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THE RHONE GLACIER—SUNSET

 
Like the uncounted years of God it rolls
From out the sky. The light of heaven shines
Upon its wrinkled brow, that seems a part
Of that stupendous dome of boundless blue
Where, like a pebble in the ocean depths,
This little world is lost. The sparkling sun
Plays gently in the deep green, icy clefts
Like moonlight in the tender eyes of one
Who looks to heaven to find her lover’s face.
Silent, serene, implacable it stands—
A mighty symbol of the Force that moved
Across the surface of the youthful earth
And scored the continents with valleys deep,
As children write upon the yielding sand.
Back to the dawn of things its lineage runs—
Countless ages back to that bleak time
When frightful monsters played upon the hills—
Always the same, yet moving slowly onward,
In heaven its head, its feet upon the world.
The Rhone that trickles from the glacier’s edge—
Makes valleys smile with grain and flower and fruit
And turns the wheels that forge the tools of trade—
Is but the lash with which the giant plays
And spins the tops that swarm with struggling men.
“What is Man, that Thou art mindful of him?”—
This pleasure or this pain, this wealth or want,
This tragic comedy we call our life!
 
 
Across the meadows as the evening falls
A shepherd drives his sheep, and fondly bears
Above the rocky stream the weakling lamb;
The children hear the father’s kindly voice
And run to greet and cheer his late return,
While from his humble cottage gleams a light.
 
 
The sheep are nestled in their sheltering fold—
The door springs open to a welcome cry,
And all at last are safe within the Home.
 
 
In cold and awful majesty it stands
Against the darkening sky,—Force without warmth,
Strength without passion.
But at the touch
Of homely human ways its terrors flee
And Force is swallowed up in Life with Love.
 

JAMES McCOSH

1811-1894

 
Young to the end through sympathy with youth,
Gray man of learning—champion of truth!
Direct in rugged speech, alert in mind,
He felt his kinship with all humankind,
And never feared to trace development
Of high from low—assured and full content
That man paid homage to the Mind above,
Uplifted by the “Royal Law of Love.”
 
 
The laws of nature that he loved to trace
Have worked, at last, to veil from us his face;
The dear old elms and ivy-covered walls
Will miss his presence, and the stately halls
His trumpet-voice; while in their joys
Sorrow will shadow those he called “my boys”!
 

LE BONHEUR DE CE MONDE
(Copie d’un sonnet composé par Plantin au XVI^e siècle.)

 
Avoir une maiſon commode, propre & belle,
Un jardin tapiſſé d’eſpaliers odorans,
Des fruits, d’excellent vin, peu de train, peu d’enfans,
Poſſeder ſeul, ſans bruit, une fe mme fidéle.
N’avoir dettes, amour, ni procés, ni querelle,
Ni de partage à faire avecque ſes parens,
Se contenter de peu, n’eſpérer rien des Grands,
Régler tous ſes deſſeins sur un juſte modéle.
 
 
Vivre avecque franchiſe & ſans ambition,
S’adonner ſans ſcrupule à la dévotion,
Domter ſes paſſions, les rendre obéiſſantes.
Conſerver l’eſprit libre, & le jugement fort,
Dire ſon Chapelet en cultivant ſes entes,
C’eſt attendre chez ſoi bien doucement la mort.
 

THE HAPPINESS OF THIS WORLD

FROM THE FRENCH OF PLANTIN

 
To have a home, convenient for thy life,
With fragrant fruit-walls in a garden fine,
Some children, some retainers, and rare wine;
To live serenely with thy faithful wife;
To have no debts, nor quarrels, nor legal strife,
Nor separation from dear kin of thine;
Expecting nothing from the Great, to shine
With modest light and just, where greed is rife.
 
 
To live with freedom, yet to be devout,
Ruling thy well-curbed passions—and without
Ambition’s scourge to thwart thy regnant will;
Truly to worship God with ardent breath
Among His shrubs and trees on plain and hill—
Thus pleasantly shalt thou at home wait Death.
 

R. L. S

 
“Where hath fleeting Beauty led?
To the doorway of the dead.”
All the way you followed her
Tripping through the palms and fir;
All the way around you flew
Splendid spirits from the blue—
Dreams and visions lightly caught
In the meshes of your thought.
What a glorious retinue
Made that arduous chase with you!
Half the world stood still to see
Song and Fancy follow free
At the waving of your wand—
While the echoing hills respond
To your voice.
 
 
And now the race
Ends with your averted face;
At full effort you have sped
Through that doorway of the dead—
But the hills and woods remain
Peopled from your teeming brain!
All that stately company
Linger where their eyes may see
Beauty fling the laurel o’er,
At the closing of the door!
 

From Suppressed Chapters

McGIFFEN

THE HERO COMING HOME

His body was clad in his uniform of Captain in the Chinese Navy, and sent home to his mother at Washington, Pennsylvania.

Associated Press.

 
I lent him to my country,
And he wore the Navy blue;
I bade him do his duty,
And he said he would be true.
 
 
It’s home they say you’re coming—
And it’s home you came to me
When you wore your first blue jacket
At the old Academy.
And the neighbors said, “How handsome!
What a sailor he will be!”
But I only drew him closer
In my coddling mother’s joy,
And said, “Well, what’s a sailor?
He’s my brave boy!”
 
 
And then they told the story
Of his courage in the fight—
How he ruled a heathen war-ship
And fought it with his might.
 
 
It’s home he wrote his mother
When the smoke had cleared away:
“I can see—so don’t you worry—
Though I’m riddled by the fray.”
And the neighbors said, “How glorious!
What a Hero is your son!
The world is all a-talking
Of the battle that he won!”
I said, “Well, what’s a Hero?
He’s my brave son!”
 
 
And now to me he’s coming,
And he wears a Captain’s bars;
It’s a foreign nation’s uniform,
But wrapped in Stripes and Stars.
 
 
It’s home at last you’re coming,
And it’s home at last to me.
You’re a hero and immortal,
And you fought to make men free.
But your heart is cold within you
And your dear eyes cannot see!
They say, “Be strong, O mother;
Proud laurels crown his head!”
Alas, what’s left of glory?
My boy, my boy is dead!