Poems | Page 3

blaze, One instant gleam, then perish, spent and dumb; How sad the thought that, howsoe'er we yearn Of life on yonder glittering orbs to learn, We read no message, and could none return!
Yet this we know:--yon ring of spectral light, Whose distance thrills the soul with solemn awe, Can ne'er escape in its majestic might The firm control of omnipresent law; This mote descending to its bounden place, Those suns whose radiance we can scarcely trace, Alike obey the Power pervading space.

THE WAIF
I sit in my luxurious chair; Soft rugs caress my slippered feet; Within, a balmy, summer air; Without, a wintry storm of sleet.
A favorite book is in my hands, A thousand others line the walls; Some souvenir of distant lands In every nook the Past recalls.
Upon a Turkish tabouret In Dresden cups of peerless blue Gleams on a pretty Cashmere tray The fragrant Mocha's ebon hue.
Two dainty hands prepare the draught, While loving glances meet my own; Two lips repeat (the coffee quaffed), "To-night 'tis sweet to be alone."
Hark! in the court my faithful hound Breaks rudely on our t��te-��-t��te; Too well I understand that sound! A mendicant is at my gate.
Admit him? Yes; for none shall say That he who seeks in want my door Is ever harshly turned away; His plea is heard, if nothing more.
I leave my comforts with a sigh, And, passing to the outer hall, Behold a wanderer doomed to die,-- So ill, I look to see him fall.
I know his story ere he speaks; And listening to his labored breath, I trace, with tears upon my cheeks, His long and hopeless fight with death.
A poor, storm-beaten, lonely waif, Lured southward from a colder clime By hope and that unfailing faith That health will come again in time!
Alas! too late; the dread disease Hath fixed its roots too firmly there; And now sick, friendless, at my knees, He pours forth his heart-breaking prayer.
What are his needs? Before all, food! Hot soup, bread, wine, until at last A sense of human brotherhood Obliterates his cruel past;
Yet not for long; for though well-fed, With warmer garments than before, He hath no place to lay his head, On turning from my friendly door.
I slip some silver in his hand, ('Twill purchase shelter for the night,) Then, silent and remorseful, stand To watch his bent form out of sight.
On, on he goes through snow and sleet, With nothing more of warmth and cheer! From such a home to such a street! Ah, should I not have kept him here?
My room is no less bright and warm, But all its charm and joy have fled; That lonely figure in the storm Leaves both our hearts uncomforted.
For this is but one tiny wave In life's vast, shoreless sea of woe,-- One note in man's hoarse cry to save, Resounding o'er its ebb and flow;
I ask myself in blank dismay,-- Ought I my little wealth to own? Yet, should I give it all away, 'Twere but a drop to ocean thrown!
Great God! if what I dimly see, In this small section of mankind, Of pain and want and misery, Can thus bring anguish to my mind,
How canst Thou view the awful _whole_, As our ensanguined planet rolls From unknown source to unknown goal Its freight of suffering human souls?
Permitted pain!--the first and last Of riddles that we strive to solve, More poignant ever, and more vast, As man's mentalities evolve,
I hear thy victims' ceaseless wails, I view the path my race hath trod, And at the sight my spirit quails, And cries in agony to God!

THE SILVER HERONS
Within a home for captive beasts Whose world had dwindled to a cage, I noted in their mournful eyes Such resignation, fear, and rage, I longed at once to set them free, And send them over land and sea To live again in liberty.
For them no more the mountain range, The desert vast, the jungle's lair! Their meaner fate through grated bars To feel the public's hateful stare; Poor prisoners! doomed henceforth to pace With stinted strides a narrow space, And, daily, gaping crowds to face.
At length I stood before a cage, Where, guarded by a loftier screen, Were artificial rocks, and pools, And strips of vegetation green; There, perched upon some rocky mound, Or crouching on the miry ground, A flock of waterfowl I found.
Storks, poised upon a single leg, Stood dreaming of the eternal Nile,-- The Mecca of their winter flight, When lured by Egypt's sunny smile; While ducks and geese, in gabbling mood, Explored the muddy pond for food, Attended by their noisy brood.
Their keeper brought their evening meal; And instantly on broad-webbed feet, And stilt-like legs, and flapping wings, The feathered bipeds rushed to greet, With snaps and cluckings of delight, The joyful, ever-welcome sight Of supper at the