Poems of Sentiment | Page 4

far away,
Or veiled his face from me,?One life too much, why then were such
A life as this would be.?With sullen May and blighted June,
Blurred dawn and haggard night,?This dear old world in space were hurled
If love lent not his light.?(O love, stay near!)
LAST LOVE
The first flower of the spring is not so fair?Or bright as one the ripe midsummer brings.?The first faint note the forest warbler sings?Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare?As when, full master of his art, the air?Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings?Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings.?The artist's earliest effort, wrought with care,?The bard's first ballad, written in his tears,?Set by his later toil, seems poor and tame,?And into nothing dwindles at the test.?So with the passions of maturer years.?Let those who will demand the first fond flame,?Give me the heart's LAST LOVE, for that is best.
LIFE'S TRACK
This game of life is a dangerous play,?Each human soul must watch alway,
From the first to the very last.?I care not however strong and pure -?Let no man say he is perfectly sure
The dangerous reefs are past.
For many a rock may lurk near by,?That never is seen when the tide is high -
Let no man dare to boast,?When the hand is full of trumps--beware,?For that is the time when thought and care
And nerve are needed most.
As the oldest jockey knows to his cost,?Full many a well-run race is lost
A brief half length from the wire.?And many a soul that has fought with sin,?And gained each battle, at last gives in
To sudden, fierce desire.
And vain seems the effort of spur and whip,?Or the hoarse, hot cry of the pallid lip,
When once we have fallen back.?It is better to keep on stirrup and rein,?The steady poise and the careful strain,
In speeding along Life's track.
A watchful eye and a strong, true hand?Will carry us under the Judge's stand,
If prayer, too, does its part;?And little by little the struggling soul?Will grow and strengthen and gain control
Over the passionate heart.
AN ODE TO TIME
Ho! sportsman Time, whose chargers fleet
The moments, madly driven,?Beat in the dust beneath their feet
Sweet hopes that years have given;?Turn, turn aside those reckless steeds,
Oh! do not urge them my way;?There's nothing that Time wants or needs
In this contented by-way.
You have down-trodden, in your race,
So much that proves your power,?Why not avoid my humble place?
Why rob me of my dower??With your vast cellars, cavern deep,
Packed tier on tier with treasures,?You would not miss them should I KEEP
My little store of pleasures.
As one who, frightened, flying, flings
Her riches down at random,?Your course is paved with precious things
Life casts before your tandem:?The warrior's fame, the conqueror's crown,
Great creeds for ages cherished,?Beneath your chariot-wheels were thrown,
And, crushed to earth, they perished.
Although to just and generous deeds
Your heart is not a stranger,?I have the feeling that one needs
To guard his wealth from danger.?And though a most heroic light
Oft on your pathway lingers,?I'd hide my treasures, if I might,
From contact with your fingers.
You are the loyal friend of Truth,
Go seek her, make her stronger,?And leave the remnant of my youth
To me a little longer.?There's work enough for you before
Eternity shall wed you:?Why stoop to steal my simple store?
Why make me shun and dread you?
You do not need my joys, I say,
Home, love, and friends united -?I beg you turn and go the way
Where wrong waits to be righted;?Or pause, and let us chat a while:
I'll listen--not too near you,?For oh! no matter how you smile,
I fear you, Time, I fear you!
REGRET AND REMORSE
Regret with streaming eyes doth seem alway?A maiden widowed on her wedding day.
While dark Remorse, with eyes too sad for tears,?A crushed, desponding Magdalene appears.
One, with a hungering heart unsatisfied,?Mourns for imagined joys that were denied.
The other, pierced by recollected sin,?Broods o'er the scars of pleasures that have been.
EASTER MORN
A truth that has long lain buried
At Superstition's door,?I see, in the dawn uprising
In all its strength once more.
Hidden away in the darkness,
By Ignorance crucified,?Crushed under stones of dogmas -
Yet lo! it has not died.
It stands in the light transfigured,
It speaks from the heights above,?"EACH SOUL IS ITS OWN REDEEMER;
THERE IS NO LAW BUT LOVE."
And the spirits of men are gladdened
As they welcome this Truth re-born?With its feet on the grave of Error
And its eyes to the Easter Morn.
BLIND
Whatever a man may think or feel
He can tell to the world and it hears aright;?But it bids the woman conceal, conceal,
And woe to the thoughts that at last ignite.?She may serve up gossip or dwell on fashion,
Or play the critic with speech unkind,?But alas for the woman who speaks with passion!
For the world is blind--for the world is blind.
It is woman who sits with her starved desire,
And drinks to sorrow in cups of tears;?She reads by the light of her soul on fire
The secrets of love through lonely years:?But