Poems

Sport of the changeful multitude, Nor calmly heard, nor understood, Thy song has seemed a trick of art, Thy warnings but the actor's part. With bonds, and scorn, and evil will, The world requites its prophets still.

A certain Pasha, dead these thousand years, Once from his harem fled, in sudden tears, And had this sentence on the city's gate Deeply engraven: "Only God is great!" So those four words, above the city's noise, Hung like the accents of an angel's voice. And evermore, from the high barbican, Saluted each returning caravan.

The west wind clears the morning, The sea shines silvery gray; The night was long, but fresh and strong Awakes the breezy day; Like smoke that flies across the lift, The clouds are faint and thin; And near and far along the bar, The tide comes creeping in. The dreams of midnight showed me A life of loneliness,— A stony shore, that knew no more The bright wave's soft caress; The morning broke, the vision fled— With dawn new hopes begin; The light is sweet, and at my feet The tide comes rolling in.

" The dawn swings incense, silver gray; The night is past; Now comes, triumphant, God's full day; No priest, no church can bar its way; The night is past; How, on this blue Of God's great banner, blaze and glow The words, 'Forgive them: for they know Not what they do. '"— H.

" Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege Through all the years of this our life to lead From joy to joy; for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men Can e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessing. ".

Lift up thy saddened eyes in hope, thou child Of God. Can thought be born of that which hath No power of thought? Whence comes thy wondrous soul Unless there somewhere be a grander Soul Which touches thine through laws that never change? The universe is vast indeed! but He Who planned and made it, fills it through and through From smallest atom to the largest star, There is no point in space where chaos reigns.

Be true and list the voice within, Be true unto thy high ideal, Thy perfect self, that knows no sin— That self that is the only real. God is the only perfect one: My perfect self, one must it be With God, then,—and that thought begun, It solveth all the mystery.

"Well roars the storm for those that hear A deeper voice across the storm Proclaiming.

" Has the summer really come?" Said a rosebud blushing sweet, As she opened wide her eyes In a glad and sweet surprise, From a long and dreamless sleep. "Oh, I wonder if the frost, With its cold and chilling breath, Has been melted by the sun! Has the summer, then, begun, Giving life Instead of death? " So the buds which hid the leaves And the fragrance of the rose, Wooed by sunshine-laden breeze, That swayed the royal trees From this stately, calm repose, With a bashful, blushing bloom, From their floral gem'd retreats, Came with wealth of rare perfume, Covering lovely May and June In an avalanche of sweets.

" Possessions vanish, and opinions change, And passions hold a fluctuating seat; But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken, And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, Duty exists; immutably survive, For our support, the measures and the forms Which a divine Intelligence supplies, Whose kingdom is where time and space are not. ".