MATHILDE BLIND.

XVII.

CHRISTMAS EVE.

ALONE-with one fair star for company,

The loveliest star among the hosts of night,

While the grey tide ebbs with the ebbing light—

I pace along the darkening wintry sea.

Now round the yule-log and the glittering tree
Twinkling with festive tapers, eyes as bright
Sparkle with Christmas joys and young delight,
As each one gathers to his family.

But I-a waif on earth where'er I roam

Uprooted with life's bleeding hopes and fears From that one heart that was my heart's sole home, Feel the old pang pierce through the severing years, And as I think upon the years to come

That fair star trembles through my falling tears.

XVIII.

AN EXHORTATION.

WHY do we fret at the inconstancy

Of our frail hearts, which cannot always love?
Time rushes onward, and we mortals move
Like waifs upon a river, neither free
To halt nor hurry. Sweet, if destiny
Throws us together for an hour, a day,
In the backwater of this quiet bay,
Let us rejoice. Before us lies the sea,
Where we must all be lost in spite of love.
We dare not stop to question. Happiness
Lies in our hand unsought, a treasure trove.
Time has short patience of man's vain distress;
And fate grows angry at too long delay,
And floods rise fast, and we are swept away.

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT.

XIX.

VANITAS VANITATIS.

LAME, impotent conclusion to youth's dreams
Vast as all heaven! See, what glory lies
Entangled here in these base stratagems,
What virtue done to death! O glorious sighs,
Sublime beseechings, high cajoleries,

Fond wraths, brave raptures, all that sometime was

Our daily bread of gods beneath the skies,

How are ye ended, in what utter loss!

Time was, time is, and time is yet to come,

Till even time itself shall have an end.

These were eternal-and behold, a tomb.

Come let us laugh and eat and drink. God send What all the world must need one day as we, Speedy oblivion, rest for memory.

潞

XX.

THE PRIDE OF UNBELIEF.

WHEN I complained that I had lost my hope

Of life eternal with eternal God;

When I refused to read my horoscope

In the unchanging stars, or claim abode.
With powers and dominations-but, poor clod,
Clung to the earth and grovelled in my tears,
Because I soon must lie beneath the sod
And close the little number of my years,-
Then I was told that pride had barred the way,
And raised this foul rebellion in my head.
Yet, strange rebellion! I, but yesterday,

Was God's own son in His own likeness bred.

And thrice strange pride! who thus am cast away
And go forth lost and disinherited.

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT.

XXI.

ON THE SHORTNESS OF TIME.

IF I could live without the thought of death,
Forgetful of Time's waste, the soul's decay,

I would not ask for other joy than breath,
With light and sound of birds and the sun's ray.

I could sit on untroubled day by day

Watching the grass grow, and the wild flowers range

From blue to yellow and from red to grey

In natural sequence as the seasons change.

I could afford to wait, but for the hurt

Of this dull tick of time which chides my ear.

But now I dare not sit with loins ungirt

And staff unlifted, for death stands too near.

I must be up and doing—ay, each minute.
The grave gives time for rest when we are in it.