LOST NATION

Oh! we are a lone, lost nation, We, who sing your songs.

With his moods, and his desolation The poet nowhere belongs.

We are not of the people Who labour, believe, and doubt.

Like the bell that rings in the steeple, We are in the world, yet out.

In the rustic town, or the city We seek our place in vain; And our hearts are starved for pity, And our souls are sick with pain.

Yes, the people are buying, selling, And the world is one great mart.

And woe for the thoughts that are dwelling Up in the poet's heart.

We know what the waves are saying As they roll up from the sea, And the weird old wind is playing Our own sad melody.

We send forth a song to wander Like a spirit of ill or good; And here it is heard, and yonder, But is nowhere understood.

For the world it lives for fashion, For glory, and gain, and strife; And what can it know of the pa.s.sion And pain of a poet's life?

THE CAPTIVE

My lady is robed for the ball to-night, All in a shimmer and silken sheen.

She glides down the stairs like a thing of light, The ballroom's beautiful queen.

Priceless gems on her bosom glow-- Half hid by laces a queen might wear.

Robed is she, as befits, you know, The wife of a millionaire.

Gliding along at her liege lord's side, Out-shining all in that company, Into the mind of the old man's bride There creeps a curious simile.

She thinks how once in the Long Ago, A beautiful captive, all aflame With jewels that weighed her down like woe, Close in the wake of her captor came.

All day long in that mocking plight, She followed him in a dumb despair; And the people thought her a goodly sight, Decked in her jewels rare.

And now at her lawful master's side, With a pain in her heart, as great as then (So thinks this old man's beautiful bride), Zen.o.bia walks again.

NO SONG

These summer days when all the poets sing I have no voice for song.

I see the birds of summer taking wing, And days so sweet and long, Each seemed a little heaven with no end, I know are gone for evermore, dear friend.

Nay, by and by comes another Spring; And long, sweet, perfect days.

And by and by I shall have voice to sing My old glad, happy lays.

More blithesome songs, more days that have no end; More golden summers; but _like thee_ no friend.

TWO FRIENDS

One day Ambition, in his endless round, All filled with vague and nameless longings, found Slow wasting Genius, who from spot to spot Went idly grazing, through the Realms of Thought.

Ambition cried, 'Come, wander forth with me; I like thy face--but cannot stay with thee.'

'I will,' said Genius, 'for I needs must own I'm getting dull by being much alone.'

'Your hands are cold--come, warm them at my fire,'

Ambition said. 'Now, what is thy desire?'

Quoth Genius, ''Neath the sod of yonder heather Lie gems untold. Let's plough them out together.'

They bent like strong young oxen to the plough, This done, Ambition questioned, 'Whither now?

We'll leave these gems for all the world to see!

New sports and pleasures wait for thee and me.'

Said Genius, 'Yonder ghostly ruin stands A blot and blemish on surrounding lands; Let's fling sweet, blooming fancies everywhere.'

Soon all the world in wonder came to stare.

'Come, come!' Ambition cried; 'Pray, do be gone From this dull place: I would go further on.'

'There lies,' said Genius, 'up on yonder peak A Prize, alone, I have not cared to seek.'

Up, up they went--as swift, as sure as Time, They seemed to soar: (in truth they did but climb), And there in sight of all the world beneath-- Ambition crowned fair Genius with a wreath.

All day they journeyed, swift from place to place; Ambition led, and Genius joined the chase.

In every realm of fancy, or of thought, All depths they sounded, and all heights they sought.

Now hand in hand for evermore they stray, And if they part, or quarrel for a day, You'll find Ambition, aimless, reckless, wild, And Genius moping, like an idle child.

I DIDN'T THINK

If all the troubles in the world Were traced back to their start, We'd find not one in ten begun From want of willing heart.

But there's a sly, woe-working elf Who lurks about youth's brink, And sure dismay he brings alway-- The elf, 'I didn't think.'

He seems so sorry when he's caught; His mien is all contrite; He so regrets the woe he wrought, And wants to make things right.

But wishes do not heal a wound Or weld a broken link; The heart aches on, the link is gone, All through--'I didn't think.'

I half believe that ugly sprite, Bold, wicked, 'I don't care,'