Lo! as a pure white statue wrought with care
By some strong hand, which moulds from Life and Death
Beauty more beautiful than blood or breath,
And straight 'tis veiled, and, whilst all men repair
To see this wonder in the workshops there!
Behold it gleams unveiled to curious eye
Far-seen, high-placed in Art's pale gallery,
Where all stand mute before a work so fair:
So he, our man of men, in vision stands,
With Pain and Patience crowned imperial,
Death's veil has dropped, far from this house of woe
He hears one love chant out of many lands,
Whilst from his mystic noon-height he lets fall
His shadow o'er these hearts that bleed below.
Sept. 26, 1881.
The Independent.
MIDNIGHT.
September 19, 1881.
BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
Once in a lifetime we may see the veil
Tremble and lift, that hides symbolic things:
The spirit's vision, when the senses fail,
Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook brings.
Deep in the midst of turmoil it may be,—
A crowded street, a forum, or a field,—
The soul inverts the telescope, to see
To-day's event in future years revealed.
Back from the present, let us look at Rome;
Now see what Cato meant, what Brutus said.
Hark! the Athenians welcome Cimon home!
How clear they are, those glimpses of the dead!
But we hard toilers, we who plan and weave
Through common days the web of common life,
What word, alas! shall teach us to receive
The mystic meaning of our peace and strife?
Whence comes our symbol? Surely God must speak;
No less than he can make us heed or pause:
Self-seekers we, too busy or too weak
To search beyond our daily lives and laws.