Poems of Sentiment | Page 8

shadowy world of nameless terrors,
My soul and thine should be companions yet.
And I would cross with thee those troubled oceans
Of dark remorse whose waters are despair:
All things my jealous,

reckless love would dare,
So that thou mightst not recollect emotions
In which it did not have a part and share.
There is no limit to my love's full measure,
It's spirit-gold is shaped by earth's alloy;
I would be friend and
mother, mate and toy,
I'd have thee look to me for every pleasure,
And in me find all memories of joy.
Yet though I love thee in such selfish fashion,
I would wait on thee, sitting at thy feet,
And serving thee, if thou
didst deem it meet.
And couldst thou give me one fond hour of
passion,
I'd take that hour and call my life complete.
THE PAEAN OF PEACE
With ever some wrong to be righting,
With self ever seeking for place,
The world has been striving and
fighting
Since man was evolved out of space.
Bold history into dark regions
His torchlight has fearlessly cast,
He shows us tribes warring in
legions,
In jungles of ages long passed.
Religion, forgetting her station,
Forgetting her birthright from God,
Set nation to warring with nation
And scattered dissension abroad.
Dear creeds have made men kill

each other,
Fair faith has bred hate and despair,
And brother has battled with
brother
Because of a difference in prayer.
But earth has grown wiser and kinder,
For man is evolving a soul:
From wars of an age that was blinder,
We rise to a peace-girdled goal.
Where once men would murder in
treason
And slaughter each other in hordes,
They now meet together and
reason,
With thoughts for their weapons, not swords.
The brute in humanity dwindles
And lessens as time speeds along,
And the spark of Divinity kindles
And blazes up brightly and strong.
The seer can behold in the
distance
The race that shall people the world -
Strong men of a godlike
existence
Unarmed, and with war banners furled.
No longer the bloodthirsty savage
Man's vast spirit strength shall unfold;
And tales of red warfare and
ravage
Shall seem like ghost stories of old.
For the booming of guns and the
rattle

Of carnage and conflict shall cease,
And the bugle-call, leading to
battle,
Shall change to a paean of peace.
"HAS BEEN"
That melancholy phrase "It might have been,"
However sad, doth in its heart enfold
A hidden germ of promise! for I
hold
WHATEVER MIGHT HAVE BEEN SHALL BE.
Though in
Some other realm and life, the soul must win
The goal that erst was possible. But cold
And cruel as the sound of
frozen mould
Dropped on a coffin, are the words "Has been."
"She has been beautiful"--"he has been great,"
"Rome has been powerful," we sigh and say.
It is the pitying crust we
toss decay,
The dirge we breathe o'er some degenerate state,
An
epitaph for fame's unburied dead.
God pity those who live to hear it
said!
DUTY'S PATH
Out from the harbour of youth's bay
There leads the path of pleasure;
With eager steps we walk that way
To brim joy's largest measure.
But when with morn's departing beam
Goes youth's last precious minute,
We sigh "'Twas but a fevered
dream -
There's nothing in it."

Then on our vision dawns afar
The goal of glory, gleaming
Like some great radiant solar star,
And sets us longing, dreaming.
Forgetting all things left behind,
We strain each nerve to win it,
But when 'tis ours--alas! we find
There's nothing in it.
We turn our sad, reluctant gaze
Upon the path of duty;
Its barren, uninviting ways
Are void of bloom and beauty.
Yet in that road, though dark and cold,
It seems as we begin it,
As we press on--lo! we behold
There's Heaven in it.
MARCH
Like some reformer, who with mien austere,
Neglected dress, and loud insistent tones,
More rasping than the
wrongs which she bemoans,
Walks through the land and wearies all
who hear,
While yet we know the need of such reform;
So comes unlovely
March, with wind and storm,
To break the spell of winter, and set free
The poisoned brooks and crocus beds oppressed.
Severe of face,
gaunt-armed, and wildly dressed,
She is not fair nor beautiful to see.
But merry April and sweet smiling May
Come not till March has first
prepared the way.

THE END OF THE SUMMER
The birds laugh loud and long together
When Fashion's followers speed away
At the first cool breath of
autumn weather.
Why, this is the time, cry the birds, to stay!
When the deep calm sea
and the deep sky over
Both look their passion through sun-kissed space,
As a blue-eyed
maid and her blue-eyed lover
Might each gaze into the other's face.
Oh! this is the time when careful spying
Discovers the secrets Nature knows.
You find when the butterflies
plan for flying
(Before the thrush or the blackbird goes),
You see some day by the
water's edges
A brilliant border of red and black;
And then off over