ON THE DEATH OF A
VETERAN JOURNALIST.
Great faith was his, a broadened light that shed An unremittant halo on his way, Out-shining moon, and stars, and solar ray, By which his steps through stormy years were led; And while his soul on heavenly manna fed, The well adjusted balance, work and pray, He steadfastly observed from day to day, Assured that faith divorced from work is dead. For man’s behoof the Christian hero wrought, Consistent, fearless, aiming for the right, His silvered locks conspicuous in the fight, Whose purpose was release of limb and thought From all enslaving bonds; kind heart and brave! No rest for him, no rest but in the grave!
HEART-HUNGER.
Dost thou do well, dear idol of my heart! To thrall me in the meshes of thy charms, To fill my constant soul with soft alarms, Then coyly thrust me from thy love apart? Pluck from my breast, O pluck the mystic dart! Yield—or I perish—to these folding arms! Assuage the hunger of this sick desire That wraps me like an aromatic fire!— O lull with thy ambrosial breath the swarms Of wounded thoughts that issue from my brain And seek thy presence, seek thee day and night, And on thy brow, and eyes, and lips alight, Extracting aye a honey that is pain!— O, save me with thy kisses, love, or kill me quite!