The Poet
One fluting on sad wolds Pan's flight left drear,
One crying down the wayward wind of Chance,
One piping unto feet that will not dance
And mourning unto ears that will not hear.
Shylock
Cold craft and avarice look from out his eyes,
His face with evil passion marred and seamed,
Looks frowningly upon a Christian world.
Behind that hateful mask a demon lurks
To urge the narrow soul to darksome deeds
Of violence and greed, of hate and ruth.
His God, a God of wrath, a tyrant force
To mete to helpless souls eternal doom;
A Juggernaut, a hard unsentient power,—
But yet less potent than the yellow gold
Those crooked talons clutch, and for the which
The miser Shylock fain would sell his soul.
Sonnet
(To Charles J. O'Malley.)
As when above orchestral undertone,
The plaining wail of muted violin,
The hushed oböe and the distant din,
Of muffled drum or viol's raucous groan—
Sudden arises one pure voice-like tone,
A silver trumpet's tongue that stirs the soul
To feel the theme, and the harmonious whole
A sonant setting seems for that alone;
So, high above earth's murmurous stir and strife,
Riseth thy voice in clear enringing song—
No minor plaint of dull despairing pain,
But one true note of hope that bids us long
For higher things; and all the din of life
Seems to subserve the sweetness of thy strain.