Part 16

Self-pois'd, each soul its course pursues In light or dark, companionless: Drop into drop may blend the dews -- The spirit's law is loneliness.

If seemingly two souls unite, 'Tis but as joins yon silent mere The stream that through it, flashing bright, Carries its waters swift and clear.

The fringes of the rushing tide May on the lake's calm bosom sleep -- Its hidden spirit doth abide Apart, still bearing toward the deep.

O Love, to me more dear than life! O Friend, more faithful than a brother! How many a bitter inward strife Our souls have never told each other!

We journey side by side for years, We dream our lives, our hopes are one -- And with some chance-said word appears The spanless gulf, so long unknown!

For candour's want yet neither blame; Even to ourselves but half-confessed, Glows in each heart some silent flame, Blooms some hope-violet of the breast.

And temptings dark, and struggles deep There are, each soul alone must bear, Through midnight hours unblest with sleep, Through burning noontides of despair.

And kindly is the ordinance sent By which each spirit dwells apart -- Could Love or Friendship live, if rent The "Bluebeard chambers of the heart"?

Ishmonie

The traveller tells how, in that ancient clime Whose mystic monuments and ruins hoar Still struggle with the antiquary's lore, To guard the secrets of a by-gone time, He saw, uprising from the desert bare, Like a white ghost, a city of the dead, With palaces and temples wondrous fair, Where moon-horn'd Isis once was worshipped. But silence, like a pall, did all enfold, And the inhabitants were turn'd to stone -- Yea, stone the very heart of every one! Once to a rich man I this tale re-told. "Stone hearts! A traveller's myth!" -- he turn'd aside, As Hunger begg'd, pale-featured and wild-eyed.

John Liddell Kelly.

Immortality

At twenty-five I cast my horoscope, And saw a future with all good things rife -- A firm assurance of eternal life In worlds beyond, and in this world the hope Of deathless fame. But now my sun doth slope To setting, and the toil of sordid strife, The care of food and raiment, child and wife, Have dimmed and narrowed all my spirit's scope.

Eternal life -- a river gulphed in sands! Undying fame -- a rainbow lost in clouds! What hope of immortality remains But this: "Some soul that loves and understands Shall save thee from the darkness that enshrouds"; And this: "Thy blood shall course in others' veins"?

Heredity

More than a fleshly immortality Is mine. Though I myself return again To dust, my qualities of heart and brain, Of soul and spirit, shall not cease to be. I view them growing, day by day, in thee, My first-begotten son; I trace them plain In you, my daughters; and I count it gain Myself renewed and multiplied to see.

But sadness mingles with my selfish joy, At thought of what you may be called to bear. Oh, passionate maid! Oh, glad, impulsive boy! Your father's sad experience you must share -- Self-torture, the unfeeling world's annoy, Gross pleasure, fierce exultance, grim despair!

Robert Richardson.

A Ballade of Wattle Blossom

There's a land that is happy and fair, Set gem-like in halcyon seas; The white winters visit not there, To sadden its blossoming leas, More bland than the Hesperides, Or any warm isle of the West, Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.

When the oak and the elm are bare, And wild winds vex the shuddering trees; There the clematis whitens the air, And the husbandman laughs as he sees The grass rippling green to his knees, And his vineyards in emerald drest -- Where the wattle-bloom bends in the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.

What land is with this to compare? Not the green hills of Hybla, with bees Honey-sweet, are more radiant and rare In colour and fragrance than these Boon shores, where the storm-clouds cease, And the wind and the wave are at rest -- Where the wattle-bloom waves in the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.

Envoy.

Sweetheart, let them praise as they please Other lands, but we know which is best -- Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.

A Song

Above us only The Southern stars, And the moon o'er brimming Her golden bars. And a song sweet and clear As the bell-bird's plaint, Hums low in my ear Like a dream-echo faint. The kind old song -- How did it go? With its ripple and flow, That you used to sing, dear, Long ago.

Hand fast in hand, I, love, and thou; Hand locked in hand, And on my brow Your perfumed lips Breathing love and life -- The love of the maiden, The trust of the wife. And I'm listening still To the ripple and flow -- How did it go? -- Of the little French song Of that long ago.

Can you recall it Across the years? You used to sing it With laughter and tears. If you sang it now, dear, That kind old refrain, It would bring back the fragrance Of the dead years again. Le printemps pour l'amour -- How did it go? Only we know; Sing it, sweetheart, to-night, As you did long ago.