Part 10 (1/2)

The pang of age compared with youth, Or hunger with the spendthrift's wealth, Gnaws not with such a cruel tooth As that of pain confronting health.

Yet must the strong s.h.i.+p breast the wave, The wreck lie rotting on the sh.o.r.e; O hopes that perish in the grave!

O youthful dreams that come no more!

SOLITUDE

Had I but lived when music-loving Pan Still played his flute amid the whispering reeds, When through Arcadian groves the dryads ran, And--symbolizing well man's earlier creeds-- A host of sculptured forms, divinely fair, Portrayed the G.o.ds, and led men's thoughts to prayer,

I would have sought some beautiful retreat, Remote from cities and the din of men,-- Some tranquil sh.o.r.e where lake and forest meet By limpid stream or flower-lit, sylvan glen, And would have reared, where none could e'er intrude, A shrine to thee, O precious Solitude!

How hath a heedless world neglected thee, Thou coy divinity, too shy and proud To sue for followers from those who see Attraction merely in the strenuous crowd!

For only those can know thee, as thou art, Who wisely seek and study thee ... apart.

No rapt enthusiast, or mystic sage, No Asian founder of a faith divine, No bard, or writer of inspired page Hath ever failed to wors.h.i.+p at thy shrine, O Nourisher of steadfast self-control, Of n.o.ble thoughts, of loftiness of soul!

Yet no continuous homage dost thou crave, No anchorite's seclusion wouldst thou ask, Thou lov'st no misanthrope or sullen slave, But only those who, faithful to life's task, Must yet at times look upward from the clod, And seek through thee acquaintances.h.i.+p with G.o.d.

OUT OF THE RANKS

From the bitter fight I have made my way To the peaceful crest of a lonely hill, But the noise and heat of the deadly fray And the smart of wounds are with me still.

No recreant I to a n.o.ble cause, Nor traitor base to a leader bold; 'Twas a fight where he won most applause Who captured most of his neighbor's gold;

Where the wounded crawled away to die, Or, hopeless, ate their bread with tears, And the only cries that rent the sky Were the shouts of frenzied financiers.

Alas for the prematurely gray, Who struggle there through joyless lives To win the means of more display For thankless children, thoughtless wives!

Alas for those whose spirits yearn For leisure, books, and sunlit fields, Who yet can never pause to learn The joy that a life of culture yields!

Still sway the mad crowds to and fro!

I hear their groans and panting breath, The hideous impacts, blow on blow, The moans of those who are crushed to death!

None stoop to lift up those who fall; A thousand leap for a vacant place, Thrust weaker thousands to the wall, And trample many an upturned face!

But I, however the fight may go, Have turned my back on the sordid fray, To face the tranquil sunset-glow, And hope for the dawn of a better day.

AUTONOMY

Stand forth, my soul, and take thine own!

Though all should blame thee, have no fear!

Self-poised and steadfast, dare alone Thy self-elected course to steer.

Before thee lies the open sea; Beyond it is the wished-for sh.o.r.e; The route that seemeth best to thee Select, and hesitate no more!

For he who lives the timorous slave Of social plaudits or disdain, Drags feebly to a nameless grave A craven's ever-lengthening chain.

Are thy plans n.o.ble, just, and fair?

Pursue them bravely to the end, Nor pause to question or to care What says thy foe, or what thy friend.

Succeed, and thou shalt surely find That those who longed to see thee fail, And, lingering hopelessly behind, Spat venom on thine upward trail,

Shall run to reach thee on thy path, To grasp thy hand and say ”'Twas well”; Or, distant, gnaw their lips in wrath, Their envious hearts a living h.e.l.l.