Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 5

Gibraltar,--on the northern sh.o.r.e, By conquering Moors once proudly trod,-- And, to the south a league or more, Huge Abyla, the "Mount of G.o.d", Whence burdened Atlas watched with ease The Gardens of Hesperides.

How many slow-paced centuries pa.s.sed, Before brave sailors dared to creep Beyond the gloom these monsters cast, And venture on the unknown deep, At last resolving to defy The "G.o.d-established" termini!

Yet no fierce G.o.ds opposed their path; No lurid bolt or arrow sped To crush them with celestial wrath, And number them among the dead; The dreadful Pillars proved as tame As other rocks of lesser fame.

Hence, when before them stretched the sea, Majestic, limitless and clear, A rapturous sense of being free Dispelled all vestiges of fear The longed-for ocean to explore From pole to pole, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.

Thus all men learn the G.o.d they dread Is kinder than they had supposed, And that, not G.o.d, but Man hath said,-- "The door to freedom must be closed!"

Once past that door, with broadened view, They find Him better than they knew.

Meanwhile, along the sunlit strait My s.h.i.+p glides toward the saffron west, Beyond the old Phenician gate To ocean's gently heaving breast, Whence, on the ever-freshening breeze, There greet my spirit words like these;--

Sail bravely on! the morning light Shall find thee far beyond the land; Gibraltar's battlemented height And Afric's tawny hills of sand Shall soon completely sink from view Beneath the ocean's belt of blue.

Sail on! nor heed the shadows vast Of fabled Powers, whose fear enslaves!

Their spectral shapes shall sink at last Below the night's abandoned waves; Rest not confined by shoals and bars; Steer oceanward by G.o.d's fixed stars!

FRIENDs.h.i.+P

'Tis not in the bitterest woes of life That the love of friends, as a rule, grows cold; Still less does it melt in the heat of strife, Or die from the canker of borrowed gold;

For pity comes when they see us grieved, Or forced to lie on a couch of pain, And a hasty word is soon retrieved, And the loan of money may leave no stain.

'Tis oftenest lost through the deadly blight Of Society's pestilential air, Which blackens the robe of purest white, And fouls what once was sweet and fair.

An envious woman's whispered word, A slander born of a cruel smile, The repet.i.tion of something heard, The imputation of something vile,

Or possibly even a fancied slight For a feast declined, or a call delayed, Or jealousy caused by petty spite, Or the wish for a higher social grade,--

'Tis one, or all of these combined, That saps the love of our dearest friends, And slowly poisons heart and mind, Till the joy of generous friends.h.i.+p ends.

Last night they were in a cordial mood, To-day they suddenly seem estranged!

Shall we, then, grieve and sadly brood O'er the unknown cause that has made them changed?

Ask once, that they make the matter clear, But ask no more, if the lesson fail; Let changelings go, however dear, And shed no tears for a love so frail.

Be not the slave of a friend's migraine, Nor let him play, now hot, now cold; The master of thyself remain, And the key of thine inmost heart withhold!

For they who weep and sue and plead, Are used and dropped, like a worn-out glove, And the friends with "moods" are the friends who need To learn that they are not worth our love.

TO MY DEAD DOG

All is noiseless; Cold and voiceless Lies the form I've oft caressed; Heedless now of blame or praises, 'Neath the suns.h.i.+ne and the daisies Dear, old Leo lies at rest.

Eager greeting, Joy at meeting, Watching for my step to come, Grief at briefest separation, Sorrow without affectation,-- These are over,--he is dumb!

Loyal ever, Treacherous never, Lifelong love he well expressed; Ah! may we deserve like praises When beneath the sun-kissed daisies We, like Leo, lie at rest!

TO-DAY

"The sun will set at day's decline"; Qu'importe?

Quaff off meanwhile life's sparkling wine!

Of what avail are mournful fears, Foreboding sighs and idle tears, They hinder not the hurrying years; Buvons!

"This fleeting hour will soon be past"; Qu'importe?

Enrich its moments while they last!

To-day is ours; be ours its joy!

Let not to-morrow's cares annoy!

Enough the present to employ; Vivons!

"These pleasures will not come again"; Qu'importe?

Enjoy their keenest transport then!

If but of these we are secure, Be of their sweetness doubly sure, That long their memory may endure!

Rions!

"With time love's ardor always cools"; Qu'importe?

Leave that lugubrious chant to fools!

Must doubt destroy our present bliss?

Shall we through fear love's rapture miss, Or lose the honey of its kiss?

Aimons!

"The sun will set at day's decline"; Qu'importe?

Will not the eternal stars still s.h.i.+ne?

So even in life's darkest night A thousand quenchless suns are bright,-- Blest souvenirs of past delight; Allons!

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI, AFTER READING HER "RECOLLECTIONS OF LORD BYRON"

Like one who, homeward bound from distant lands, Describes strange climes and visions pa.s.sing fair, Yet deftly hides from others' eyes and hands A private casket filled with treasures rare, So, favored Countess, all that thou dost say Is nothing to thy secrets left unsaid; Thy printed souvenirs are but the spray Above the depths of ocean's briny bed.

For, oh! how often must thy mind retrace Soft phrases whispered in the Tuscan tongue, Love's changes sweeping o'er his mobile face, And kisses sweeter far than he had sung; The gleam of pa.s.sion in his glorious eyes, The hours of inspiration when he wrote, Recalled to Earth in sudden, sweet surprise At feeling thy white arms about his throat; To have been loved by Byron! Not in youth When ardent senses tempt to reckless choice, But in maturer years, when keen-eyed Truth Reveals the folly of the siren's voice.

Last love is best, and this thou didst enjoy; Thy happy fate to see no rival claim A share in what was thine without alloy; How must the remnant of thy life seem tame!

Yet this thy recompense,--that thou dost keep Thy friend and lover safe from every change; For, loyal to thy love, he fell asleep, And life it is, not death, that can estrange.

THE DEATH OF ANTONINUS PIUS