“Society.”

Dear, simple friend, and did you think to find Aught but hypocrisy and fair smooth lies In this charmed circle, that would ostracize All for a pair of gloves the most refined, The noblest type of man or womankind? A set whose aspirations never rise Above the triumphs wealth and fashion buys; Who ape the opinions with devotion blind, The coats and gowns, of royal debauchees And their bold paramours from over seas. How hope a noble womanhood to gain Nourished upon such stifling airs as these. Fashion forbids to rise above a plane That dudes and lah-de-dahs can just attain.

THE STAGNANT POOL.

Stooping beside a stagnant pool to drink I saw a woman, weary and forlorn, With hair unkempt, and garments stained and torn; All grace of womanhood was fled, no link Remained of happier days; along the brink Swept by a stately dame with words of scorn; “Though I had thirsted since the early morn, Before my feet in that foul wave should sink My willing lips should press the cup of death.” O scornful dame! before the night was black, Lo! I beheld thy swift feet speeding back, With robes dishevelled and with gasping breath, In this same wave thy parching lips to cool, As eagerly as ’twere a mountain pool.

THE MAN WITH THE MUCK-RAKE.

An old and well-known allegory reading, I found a quaint and curious picture there, Of one who gathered straws and dirt with care, The golden crown above his head unheeding. Science to-day, than avarice more misleading, Hath slain our father’s faith and hope and prayer; We rake the seas, and sweep the earth and air To find new theories for our own impeding.

And some for tinsel toys of social glory, And Church and State, toil through the grovelling years. How can we hear the music of the spheres, Clutching the muck-rakes of the allegory? Our blunted senses only can discern The paltry baubles over which we yearn.

IMMORTALITY.

My vision floats far down the milky-way, A shining track across a shoreless sea As deep and boundless as eternity. Suns sail in myriads there, and comets stray, Youthful, while hoary ages roll away. O fleeting life, the stars that shine on me Smiled just the same when star-lit Galilee Beneath the Saviour’s feet in slumber lay.

What countless swarms of man’s ephemeral race Live, love, and die, while ye sail coldly on! Yet they shall rise, the teeming millions gone, And gaze unmoved, while from their ancient place The morning stars like baleful meteors fleet, And while the heavens melt with fervent heat.

TO A YOUNG ARTIST.

The matchless artists of the olden time Knew naught of critic’s jargon; to their toil Bending as one that digs a stony soil, Sparing nor bloom of youth nor manhood’s prime, They caught and fixed their floating dreams sublime. So must we shun all vain polemic broil, Nor vex our souls with theories’ turmoil If to ideal heights we fain would climb.

Our vintage time is speeding fast away, The morning faileth; then with double will, In spite of noonday glare or evening chill, Gather the glowing clusters while we may. So may our failing eyes see some faint beams Shed o’er our work from our supernal dreams.

THE END.

* * * * *

In poem “Shadows”, final stanza, “vail” changed to “veil”.

In poem “Twenty Years Ago”, penultimate stanza, “plantive” changed to “plaintive”.