Part 10 (1/2)

Would my life were crowned with sunlight, Would my soul was pure as thine!

Then the world no more would know me, Earth were Heaven, and Heaven were mine.

The Lake.

A limpid lake, a diamond gem, The moonbeams kissed with light; And all the stars that heaven knew Were mirrored in the night.

How fair the world, how fair the night, When lake and river run Like jeweled streams of fairy land Beneath a silver sun.

The lake grew proud and claimed each star That lay upon her breast; ”Ah! they are mine,” she said; ”these gems That in my bosom rest.

”And yonder moon, that sails on high, Doth s.h.i.+ne for me alone; Beneath the foam that crests my waves Is built her silver throne.”

A star-king knelt and kissed the waves That swept the shadowed sh.o.r.e; ”Our moon is queen of heaven,” he said, ”Is queen forevermore.

A thousand lakes are hers by night, A thousand lakes of light; A thousand rivers kiss her feet, A thousand rivers bright.

”Then be not vain, thou lakelet small, The moon is not for thee; Her home is in the river wide, Her throne is in the sea.”

The bright waves swept the silent sh.o.r.e, The star-king crept away; Yet calm and fair, still unconvinced, The lake in silence lay.

The moon, that swept her silvery light Far o'er the waters wide, Belonged to her, and all the stars That floated side by side.

Ah! silver lake, too well we know How like we are to thee; A thousand truths are in the world That we may never see!

Life.

A dewy flower, bathed in crimson light, May touch the soul--a pure and beauteous sight; A golden river flas.h.i.+ng 'neath the sun, May reach the spot where life's dark waters run; Yet, when the sun is gone, the splendor dies, With drooping head the tender flower lies.

And such is life; a golden mist of light, A tangled web that glitters in the sun; When shadows come, the glory takes its flight, The treads are dark and worn, and life is done.

Oh! tears, that chill us like the dews of eve, Why come unbid--why should we ever grieve?

Why is it, though life hath its leaves of gold, The book each day some sorrow must unfold!

What human heart with truth can dare to say No grief is mine--this is a perfect day?

Oh! poet, take your harp of gold and sing, And all the earth with heavenly music fill!