GEORGE ARNOLD. IN THE DARK. [The author's last poem, written a few days before his death.] ALL moveless stand the ancient cedar-trees Let those who wish them toil for gold and praise; To me the summer-day brings more of pleasure. Along the drifted sand-hills where So, here upon the grass, I lie at ease, While solemn voices from the Past are calling, Mingled with rustling whispers in the trees, And pleasant sounds of water idly falling. The world's poor, routed leavings? To cheer thee, and to right thee if or will they, thou roam Who fail'd under the heat of this Not with lost toil thou laborest life's day, through the night! indeed thy home. Support the fervors of the heavenly | Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st morn? AUSTERITY OF POETRY. THAT Son of Italy who tried to blow, Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, In his light youth amid a festal throng Sate with his bride to see a public show. Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow Youth like a star; and what to youth belong Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong, A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo, Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! Shuddering, they drew her garments off and found A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay, Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground Of thought and of austerity within. answer: Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they. Undistracted by the sights they see, These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sym pathy. THE TRUE MEASURE of life. We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breath; We should count time by heart-throbs when they beat And maid, whose cheek outblooms As bright the blazing fagot glows, Thus circled round with merry faces. Backward coil'd, and crouching low, With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, The housewife's spindle whirling round, Or thread, or straw, that on the Its shadow throws, by urchin sly Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, Erected stiff, and gait awry, Like madam in her tantrums high: gaze. But not alone by cottage fire The widest range of human lore, The ends of ravell'd skein to catch, MY LOVE IS ON HER WAY. OH, welcome bat and owlet gray, Oh welcome all! to me ye say Upon the soft wind floats her hair, Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods, Give to the parting of a wintry sun One hasty glance in mockery of the night Closing in darkness round it? (Gentle friend! Chide not her mirth who was sad yesterday, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch | And may be so to-morrow.) |