Collected Works (Vol. I)

DE PROFUNDIS IIT! Christ touched the leper and the widow’s son 3 And thou wouldst serve the work the Perfect One Began, by folding arms and gazing up To heaven, as if thy work were rightly done. I tell thee, Ile should say, if ye were met : ‘* Thou hadst a talent—ah, thou hast it yet Wrapped in a napkin! thou shalt drain the cup Of that damnation that may not forget ‘‘ The wasted hours!” Ah, bitter interest Of our youth’s capital—forgotten zest In all the pleasures of o’erflowing life, Wine tasteless, tired the brain, and cold the breast ! Ah! but if with it is one good deed wrought, One kind word spoken, one immortal thought Born in thee, all is paid; the weary strife Grows victory. ‘‘ Love is all and Death is nought.” Such an one wrote that word! as I would meet, Lay my life’s burden at his silver feet, Have him give ear if I say ‘‘ Master.” Yea! I know no heaven, no honour, half so sweet ! Ife passed before me on the wheel of Time, He who knows no Time—the intense sublime Master of all philosophy and play, Lord of all love and music and sweet rhyme. Follow thou him! Work ever, if thy heart Be fervent with one hope, thy brain with art, Thy lips with song, thine arm with strength to smite : Achieve some act ; its name shall not depart. Christ laid Love’s corner-stone, and Czesar built The tower of glory ; Sappho’s life was spilt From fervent lips the torch of song to ignite : Thou mayst add yet a stone—if but thou wilt. ’ Browning, in '‘ ‘The Householder.” And yet the days stream by; night shakes the day From his pale throne of purple, to allay The tremors of the earth ; day smiteth dark With the swilt poignard dipped in Helios’ ray. The days stream by; with lips and cheeks grown pale On their indomitable breast we sail. There is a favouring wind ; our idle bark Lingers, we raise no silk to meet the gale. The bank slips by, we gather not its fruit, We plant no seed, we irrigate no root True men have planted ; and the tare and thorn Spring to rank weedy vigour ; poisons shoot Into the overspreading foliage ; So as days darken into weary age The flowers are fewer; the weeds are stronger born And hands are grown too feeble to assuage Their venom ; then, the unutterable sea ! Is she green-cinctured with the earlier tree Of Life? Do blossoms blow, or weeds create A foul rank undergrowth of misery? From the deep water of the bitterest brine Drowned children raise their arms ; their lips combine To force a shriek; bid them go con- template The cold philosophy of Zeno’s! shrine? Nay, stretch a hand! clutch O’erturn thy skiff, yet it is overmuch To grieve for that: life is not so divine— I count it little grief to part with such ! Although their eagle _1 The Stoic. To be distinguished from the [leatic and the Epicurean of the same name. He was born at Citium in Cyprus in 340 B.c. He preached amdeia, happiness in oneself in- dependent of all circumstance, as the highest good.