To The Walking-Stick Of My Dead Friend

To my hand thou com'st at last, Wand of ebon, tipped with gold,-- Often carried in the past By a hand that now lies cold In his grave beyond the sea, Many thousand miles from me.

Faithful staff! for many years Thou didst travel far and wide Through a life of smiles and tears,-- Rarely absent from his side, As the light of day for him Grew pathetically dim.

When with thee he walked abroad, Every crossing, every stair By thy touch was first explored, Ere his feet were planted there, With a sort of rhythmic beat On the pavement of the street.

Hence, when brought to face the gloom Of a way, to all unknown, Called to leave his sunlit room For death's darkness, quite alone, He instinctively again Called to mind his faithful cane.

To whose grasp should it descend, Since with him it could not go? Surely no one save a friend Would receive and prize it so! Thus to me wast thou bequeathed, To console a heart bereaved.

Friendship's gift, belovd wand! Thou shalt likewise go with me To the shore of the Beyond, To the dark, untravelled sea; Only left upon the strand, When my bark puts forth from land.

TO C....

Behind a laughing waterfall There lies a little fount of tears, Deep, dark, and rarely seen at all By those the sparkling torrent cheers.

Beneath a suit of armor bright, Shaft-proof and burnished, hard and cold, There beats, concealed from common sight, A tender woman's heart of gold!

To Mr. and Mrs. A.H.S., Brussels