THE IRON CROWN

NOT memory of a vanished bliss, But suddenly to know, I had forgotten! This, O this With iron crowned my woe: To know that on some midnight sea Whence none could lift the pall A drowning hand was waved to me, Then—swept beyond recall.

THE OLD DEBATE

HIS angels fell, and myriads grope In doubt, for this dark cause alone,— That God hath given them room for hope, And made their struggling wills their own. In the same breath, they plead for chains And freedom; pray for ordered spheres, Then murmur that the sun retains Its course, unchecked by smiles or tears. “The Omnipotent would grant us this, Or else He is not good,” they say; But O, the Power withholds their bliss Till they agree what prayer to pray.

A SONG OF HOPE

NOT in those eyes, too kind for truth, Which dare not note how beauties wane; Nor in that crueller joy of youth Which turns from sorrow with disdain; No—no—not there, Abides the hope that answers our despair. Lie where they hid thy dead away. Knock on that unrelenting door; Then break, O desolate heart, and say Farewell, farewell, for evermore ... There, only there, Abides the hope that conquers all despair. The silence that refused to bless Till grief had turned the heart to stone ... What soul compact of nothingness Could hear so fierce a trumpet blown? Then hear, O hear, The dreadful hope that equals all despair. There, till the deep atoning Might Shall answer all that each can pray, The very boundlessness of night Proclaims—and waits—an equal day. There, only there, —But O, sing low, sweet strings, lest hope take wing!— Abides the hope that answers all despair.