Page images
PDF
EPUB

Heart to heart was never known;
Mind to mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone

Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart, though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company

But a babbling summer stream?
What our wise philosophy

But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love

Melts the scattered stars of thought,
Only when we live above

What the dim-eyed world hath taught,

Only when our souls are fed

By the fount which gave them birth,
And by inspiration led

Which they never drew from earth,

We, like parted drops of rain,
Swelling till they meet and run,
Shall be all absorbed again,

Melting, flowing into one.

C. P. CRANCH.

There is a kingliness in death that surpasses the royalty of life The meaning of the one lies bare and unsatisfying before us; the significance of the other is shrouded in such mystery, and is so full of

promise and high possibilities, that we cannot think of it without awe and envy of those who have passed through the silent gate.

A KING.

It is more than being great
At the random rule of fate,
To lie as he lies here,
Very awful and austere.
'Tis more than being wise

To repose with placid eyes,

And know not of the wild world that it cries, cries, cries!

Look ye now, and answer true

If it be as well with you,

That fret and sweat and sin
For the flesh ye weary in,

As with him that bates his breath,

And what empty words it saith,

To attain the life diviner, which is death, death, death!

What of pleasure shall he miss,
With that sovereign ease of his?
What of pain shall reach his ken,
With that marble scorn of men?
Though ye praised him in a psalm,
Though ye smote him of your palm,

Shall ye call him from this haughty sleep and calm, calm, calm ?

Lo, his dumb face turns ye dumb

If to look on him ye come,

Who hath found in cold eclipse

A superb Apocalypse!

Who has had the last bad thing
The deciduous days may bring!

Who is crowned as none but Death could crown him, king, king, king!

EDGAR FAWCETT.

The poem we have just given finds its fit appendix in the following, which might, as a companion-piece, have been entitled "A Queen."

RELEASED.

A little, low-ceiled room. Four walls
Whose blank shut out all else of life,
And crowded close within their bound
A world of pain, and toil, and strife.

Her world.

Scarce furthermore she knew
Of God's great globe that wondrously
Outrolls a glory of green earth

And frames it with the restless sea.

Four closer walls of common pine;
And therein lying, cold and still,
The weary flesh that long hath borne
Its patient mystery of ill.

Regardless now of work to do,

No queen more careless in her state,
Hands crossed in an unbroken calm;
For other hands the work may wait.

Put by her implements of toil;

Put by each coarse, intrusive sign:
She made a Sabbath when she died;
And round her breathes a rest divine.

Put by, at last, beneath the lid,

The exempted hands, the tranquil face;
Uplift her in her dreamless sleep,

And bear her gently from the place.

Oft she hath gazed, with wistful eyes,
Oft from that threshold, on the night:
The narrow bourn she crosseth now;
She standeth in the eternal light.

Oft she hath pressed, with aching feet,

Those broken steps that reach the door:
Henceforth, with angels, she shall tread
Heaven's golden stair, for evermore.

MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.

The love that reaches from heaven to earth, and stretches out striving hands of desire, warm with efforts to rend the veil of invisibility that divides the life here from the life hereafter, is rendered with fine feeling in the poem below.

ANYWHERE.

She was old, and wan, and wrinkled,
Though her pallid cheek was fair,
And the snows of sixty winters

Lightly touched her soft brown hair.

Yet if in those lands immortal

She doth youth and beauty wear,
And the sunny hues of girlhood
Tint anew her eyes and hair,
Still I know that I should know her,
I should know her anywhere.

Shall I dwell in mournful waiting,
Mother, for thee "over there,"

While God's blessed angels daily

Wander down the shining stair?
Round and sweet I know your lips are,
Kindled by that radiant air,—
Oh, the sad and tender patience.
Of the smile they used to wear!
I should know your kisses, mother,
I should know them anywhere!

Should you touch me e'er so lightly,
As returning spirits dare,

And your spirit hand should linger
E'er so softly on my hair,—
Hands, dear hands, by death made over,
No more wrinkled, wan, or spare,
Hands which I have kissed so fondly,
Darling hands, so used to care!—
I should know your touch, dear mother,
I should know it-anywhere!

Had I been the first to wander

From earth's dust, and din, and glare,
Thrilling through my lips new splendor,
I should still have felt your prayer;
And, if spirit hands could do it,
Pausing not to think or care,
I should rend the veil that hid you,
And with you my glory share.
Oh, my mother! darling mother!
I should love you anywhere!

M. E. CLARKE.

A fine thought, beautifully expressed, is embodied in the two verses which follow, the contribution of an anonymous author, deeply instinct with the poetry of thoughtfulness and sentiment.

« PreviousContinue »