DESPAIR
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Alas! so sick at heart! My lips are dumb. Dull inquisition racks the aching brain. I work no more, but fight the growing pain Of losing hours. Night of heart! No moonbeams come To bring thee twilight. Still, ah! still the hum Of artless industry—the spirit's chain That binds for life sake. Still the fight for gain That binds it to th' arena, pale and numb. And I that hoped to do so much indeed, To clear a path in spite of time and room, To sing a song, ah! now I faint, I bleed, A conquered victim. See the conqueror loom, A careless frown and sword his only creed,— And watching close the turning thumb of doom. |
THE MAGAZINES
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If Orpheus came to Maga with a song As sad as tongueless sorrow dying, So sweet the weeping world should throng To hear the strain, but come not flying The Maga pennant, unassailable, Then faith! the song were not available. If Orpheus, singing in the lonely hills, Should charm the world to raptured wonder, And Maga came in wraps and frills, And dainty tears, to cry his blunder. Then faith! the world might wait laconical, If Maga readjust his monicle. But if perchance the godly singer, Should pass, like bitter grief with time. What Ho! The dandy crooks his finger, And menials bring each Orphean rhime. And Maga's bards, and Maga's sages, Write epitaphs on tombs of pages. |
THE SPHINX