Part 19 (1/2)

Thought.

O messenger, art thou the king, or I?

Thou dalliest outside the palace gate Till on thine idle armor lie the late And heavy dews. The morn's bright scornful eye Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery, Thou smilest at the window where I wait, Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state My days go on, while false hours prophesy Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair, I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air; When lo, thou stand'st before me glad and fleet, And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet.

Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to buy I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.

H.H. JACKSON.

Stanzas.

Thought is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils: Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known; Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie; All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company But a babbling summer stream?

What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love Melts the scattered stars of thought; Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught;

Only when our souls are fed By the Fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led, Which they never drew from earth,

We, like parted drops of rain Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one.

C.P. CRANCH.

Coronation.

At the king's gate the subtle noon Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; Into the drowsy snare too soon The guards fell one by one.

Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, A beggar went, and laughed, ”This brings Me chance, at last, to see if men Fare better, being kings.”

The king sat bowed beneath his crown, Propping his face with listless hand; Watching the hour-gla.s.s sifting down Too slow its s.h.i.+ning sand.

”Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?”

The beggar turned, and, pitying, Replied, like one in dream, ”Of thee, Nothing. I want the king.”

Uprose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown and threw it by.