Poems of Cheer | Page 8

she whose duty
'Tis to give us love and beauty;
Hail to these,
and others, after
Momus, gleesome god of laughter.
Quirinus would guard my health,
Plutus would insure me wealth;

Mercury looks after trade,
Hera smiles on youth and maid.
All are
kind, I own their worth,
After Momus, god of mirth.
Though Apollo, out of spite,
Hides away his face of light,
Though
Minerva looks askance,
Deigning me no smiling glance,
Kings and
queens may envy me
While I claim the god of glee.
Wisdom wearies, Love has wings -
Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure

stings,
Glory proves a thorny crown -
So all gifts the gods throw
down
Bring their pains and troubles after;
All save Momus, god of
laughter.
He alone gives constant joy.
Hail to Momus, happy boy.
I DREAM
Oh, I have dreams. I sometimes dream of Life
In the full meaning of that splendid word.
Its subtle music which few
men have heard,
Though all may hear it, sounding through earth's
strife.
Its mountain heights by mystic breezes kissed
Lifting their lovely peaks above the dust;
Its treasures which no touch
of time can rust,
Its emerald seas, its dawns of amethyst,
Its certain purpose, its serene repose,
Its usefulness, that finds no hour
for woes,
This is my dream of Life.
Yes, I have dreams. I ofttimes dream of Love
As radiant and brilliant as a star.
As changeless, too, as that fixed
light afar
Which glorifies vast worlds of space above.
Strong as the
tempest when it holds its breath,
Before it bursts in fury; and as deep
As the unfathomed seas, where
lost worlds sleep,
And sad as birth, and beautiful as death.
As fervent as the fondest soul could crave,
Yet holy as the moonlight
on a grave.
This is my dream of Love.
Yes, yes, I dream. One oft-recurring dream
Is beautiful and comforting and blest,
Complete with certain promises

of rest,
Divine content, and ecstasy supreme.
When that strange
essence, author of all faith,
That subtle something, which cries for the light,
Like a lost child who
wanders in the night,
Shall solve the mighty mystery of Death,
Shall find eternal progress, or sublime
And satisfying slumber for all
time.
This is my dream of Death.
THE SONNET
Alone it stands in Poesy's fair land,
A temple by the muses set apart;
A perfect structure of consummate
art,
By artists builded and by genius planned,
Beyond the reach of
the apprentice hand,
Beyond the ken of the untutored heart,
Like a fine carving in a
common mart,
Only the favoured few will understand.
A chef
d'auvre toiled over with great care,
Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by,
A plainly set, but
well-cut solitaire,
An ancient bit of pottery, too rare
To please or hold aught save the special eye,
These only with the
sonnet can compare.
THE PAST
Fling my past behind me, like a robe
Worn threadbare in the seams,
and out of date.
I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep
And
dwell up on its beauty, and its dyes
Of Oriental splendour, or
complain
That I must needs discard it? I can weave
Upon the
shuttles of the future years
A fabric far more durable. Subdued,
It

may be, in the blending of its hues,
Where sombre shades commingle,
yet the gleam
Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,

While over all a fadeless lustre lies,
And starred with gems made out
of crystalled tears,
My new robe shall be richer than the old.
A DREAM
That was a curious dream; I thought the three
Great planets that are drawing near the sun
With such unerring
certainty begun
To talk together in a mighty glee.
They spoke of
vast convulsions which would be
Throughout the solar system--the rare fun
Of watching haughty stars
drop, one by one,
And vanish in a seething vapour sea.
I thought I heard them comment on the earth -
That small dark object--doomed beyond a doubt.
They wondered if
live creatures moved about
Its tiny surface, deeming it of worth.
And then they laughed--'twas such a singing shout
That I awoke and
joined too in their mirth.
USELESSNESS
Let mine not be that saddest fate of all
To live beyond my greater self; to see
My faculties decaying, as the
tree
Stands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall.
Let me
hear rather the imperious call,
Which all men dread, in my glad morning time,
And follow death ere
I have reached my prime,
Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life's
gall.
The lightning's stroke or the fierce tempest blast

Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day
Is kinder than the calm
that lets it last,
Unhappy witness of its own decay.
May no man ever look on me and
say,
"She lives, but all her usefulness is past."
WILL
There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent or hinder or
control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for
nothing; will alone is great;
All things give way before it, soon or
late.
What obstacle can stay the mighty force
Of the sea-seeking river in
its course,
Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?
Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.
Let the