And yet in the echoes we seem to hear it;
In waves unbroken it circles the earth:
And we catch in the light of her dauntless spirit
A gleam from the centre that gave her birth.
Still is the fame of her
Felt in the name of her—
But low lies the harp that once thrilled to her strain;
No hand has taken it,
No hand can waken it—
For the soul of her art was her secret of pain.
TWO GHOSTS
Two dead men boarded a spectral ship
In the astral Port of Space;
On that ghost-filled barque, they met in the dark,
And halted, face to face.
‘Now whither away’—called one of the ghosts,
‘This ship sets sail for Earth.
On the astral plane you must remain,
Where the newly dead have birth.’
‘But I could not stay and I would not stay,’
The other ghost replied;
‘I must hurry back to the old Earth track
And stand at my loved one’s side.
‘She weeps for me in her lonely room,
In the land from whence I came;
Oh! stow me away in this ship, I pray,
For I hear her call my name.’
‘You must not go, and you shall not go,’
The first ghost cried in wrath.
‘Your work is planned, in the astral land,
And a guide will show you the path.’
‘But the one I love’—‘I loved her too,’
The first ghost stood and cried;
‘And year on year I waited here,
Yea, waited till you died.
‘For I would not come between you two,
Nor shadow her joy with fear,
But mine is the right, I claim this night
To visit the earthly sphere.
‘For you are dead, and I am dead,
And you had her long—so long.
And to look on the grace of her worshipped face,
Ah! now it can do no wrong.