Part 13 (2/2)

”Great inventors”, say you? Granted; Such material gifts are ours; Every age hath some distinction, Every race its special powers.

But the progress is not lasting, And the special powers decline; Man's advance is never constant In one grand, unbroken line.

Nor is ground, once lost, recovered; Greece and Rome are not replaced!

All the sites of pagan learning Still lie desolate and waste.

What know we,--except in physics--, That the ancients did not know?

Are we wiser than the sages Of two thousand years ago?

More devout than Hebrew prophets?

More upright than Antonine?

More accomplished than the Grecians, Or than Buddha more divine?

And if such men could not hinder Fate's resistless rise and fall, How can we expect exemption From the common lot of all?

Let us frankly face the prospect That man's progress here may fail; That the race may never triumph, But again descend the scale,

Till the last surviving savage To his glacial cave retires, And earth's tragic drama closes, As humanity expires!

And why not? All weaker species To the stronger yield their place; May the same law not be needed Through the boundless realms of s.p.a.ce?

By whatever beings peopled, Worlds that fail to meet the test May like fruitless blossoms perish; G.o.d will winnow out the best.

Would you know our planet's value?

View the star-strewn dome of night!

In that sh.o.r.eless sea of splendor What is one faint wave of light?

Worlds by millions are revolving Through that vast, unfathomed main; Should our tiny orb make s.h.i.+pwreck, Worlds by millions would remain;

Where perchance a real advancement May prevail from pole to pole, Without losses, without lapses, Toward a final, perfect goal.

This at least can not be doubted,-- That our globe will one day roll Cold and lifeless thro' its...o...b..t, Like a corpse without its soul.

Will mankind have reached perfection Ere that epoch has begun, Or grown b.e.s.t.i.a.l, as the heat-waves Issue feebly from the sun?

None may know. Through blood-stained cycles We have thus far made our way: Of the unknown depths beneath us We are nothing but the spray.

MeSALLIANCE

With gentle manners, winsome face, And forehead fit to wear a crown, How brilliant might have been her place, Had she not mated with a clown,--

A Caliban of modern date, Ill-dressed, ill-shapen, ill at ease, With halting speech and awkward gait, And manners certain to displease!

What secret motive could have led This charming girl her life to stain By condescending thus to wed A husband whom she must disdain?

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