LIFE’S DUTY.
Go thou, when sorrow’s night thy soul hath torn,
And turn thine eyes expectant to the dawn,
And view the sunlight o’er the distant hills
Until its rays with peace thy spirit fills;
Then brave thyself unto the daily strife—
The world demands thou make the best of life.
Go forth to duty, girt with golden chain
Of courage, born of weakness, not in vain.
Tho’ weak, thou’lt find thy greatest strength will lie
In steadfast purpose with unfaltering eye
Fixed on thy goal. Oh! Be thou valiant men,
And point the higher path, for little do we ken
Of they who labour in Life’s noonday sun.
Go thou, when heat of toil hath left thy brow,
Commune with Nature, and thy soul shall know
The why and wherefore of the chastening rod
Imposed on thy sad spirit by thy God,
Hear how the breakers of the ocean moan,
The thousand voices of the forest lone.
The trees and flowers, the sigh of whispering winds—
All speak of beauty, and the power that binds
Man to his Maker. Then take heart of grace,
And meet the world with ever-smiling face.
It hath enough of grief; go hide thy care,
And scatter joy, tho’ blent with tears thy share.
THE TEMPLE OF THE YEARS.
I opened wide the Portal of the Temple of the Years,
And passed adown the vista of the aisle of buried tears,
Which once my feet had trodden in their deeply furrowed way,
The via dolorosa of all we of earthly clay.
I sought the aisle of Memories, where in niches finely wrought
Were long, long rolls of archives of good and evil thought;
I took a scroll, and while I read, the scalding tears would flow,
When I saw inscribed the errors of the days of long ago.
And then I saw my mother as in the years of old,
And all the beauty of her mind she did to me unfold,
And spoke to me as erstwhile in her sweet, glowing voice,
And told me that each good deed made Angels in Heaven rejoice.
Oh, she above, long, long has lived, but still I feel quite sure
Her spirit watches over me just as in the days of yore,
And when I leave Earth’s twilight, and part from all I love,
From the Temple of the Years I’ll go to join her there above.
THE WEAVERS.
Each day we weave, unseen, the web of Fate
With threads of tenderest love or threads of hate;
The strands are slender when they are unfurled,
Yet strong to reach some soul across the world.
With Beauty’s shuttle weave we dews which prism sweet
The morning air before the noonday heat,
Or web of roses’ attar redolent,
Bedewed with silver mist of memories blent.
Oh! Fragrant memory, with its vibrant power,
Weaving in daylight, or in evening hour
Some poet’s lay to touch the human heart
With golden music of the minstrel’s art.