Chapter 5

I saw the day lean o'er the world's sharp edge And peer into night's chasm, dark and damp; High in his hand he held a blazing lamp, Then dropped it and plunged headlong down the ledge.

With lurid splendor that swift paled to gray, I saw the dim skies suddenly flush bright. 'Twas but the expiring glory of the light Flung from the hand of the adventurous day.

THE WHEEL OF THE BREAST.

Through rivers of veins on the nameless quest The tide of my life goes hurriedly sweeping, Till it reaches that curious wheel o' the breast, The human heart, which is never at rest. Faster, faster, it cries, and leaping, Plunging, dashing, speeding away, The wheel and the river work night and day.

I know not wherefore, I know not whither, This strange tide rushes with such mad force: It glides on hither, it slides on thither, Over and over the selfsame course, With never an outlet and never a source; And it lashes itself to the heat of passion And whirls the heart in a mill-wheel fashion.

I can hear in the hush of the still, still night, The ceaseless sound of that mighty river; I can hear it gushing, gurgling, rushing, With a wild, delirious, strange delight, And a conscious pride in its sense of might, As it hurries and worries my heart forever.

And I wonder oft as I lie awake, And list to the river that seethes and surges Over the wheel that it chides and urges-- I wonder oft if that wheel will break With the mighty pressure it bears, some day, Or slowly and wearily wear away.

For little by little the heart is wearing, Like the wheel of the mill, as the tide goes tearing And plunging hurriedly through my breast, In a network of veins on a nameless quest, From and forth, unto unknown oceans, Bringing its cargoes of fierce emotions, With never a pause or an hour for rest.

A MEETING.

Quite carelessly I turned the newsy sheet; A song I sang, full many a year ago, Smiled up at me, as in a busy street One meets an old-time friend he used to know.

So full it was, that simple little song, Of all the hope, the transport, and the truth, Which to the impetuous morn of life belong, That once again I seemed to grasp my youth.

So full it was of that sweet, fancied pain We woo and cherish ere we meet with woe, I felt as one who hears a plaintive strain His mother sang him in the long ago.

Up from the grave the years that lay between That song's birthday and my stern present came Like phantom forms and swept across the scene, Bearing their broken dreams of love and fame.

Fair hopes and bright ambitions that I knew In that old time, with their ideal grace, Shone for a moment, then were lost to view Behind the dull clouds of the commonplace.

With trembling hands I put the sheet away; Ah, little song! the sad and bitter truth Struck like an arrow when we met that day! My life has missed the promise of its youth.

EARNESTNESS.

The hurry of the times affects us so In this swift rushing hour, we crowd and press And thrust each other backward as we go, And do not pause to lay sufficient stress Upon that good, strong, true word, Earnestness. In our impetuous haste, could we but know Its full, deep meaning, its vast import, oh, Then might we grasp the secret of success! In that receding age when men were great, The bone and sinew of their purpose lay In this one word. God likes an earnest soul-- Too earnest to be eager. Soon or late It leaves the spent horde breathless by the way, And stands serene, triumphant at the goal.

A PICTURE.

I strolled last eve across the lonely down; One solitary picture struck my eye: A distant ploughboy stood against the sky-- How far he seemed above the noisy town!

Upon the bosom of a cloud the sod Laid its bruised cheek as he moved slowly by, And, watching him, I asked myself if I In very truth stood half as near to God.

TWIN-BORN.

He who possesses virtue at its best, Or greatness in the true sense of the word, Has one day started even with that herd Whose swift feet now speed but at sin's behest. It is the same force in the human breast Which makes men gods or demons. If we gird Those strong emotions by which we are stirred With might of will and purpose, heights unguessed Shall dawn for us; or if we give them sway We can sink down and consort with the lost. All virtue is worth just the price it cost. Black sin is oft white truth that missed its way And wandered off in paths not understood. Twin-born I hold great evil and great good.

FLOODS.

In the dark night, from sweet refreshing sleep I wake to hear outside my window-pane The uncurbed fury of the wild spring rain, And weird winds lashing the defiant deep, And roar of floods that gather strength and leap Down dizzy, wreck-strewn channels to the main. I turn upon my pillow and again Compose myself for slumber. Let them sweep; I once survived great floods, and do not fear, Though ominous planets congregate, and seem To foretell strange disasters. From a dream-- Ah! dear God! such a dream!--I woke to hear, Through the dense shadows lit by no star's gleam, The rush of mighty waters on my ear. Helpless, afraid, and all alone, I lay; The floods had come upon me unaware. I heard the crash of structures that were fair; The bridges of fond hopes were swept away By great salt waves of sorrow. In dismay I saw by the red lightning's lurid glare That on the rock-bound island of despair I had been cast. Till the dim dawn of day I heard my castles falling, and the roll Of angry billows bearing to the sea The broken timbers of my very soul. Were all the pent-up waters from the whole Stupendous solar system to break free, There are no floods that now can frighten me.

A FABLE.

Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl, A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-Fowl, One day all meet together To hold a caucus and settle the fate Of a certain bird (without a mate), A bird of another feather.

"My friends," said the Owl, with a look most wise, "The Eagle is soaring too near the skies, In a way that is quite improper; Yet the world is praising her, so I'm told, And I think her actions have grown so bold That some of us ought to stop her."

"I have heard it said," quoth Hawk, with a sigh, "That young lambs died at the glance of her eye, And I wholly scorn and despise her. This, and more, I am told they say, And I think that the only proper way Is never to recognize her."

"I am quite convinced," said Crow, with a caw, "That the Eagle minds no moral law, She's a most unruly creature." "She's an ugly thing," piped Canary Bird; "Some call her handsome--it's so absurd-- She hasn't a decent feature."

Then the old Marsh-Hen went hopping about, She said she was sure--_she_ hadn't a doubt-- Of the truth of each bird's story: And she thought it a duty to stop her flight, To pull her down from her lofty height, And take the gilt from her glory.

But, lo! from a peak on the mountain grand That looks out over the smiling land And over the mighty ocean, The Eagle is spreading her splendid wings-- She rises, rises, and upward swings, With a slow, majestic motion.

Up in the blue of God's own skies, With a cry of rapture, away she flies, Close to the Great Eternal: She sweeps the world with her piercing sight; Her soul is filled with the infinite And the joy of things supernal.

Thus rise forever the chosen of God, The genius-crowned or the power-shod, Over the dust-world sailing; And back, like splinters blown by the winds, Must fall the missiles of silly minds, Useless and unavailing.