's empire grow apace.
Passive as one who knows his earthly doom,
And only waits with calm but hopeless face
The while the seasons go with blight and bloom,
So live they day by day beside their nation's tomb.


II.

In the deep woods and by the rolling streams
They made their home, and knew no other clime;
They lived their lives and dreamed barbaric dreams,
Nor heard the menace of relentless Time
As on his thunderous legions swept sublime
Bearing the torch of progress through the night,
Till lo! the primal wastes were all a-chime
With traffic's strange new...

I.

Where falls the shadow of the Kofel cross
Athwart the Alpine snows, the rose of faith
Is blooming still in consecrated hearts,
And holy men another cross have hewn
Whereon the symboled Christ again shall die
To cleanse the world of sin. Within the vale
Where flows the Ammer like a trail of tears
Upon the Holy Mother's face, I see
The men and women, faithful to their vows,
Breathing the passion of Gethsemane.
I see the Saviour in Jerusalem;
I see the godless traders scourged; I see
Their wares strewn on the temple floor, their doves
Set free to wander on the roving winds;
I see Iscariot kiss the Nazarene;
I see the hate of Herod, and I hear
The multitude half-sob, half-wail, "The Cross!"
Then up the Way of Tears to Golgotha,
Crowned with...

Down in the vale the lazy sheep
    Are roaming at their will,
But I would be away to weep
    Upon the windy hill,

For Summer's song is in my heart,
    Her kiss is on my brow,
As here I kneel alone, apart,
    To consecrate our vow.

Ah, doubly poor the gift shall be
    That links my soul with hers,
For she has given her all to me
    While I can give but tears!

St. George, I learned to love thee in my youth
    When of thy deeds I read in deathless song;
    And now, when I behold the dragon Wrong
Hard by the castle-gates of Love and Truth,
I feel the world's great need of thee, forsooth,
    To strike the heavy blow delayed too long.
    Then turning from the mediæval throng,
Where thou wert bravest, yet the first in ruth,
I watch thy votaries by land and sea
    Armed with thy sacred sign go forth to fight
Anew the battle of humanity
    Beneath the flag of mercy and of right;
No holier band a holier realm e'er trod
Than this--the world's knight-errantry of God!

From age to age the haggard human train
    Creeps wearily across Time's burning sands
    To look into her face, and lift weak hands
In supplication to the calm disdain
That crowns her stony brow.... But all in vain
    The riddle of mortality they try:
    Doom speaks still from her unrelenting eye--
Doom deep as passion, infinite as pain.
From age to age the voice of Love is heard
    Pleading above the tumult of the throng,
But evermore the inexorable word
    Comes like the tragic burden of a song.
"The answer is the same," the stern voice saith:
"Death yesterday, today and still tomorrow--Death!"

Poor shape grotesque that careless hands have wrought!
    Frail wistful thing, left gaping at the sun
    With empty grin, 'tis well no blood shall run
Within thy frozen veins, no kindling thought
Light up those eyeless sockets wherein naught
    But hate could dwell if once they flashed the fire
    Of being, or the doom-gift of Desire
Should curse thy life, unbidden and unsought.
Poor snow man with thy tattered hat awry,
    And broomstick musket toppling from thy hands,
'Tis well thou hast no language to decry
    Thy poor creator or his vain commands;
No tear to shed that thou so soon must die,
    No voice to lift in prayer where no god understands!

I have been kissed by the Priestess of the Thin and Deadly Blood--
    With the kiss that men call Lightning, and yet I did not die,
For the kiss was a message from God; I felt it and understood,
And I knew how He looked on the cosmic light and called it "Good";
    I thrilled with a vibrant joy; I hummed with ecstasy.

Men hear me sing but they know not the source of my song;
I hold them enthralled with my mysterious eyes;
They quiver when I purr with the voice of a wanton woman;
They touch me and fall dead.
I am a dream of the Creator made visible;
My voice is an echo of the Voice that taught
The morning stars their choral hymn;
The force that binds me to the marts of men
Is the force that holds the planets in a leash while God
Drives them in glittering ga...