A cheque for missions, if you please— Great God, forgive our charities!
We steal the light from lover's eyes, We hush the tale he has to tell Of pure desire, of tender ties— No man can serve two masters well. So loot his treasury of pride, His holy hopes and visions steal, His hearth-fire scatter far and wide, And grind the sparks beneath your heel.
A cheque will cover sins like these— Great God, forgive our charities!
WHEN PAGANINI PLAYS.
"Dawn!" laughs the bow, and we straight see the sky, Crimson, and golden, and gray, See the rosy cloudlets go drifting by, And the sheen on the lark as, soaring high, He carols to greet the day.
Fast moves the bow o'er the wonderful strings— We feel the joy in the air— 'Tis alive with the glory of growing things, With wild honeysuckle that creeps and clings, Rose of the briar bush—queen of the springs— Anemones frail and fair!
We listen, and whisper with laughter low, "It voices rare gladness, that ancient bow!"
Then, sad as the plaint of a child at night— A child aweary with play— The falling of shadows, a lost delight, The moaning of watchers counting the flight Of hours 'twixt the dark and day.