SIR NOEL PATON. CLVII. "TIMOR MORTIS CONTURBAT ME." COULD I have sung one Song that should survive Of all her sweetest memories; could I give One great Thought to the People, that should prove Of darkness, or control their headlong power The sacred mystery that underlies All Beauty, and through man's enraptured eyes I had not feared thee. But to yield my breath, CLVIII. SIBYL. THIS is the glamour of the world antique; Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky, The mystic murmur of the song she sings. Entreat her not: she sees thee not, nor hears Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone springs. JOHN PAYNE. CLIX. HESPERIA. My dream is of a city in the west, Built with fair colour, still and sad as flow'rs Save by a flutter as of silver showers, And some far tune of bells chimed softliest. CLX. LIFE UNLIVED. How many months, how many a weary year The grey mist floated, like a shadow-mere, Beyond hope's bounds; and in the lapsing ways, Pale phantoms flitted, seeming to my gaze The portents of the coming hope and fear. Surely," I said, "life shall rise up at last, Shall sweep me by with pageant and delight! But as I spake, the waste shook with a blast Of cries and clamours of a mighty fight; Then all was still. Upon me fell the night, And a voice whisper'd to me, "Life is Past." EMILY PFEIFFER. CLXI. EVOLUTION. HUNGER that strivest in the restless arms Were the first ministers, till, free to range, Thou mad'st the Universe thy park and grange, What is it thine insatiate heart still craves ? Sacred disquietude, divine unrest! Maker of all that breathes the breath of life, No unthrift greed spurs thine unflagging zest, No lust self-slaying hounds thee to the strife; Thou art the unknown God on whom we wait: Thy path the course of our unfolded fate. |