Poems of Sentiment Part 5

So vast the tide of love within me surging, It overflows like some stupendous sea, The confines of the Present and To-be; And 'gainst the Past's high wall I feel it urging, As it would cry, "Thou, too, shalt yield to me!"

All other loves my supreme love embodies; I would be she on whose soft bosom nursed Thy clinging infant lips to quench their thirst; She who trod close to hidden worlds where G.o.d is, That she might have, and hold, and see thee first.

I would be she who stirred the vague, fond fancies Of thy still childish heart; who through bright days Went sporting with thee in the old-time plays, And caught the sunlight of thy boyish glances In half-forgotten and long-buried Mays.

Forth to the end, and back to the beginning, My love would send its inundating tide, Wherein all landmarks of thy past should hide.

If thy life's lesson MUST be learned through sinning, My grieving virtue would become thy guide.

For I would share the burden of thy errors, So when the sun of our brief life had set, If thou didst walk in darkness and regret, E'en in that shadowy world of nameless terrors, My soul and thine should be companions yet.

And I would cross with thee those troubled oceans Of dark remorse whose waters are despair: All things my jealous, reckless love would dare, So that thou mightst not recollect emotions In which it did not have a part and share.

There is no limit to my love's full measure, It's spirit-gold is shaped by earth's alloy; I would be friend and mother, mate and toy, I'd have thee look to me for every pleasure, And in me find all memories of joy.

Yet though I love thee in such selfish fas.h.i.+on, I would wait on thee, sitting at thy feet, And serving thee, if thou didst deem it meet.

And couldst thou give me one fond hour of pa.s.sion, I'd take that hour and call my life complete.

THE PAEAN OF PEACE

With ever some wrong to be righting, With self ever seeking for place, The world has been striving and fighting Since man was evolved out of s.p.a.ce.

Bold history into dark regions His torchlight has fearlessly cast, He shows us tribes warring in legions, In jungles of ages long pa.s.sed.

Religion, forgetting her station, Forgetting her birthright from G.o.d, Set nation to warring with nation And scattered dissension abroad.

Dear creeds have made men kill each other, Fair faith has bred hate and despair, And brother has battled with brother Because of a difference in prayer.

But earth has grown wiser and kinder, For man is evolving a soul: From wars of an age that was blinder, We rise to a peace-girdled goal.

Where once men would murder in treason And slaughter each other in hordes, They now meet together and reason, With thoughts for their weapons, not swords.

The brute in humanity dwindles And lessens as time speeds along, And the spark of Divinity kindles And blazes up brightly and strong.

The seer can behold in the distance The race that shall people the world - Strong men of a G.o.dlike existence Unarmed, and with war banners furled.

No longer the bloodthirsty savage Man's vast spirit strength shall unfold; And tales of red warfare and ravage Shall seem like ghost stories of old.

For the booming of guns and the rattle Of carnage and conflict shall cease, And the bugle-call, leading to battle, Shall change to a paean of peace.

"HAS BEEN"

That melancholy phrase "It might have been,"

However sad, doth in its heart enfold A hidden germ of promise! for I hold WHATEVER MIGHT HAVE BEEN SHALL BE.

Though in Some other realm and life, the soul must win The goal that erst was possible. But cold And cruel as the sound of frozen mould Dropped on a coffin, are the words "Has been."

"She has been beautiful"--"he has been great,"

"Rome has been powerful," we sigh and say.

It is the pitying crust we toss decay, The dirge we breathe o'er some degenerate state, An epitaph for fame's unburied dead.

G.o.d pity those who live to hear it said!

DUTY'S PATH

Out from the harbour of youth's bay There leads the path of pleasure; With eager steps we walk that way To brim joy's largest measure.

But when with morn's departing beam Goes youth's last precious minute, We sigh "'Twas but a fevered dream - There's nothing in it."

Then on our vision dawns afar The goal of glory, gleaming Like some great radiant solar star, And sets us longing, dreaming.

Forgetting all things left behind, We strain each nerve to win it, But when 'tis ours--alas! we find There's nothing in it.

We turn our sad, reluctant gaze Upon the path of duty; Its barren, uninviting ways Are void of bloom and beauty.

Yet in that road, though dark and cold, It seems as we begin it, As we press on--lo! we behold There's Heaven in it.

MARCH

Like some reformer, who with mien austere, Neglected dress, and loud insistent tones, More rasping than the wrongs which she bemoans, Walks through the land and wearies all who hear, While yet we know the need of such reform; So comes unlovely March, with wind and storm, To break the spell of winter, and set free The poisoned brooks and crocus beds oppressed.

Severe of face, gaunt-armed, and wildly dressed, She is not fair nor beautiful to see.

But merry April and sweet smiling May Come not till March has first prepared the way.

THE END OF THE SUMMER

The birds laugh loud and long together When Fas.h.i.+on's followers speed away At the first cool breath of autumn weather.

Why, this is the time, cry the birds, to stay!

When the deep calm sea and the deep sky over Both look their pa.s.sion through sun-kissed s.p.a.ce, As a blue-eyed maid and her blue-eyed lover Might each gaze into the other's face.

Oh! this is the time when careful spying Discovers the secrets Nature knows.

You find when the b.u.t.terflies plan for flying (Before the thrush or the blackbird goes), You see some day by the water's edges A brilliant border of red and black; And then off over the hills and hedges It flutters away on the summer's track.

The shy little sumacs, in lonely places, Bowed all summer with dust and heat, Like clean-clad children with rain-washed faces, Are dressed in scarlet from head to feet.

And never a flower had the boastful summer, In all the blossoms that decked her sod, So royal hued as that later comer The purple chum of the goldenrod.

Some chill grey dawn you note with grieving That the King of Autumn is on his way.

You see, with a sorrowful, slow believing, How the wanton woods have gone astray.