Part 8 (1/2)

LOST SONGS.

Harp of my fathers--on the mouldering wall Of days forgotten--like a far-off wind Hus.h.i.+ng the fir-wood at soft even-fall, Thy low-heard whispers to my heart recall The wistful songs, to Silence Old consigned, That Ossian sang when he was frail and blind.

Thy fitful notes from the melodious trees, I fain would echo in my feeble rhyme-- The inner music quivering on the breeze I hear; and throbbing from the beating seas, On ancient sh.o.r.es, the wearied pulse of Time That mingles with thy melodies sublime.

OTHER POEMS.

THE DREAM.

'Twas when I woke I knew it was a dream, Measured by moments, that to me did seem, A life-long spell of joy and peace to be--

Will that last dream that comes ere death descends, From which I shall not wake to know it ends, Thus seem to live on through Eternity?

FREE WILL.

Say not the will of man is free Within the limits of his soul-- Who from his heritage can flee?

Who can his destiny control?

In vain we wage perpetual strife, 'Gainst instincts dumb and blind desires-- Who leads must serve.. The pulse of life Throbs with the dictates of our sires.

Since when the world began to be, And life through hidden purpose came, From sire to son unceasingly The task bequeathed hath been the same.

We strive, while fetters bind us fast, We seek to do what needs must be-- We move through bondage with the past In service to posterity.

STRIFE.

Weary of strife-- The surge and clash of city life-- I sought for peace in solitude, Within the hushed and darkened wood And on the lonesome moor-- But found contending leaf and root Engaged in conflict fierce though mute, While what was frail was slain By what was strong in dire dispute-- I sought for peace in vain!

The world, sustained by strife, endures in pain.

”All things that are in conflict be,”

I murmured on the shelving strand, Where struggling winds would fain be free-- The tides in conflict with the wind's command, Turned tossing, wearily-- I heard the loud sea labouring to the land-- I saw the dumb land striving with the sea.

SONNET.

(_Written in the Stone Gallery of St Paul's._)

The drowsing city sparkles in the heat, And murmur in mine ears unceasingly The surging tides of that vast human sea-- The billows of life that break with m.u.f.fled beat And vibrate through this high and lone retreat; While over all, serene, and fair, and free, Thy dome is reared in naked majesty Grey, old St Paul's ... In thee the Ages meet, Slumbering amidst the trophies of their strife.