Fifty years Other Poems | Page 8

have heard the cries and prayers
of men go up to a tearless sky, And fall back upon an earth of ashes;

But, heedless, I have gone on with my work.
'Tis thus, O, Prince, that
I have scourged mankind."
And Satan nodded his head.
Pale Pestilence, with stenchful breath, then spoke and said,-- "Great
Prince, my brother, Famine, attacks the poor.
He is most terrible
against the helpless and the old.
But I have made a charnel-house of
the mightiest cities of men. When I strike, neither their stores of gold or
of grain avail. With a breath I lay low their strongest, and wither up
their fairest. I come upon them without warning, lancing invisible death.
From me they flee with eyes and mouths distended;
I poison the air
for which they gasp, and I strike them down fleeing. 'Tis thus, great
Prince, that I have scourged mankind."
And Satan nodded his head.
Then the red monster, War, rose up and spoke,--
His blood-shot eyes
glared 'round him, and his thundering voice Echoed through the murky
vaults of Hell.--
"O, mighty Prince, my brothers, Famine and
Pestilence,
Have slain their thousands and ten thousands,--true;
But

the greater their victories have been,
The more have they wakened in
Man's breast
The God-like attributes of sympathy, of brotherhood and
love And made of him a searcher after wisdom.
But I arouse in Man
the demon and the brute,
I plant black hatred in his heart and red
revenge.
From the summit of fifty thousand years of upward climb I
haul him down to the level of the start, back to the wolf. I give him
claws.
I set his teeth into his brother's throat.
I make him drunk with
his brother's blood.
And I laugh ho! ho! while he destroys himself.

O, mighty Prince, not only do I slay,
But I draw Man hellward."
And Satan smiled, stretched out his hand, and said,--
"O War, of all
the scourges of humanity, I crown you chief."
And Hell rang with the acclamation of the Fiends.
A MID-DAY DREAMER
I love to sit alone, and dream,
And dream, and dream;
In fancy's
boat to softly glide
Along some stream
Where fairy palaces of gold

And crystal bright
Stand all along the glistening shore:
A
wondrous sight.
My craft is built of ivory,
With silver oars,
The sails are spun of
golden threads,
And priceless stores
Of precious gems adorn its
prow,
And 'round its mast
An hundred silken cords are set
To
hold it fast.
My galley-slaves are sprightly elves
Who, as they row,
And as their
shining oars they swing
Them to and fro,
Keep time to music
wafted on
The scented air,
Made by the mermaids as they comb

Their golden hair.
And I the while lie idly back,
And dream, and dream,
And let them
row me where they will
Adown the stream.
THE TEMPTRESS

Old Devil, when you come with horns and tail,
With diabolic grin
and crafty leer;
I say, such bogey-man devices wholly fail
To
waken in my heart a single fear.
But when you wear a form I know so well,
A form so human, yet so
near divine;
'Tis then I fall beneath the magic of your spell,
'Tis
then I know the vantage is not mine.
Ah! when you take your horns from off your head,
And soft and
fragrant hair is in their place;
I must admit I fear the tangled path I
tread
When that dear head is laid against my face.
And at what time you change your baleful eyes
For stars that melt
into the gloom of night,
All of my courage, my dear fellow, quickly
flies;
I know my chance is slim to win the fight.
And when, instead of charging down to wreck
Me on a red-hot
pitchfork in your hand,
You throw a pair of slender arms about my
neck,
I dare not trust the ground on which I stand.
Whene'er in place of using patent wile,
Or trying to frighten me with
horrid grin,
You tempt me with two crimson lips curved in a smile;

Old Devil, I must really own, you win.
GHOSTS OF THE OLD YEAR
The snow has ceased its fluttering flight,
The wind sunk to a whisper
light,
An ominous stillness fills the night,
A pause--a hush.
At last,
a sound that breaks the spell,
Loud, clanging mouthings of a bell,

That through the silence peal and swell,
And roll, and rush.
What does this brazen tongue declare,
That falling on the midnight
air
Brings to my heart a sense of care
Akin to fright?
'Tis telling
that the year is dead,
The New Year come, the Old Year fled,

Another leaf before me spread
On which to write.

It tells the deeds that were not done,
It tells of races never run,
Of
victories that were not won,
Barriers unleaped.
It tells of many a
squandered day,
Of slighted gems and treasured clay,
Of precious
stores not laid away,
Of fields unreaped.
And so the years go swiftly by,
Each, coming, brings ambitions high,

And each, departing, leaves a sigh
Linked to the past.
Large
resolutions, little deeds;
Thus, filled with aims unreached, life speeds

Until the blotted record reads,
"Failure!" at last.
THE GHOST OF DEACON BROWN
In a backwoods town
Lived Deacon