Debris | Page 5

What is it that we've christened love, that glamours men to madness, and stains with falsehood virgin purity? It made this grewsome charnel vault a part of Heaven--the graves there of those murdered knaves made rests of roses for our heads; it made him spring the bolt and lock us in. Where is the creed's?foundation? I've shrived a thousand souls--I cannot now absolve my own. To quench this awful thirst, I cut an artery in my arm and sucked its blood. The thirstness did not cease. They lied. 'Twas not the vultures at Prometeus' heart, 'twas hunger at his vitals gnawed. The salt drops that I swallowed from that vein have set my brain on fire. What's that? The ground's a-tremble 'neath my feet as touched with life. Earth, rend your breast and let me in! For anything but this dire darkness, made alive with vengeful eye-balls--his eyes! They glare with hate at me. I heard him laugh but now. For anything but this most loving corpse whose head caressing rests it on my feet. Ah, no, I did not mean it thus; I would not get away alone. I loved that corpse. It was the sweetest bit of human frailty that to man e'er brought a blessing or a curse. I turned from Dias' holy grail to taste its nectar. Hell, throw a-wide your sulphur-blazoned gates, I'll grasp it in my arms and make the plunge! Hist! what was that? I heard him laugh again. Laugh, fiend, you cannot hurt me more. Ah! Reyenita, mine in life you were, in death you shall be mine. When this clogged blood has stopped the wheels of life, I'll put my arms around your neck, I'll lay my face against your frozen one, and thus I'll die. When this foul place has crumbled to the sunlight, some relic-hunting lunatic will stumble o'er our bones, and pitiless will weave a tale for eyes more pitiless to read. Back, Stygian ghoul! Death's on me now. I feel his rattle in my throat! My limbs are blocks of ice! My heart has tuned it with the?muffled dead-march drum! A jar of crashing worlds is in my ears! A drowsy faintness creeps upon--

The seal is broken, the mystery tell;?You have read the letters, what do they tell??Do they tell you the story they told that day?To me, in the Mission old and gray--
The Mission Carmel at Monterey?
WASTED HOURS.
If that thy hand with heart-will sought,?To work with Christ-love underlying,?But ere thou hadst accomplished aught?Time passed thee by while vainly trying,?The wasted hour, the vain endeavor,?Will wait thee in the far forever.
If thou hadst toiled from dawn till eve,?But felt no thrill of joy in giving?No heart made glad, no want relieved,?Lived but for selfish love of living,?Though idle hours went by thee never,?The hours are lost to thee forever.

ROCKING THE BABY.
I hear her rocking the baby--?Her room is just next to mine--?And I fancy I feel the dimpled arms?That round her neck entwine,?As she rocks, and rocks the baby,?In the room just next to mine.?I hear her rocking the baby?Each day when the twilight comes,?And I know there's a world of blessing and love?In the "baby bye" she hums.?I can see the restless fingers?Playing with "mamma's rings,"?And the sweet little smiling, pouting mouth,?That to hers in kissing clings,?As she rocks and sings to the baby,?And dreams as she rocks and sings.
I hear her rocking the baby,?Slower and slower now,?And I know she is leaving her good-night kiss?On its eyes, and cheek, and brow?From her rocking, rocking, rocking,?I wonder would she start,?Could she know, through the wall between us,?She is rocking on a heart.?While my empty arms are aching?For a form they may not press?And my emptier heart is breaking?In its desolate loneliness?I list to the rocking, rocking,?In the room just next to mine,?And breathe a prayer in silence,?At a mother's broken shrine,?For the woman who rocks her baby?In the room just next to mine.
"I DON'T CARE."
"I don't care," we hear it oft?And oft, the words are seeming fair;?But many a heartache lies beneath?A careless "I don't care!"
In every age, from every tongue,?The vain assertions fell;?But oh, trust not the cheating words,?For never truth they tell!?Hearts may grow sick with hope deferred,?Be crushed with black despair,?But lips, too proud to own defeat,?Will whisper, "I don't care!"
A thoughtless friend flings out in jest--?As jesters always do--?A deadly shaft you wince beneath,?You know the story's true;?But while the dart has pierced your heart,?And poisoned, rankles there,?You look amused, and answer with?A smiling, "I don't care!"
When Fortune's favors are withdrawn,?And friends like shadows fled,?When all your fondest dreams are gone,?Your dearest hopes are dead,?You curse the fickle goddess, then,?Who wrought you such despair,?Yet hide chagrin beneath a frown,?And mutter, "I don't care!"
The veteran, battle-scarred, who fills?A nation's honored place,?Feels keener than