Part 29

"I have twankled the strings of the twinkering rain; I have burnished the meteor's mail; I have bridled the wind When he whinnied and whined With a bunch of stars tied to his tail; But my sky-rocket hopes, hanging over the past, Must fuzzle and fazzle and fizzle at last!"

I had waded far out in a drizzling dream, And my fancies had spattered my eyes With a vision of dread, With a number ten head, And a form of diminutive size-- That wavered and wagged in a singular way As he wound himself up and proceeded to say,--

"I have trimmed all my corns with the blade of the moon; I have picked every tooth with a star: And I thrill to recall That I went through it all Like a tune through a tickled guitar. I have ripped up the rainbow and raveled the ends When the sun and myself were particular friends."

And pausing again, and producing a sponge And wiping the tears from his eyes, He sank in a chair With a technical air That he struggled in vain to disguise,-- For a sigh that he breathed, as I over him leant, Was haunted and hot with a peppermint scent.

"Alas!" he continued in quavering tones As a pang rippled over his face, "The life was too fast For the pleasure to last In my very unfortunate case; And I'm going"--he said as he turned to adjust A fuse in his bosom,--"I'm going to--BUST!"

I shrieked and awoke with the sullen che-boom Of a five-pounder filling my ears; And a roseate bloom Of a light in the room I saw through the mist of my tears,-- But my guest of the night never saw the display, He had fuzzled and fazzled and fizzled away!

A NEW YEAR'S PLAINT

In words like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. --TENNYSON.

The bells that lift their yawning throats And lolling tongues with wrangling cries Flung up in harsh, discordant notes, As though in anger, at the skies,-- Are filled with echoings replete, With purest tinkles of delight-- So I would have a something sweet Ring in the song I sing to-night.

As when a blotch of ugly guise On some poor artist's naked floor Becomes a picture in his eyes, And he forgets that he is poor,-- So I look out upon the night, That ushers in the dawning year, And in a vacant blur of light I see these fantasies appear.

I see a home whose windows gleam Like facets of a mighty gem That some poor king's distorted dream Has fastened in his diadem. And I behold a throng that reels In revelry of dance and mirth, With hearts of love beneath their heels, And in their bosoms hearts of earth.

O Luxury, as false and grand As in the mystic tales of old, When genii answered man's command, And built of nothing halls of gold! O Banquet, bright with pallid jets, And tropic blooms, and vases caught In palms of naked statuettes, Ye can not color as ye ought!

For, crouching in the storm without, I see the figure of a child, In little ragged roundabout, Who stares with eyes that never smiled-- And he, in fancy can but taste The dainties of the kingly fare, And pick the crumbs that go to waste Where none have learned to kneel in prayer.

Go, Pride, and throw your goblet down-- The "merry greeting" best appears On loving lips that never drown Its worth but in the wine of tears; Go, close your coffers like your hearts, And shut your hearts against the poor, Go, strut through all your pretty parts But take the "Welcome" from your door.

LUTHER BENSON

AFTER READING HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY

POOR victim of that vulture curse That hovers o'er the universe, With ready talons quick to strike In every human heart alike, And cruel beak to stab and tear In virtue's vitals everywhere,-- You need no sympathy of mine To aid you, for a strength divine Encircles you, and lifts you clear Above this earthly atmosphere.

And yet I can but call you poor, As, looking through the open door Of your sad life, I only see A broad landscape of misery, And catch through mists of pitying tears The ruins of your younger years, I see a father's shielding arm Thrown round you in a wild alarm-- Struck down, and powerless to free Or aid you in your agony.

I see a happy home grow dark And desolate--the latest spark Of hope is passing in eclipse-- The prayer upon a mother's lips Has fallen with her latest breath In ashes on the lips of death-- I see a penitent who reels, And writhes, and clasps his hands, and kneels, And moans for mercy for the sake Of that fond heart he dared to break.

And lo! as when in Galilee A voice above the troubled sea Commanded "Peace; be still!" the flood That rolled in tempest-waves of blood Within you, fell in calm so sweet It ripples round the Saviour's feet; And all your noble nature thrilled With brightest hope and faith, and filled Your thirsty soul with joy and peace And praise to Him who gave release.

"DREAM"

Because her eyes were far too deep And holy for a laugh to leap Across the brink where sorrow tried To drown within the amber tide; Because the looks, whose ripples kissed The trembling lids through tender mist, Were dazzled with a radiant gleam-- Because of this I called her "Dream."

Because the roses growing wild About her features when she smiled Were ever dewed with tears that fell With tenderness ineffable; Because her lips might spill a kiss That, dripping in a world like this, Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter stream To sweetness--so I called her "Dream."

Because I could not understand The magic touches of a hand That seemed, beneath her strange control, To smooth the plumage of the soul And calm it, till, with folded wings, It half forgot its flutterings, And, nestled in her palm, did seem To trill a song that called her "Dream."

Because I saw her, in a sleep As dark and desolate and deep And fleeting as the taunting night That flings a vision of delight To some lorn martyr as he lies In slumber ere the day he dies-- Because she vanished like a gleam Of glory, do I call her "Dream."

WHEN EVENING SHADOWS FALL

When evening shadows fall, She hangs her cares away Like empty garments on the wall That hides her from the day; And while old memories throng, And vanished voices call, She lifts her grateful heart in song When evening shadows fall.

Her weary hands forget The burdens of the day. The weight of sorrow and regret In music rolls away; And from the day's dull tomb, That holds her in its thrall, Her soul springs up in lily bloom When evening shadows fall.