Debris | Page 9

again?
Would some magic power lend me?Aid to stay the witching tone,?Art to pain the beauteous picture?Ere its impress swift has flown.

While I dreamed the day has faded,?Stars are shining overhead,?Evening winds have ceased to whisper,?Twilight's shadows all have fled.
Thus, too oft, our life-work seemeth,?And we, when disowned its sway,?Find we are pursuing phantoms,?Shadows in the twilight gray.
HOME.
"How many times and oft" has the sweet, sweet word been sung in song and told in story. And he sang sweetest of home, who had never a home on earth. If one to whom home was only a poet's dream, could portray its charms by only imagination, until a million hearts thrilled with responsive echo, how deeper, how more intense must be his longings and recollections who?treasures, deep down in his heart the sweet delights and pure associations that he has known, but never may know again. We do not appreciate our blessings until they have passed. We do not try to gather the sunbeams until the clouds have obscured them.
How many and many a youth, brave-hearted and true, answers with eager haste the war call of his native land all heedless of the home he is leaving, and the loving arms that sheltered him there. But when his soldier's blood is crimsoning the sands beneath a foreign sky, the thoughts that go with his ebbing life are of home--all of home.
Who rushes from his home out into the world, blind devotee of fortune's phantom goddess, to realize a phantom indeed, sits down in his despondency and his despair, to dream of "dear old home".
Yes, too, and the wretch--so seemingly depraved that nothing beautiful or pure of soul is left--who flings from him his life in mad suicide, goes out into that trackless eternity with home upon the lips of death. Then if the patter of baby's feet, the glad ring of children's voices echo within the walls of your home, if father and mother; and brothers and sisters brighten it with the sunshine of love, enjoy it while you may, make it your heaven, and be not in over-haste to break the ties that bind you there.
You may never weep, perchance, over a home made desolate by death; and yet, time--so surely as time is--will make it but only a memory. And all too late each heart will learn that it did not prize enough the blessedness of home.
WHY?
Why is it we grasp at the shadow?That flits from us swift as thought,?While the real that maketh the shadow?Stands in our way unsought??And why do we wonder, and wonder,?What's beyond the hill-tops of thought?
Why is it the things that we sigh for?Are the things that we never can reach??Why, only the sternest experience?A lession of patience can teach??And why hold we so careless and lightly?The treasures that are in our reach?
Why is it we wait for the future,?Or dwell on the scenes of the past,?Rather than live in the present?Hastening from us so fast??Why is it the prizes we toil for,?So tempting in fancy's mould cast,?Prove, when to our lips we have pressed them,?Only dead-sea apples at last??And why are the crowns, and the crosses,?So wondrous inequally classed?
Ask it, ye, over and over,?Let the winds waft your question on high,?Till memory wanes with the ages,?Till the stars in eternity die.?And out from the bloom and the sunshine,?From the rainbow o'erarching the sky,?From the night and the gloom and the tempest,?Echo will answer you, "Why?"

Suggested by reading, "Lights and Shades" in San Francisco.
OUT IN THE COLD.
Out from a narrow, crowded street,?Sick'ning resort of shame and crime,?Wearing upon her brow a curse,?Out in the darkness, lost to sight,?Out in the dreary Winter night,?Fleeing a fate than Nessus worse.?On through the gathering mist and dew?'Till the fog-wrapped city is hid from view;?'Till the rugged cliffs with the waters meet,?And the mingled voices from every clime?And the hurrying tramp of reckless feet?Are drowned in the breakers' sobbing rhyme.?But farther out than this ocean beach,?Farther than Charity's hands will reach,?Farther than Pity dares to come,?Is she who rushes, with white lips dumb,?To repeat the tale that too oft is told--
Out in the cold.
From the loathesome dens whose scenes appal,?Whose tainted breath's the Simoom's blast;?Away on the dizzying, surf-washed rock,?Pausing a moment upon the brink--?Pausing a moment perchance to think;?Sliding the bolt in Memory's lock,?And back in its dusty, haunted hall,?Living again the vanished past--?Living her happy childhood o'er;?Chasing the butterflies over the flowers,?Petted and loved, a girl again,?Dreaming away the golden hours;?Living again another scene,?Flattered and toasted "beauty's queen;"?Taking again, with a merry laugh,?From gallant hands a sparkling draught.?O, angels, tell her 'tis a draught of woe!?That ruin lies in its amber glow.?Over the rest let oblivion fall,?Cover it up with a funeral pall;?Turn away with a shudder and groan,?Let her live it over alone.?Few are the months,