Not Understood and Other Poems

Front matter

PUBLISHER’S NOTE.

The great popularity of “Not Understood.” and the prominence given to it by the late Mel. B. Spurr in his very successful Recitals in the Colonies has created a demand for a pocket edition of Tom Bracken’s Poems.

This little volume, which is now in its fourth edition, will be found to contain all of Mr Bracken’s favourite poems, and the Publishers hope that this edition, like its predecessor, will find a ready sale.

Not Understood

Not Understood

AND

Other Poems.

NOT UNDERSTOOD.

NOT understood. We move along asunder, Our paths grow wider as the seasons creep Along the years; we marvel and we wonder Why life is life? and then we fall asleep, >>Not understood.

Not understood. We gather false impressions, And hug them closer as the years go by, Till virtues often seem to us transgressions; And thus men rise and fall, and live and die, >>Not understood.

Not understood. Poor souls with stunted vision Oft measure giants by their narrow gauge; The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision Are oft impelled ’gainst those who mould the age, >>Not understood.

Not understood. The secret springs of action, Which lie beneath the surface and the show, Are disregarded; with self-satisfaction We judge our neighbours, and they often go, >>Not understood.

Not understood. How trifles often change us! The thoughtless sentence or the fancied slight Destroy long years of friendship and estrange us, And on our souls there falls a freezing blight; >>Not understood.

Not understood. How many breasts are aching For lack of sympathy! Ah! day by day, How many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking! How many noble spirits pass away >>Not understood.

Oh, God! that men would see a little clearer, Or judge less harshly where they cannot see; Oh, God! that men would draw a little nearer To one another, they’d be nearer Thee, >>And understood.

God’s Own Country

GOD’S OWN COUNTRY.

A recent arrival from New Zealand, walking along Collins Street, Melbourne, a short time since, encountered another Maorilander, who holds a good position in the Victorian capital. “Well, how do you like Australia?” enquired the recent arrival. “Oh! it is a wonderful place,” replied the other, “and I am doing very well here, but I would much sooner live on a far smaller salary in ‘God’s Own Country.’”

GIVE me, give me God’s own country! there to live and there to die, God’s own country! fairest region resting ’neath the southern sky, God’s own country! framed by nature in her grandest, noblest mould; Land of peace and land of plenty, land of wool and corn and gold! Where the forests are the greenest and the rugged mountains rear Noble turrets, towers, and spires, piercing through the ambient air; Rising to the gates supernal, pointing Godwards through the blue, When the summer’s sunny splendours tip them with a nameless hue, And the gusts of winter gather snow and sleet and mist and cloud, Weaving many a curious mantle, many a quaint fantastic shroud. Oh! the mountains of New Zealand! wild and rugged though they be, They are types of highest manhood, landmarks of a nation free.

Pleasure-ground of the Pacific! brightest region on the main! Land of many a rushing river, verdant valley, fertile plain! I revisit thee, in fancy, all thy wonders rise once more, Once again, enthrall’d, I listen to old Tongariro’s roar; Tarawera roused to fury, belches forth his molten wrath, And a host of fiery demons dance along his flaming path, Boiling cauldrons, foaming geysers, lakes whose bosoms leap with fear; Well and truly is it written—“Wonderland is really here!” Shift the scene! Night grows to morning, morn soon ripens into day, Lovely islands crowd and cluster in a bright and placid bay, Silver ripples shimmer softly on the bosom of the deep, And the mountains see their faces, for the wind is fast asleep. Bay of Islands! bay of beauty! who would dream that such a place Should have been a scene of slaughter, man ’gainst man, and race ’gainst race; Yonder, in the little churchyard, mouldering tombstones sadly tell Tales of valour and of honour, records of how brave men fell In the sacred cause of duty; thanks to God, those days are o’er, And the old race and the new race now are enemies no more. Sweep we round by Rangitoto, with his rough and rocky crest, Grim old guardian of the gateway leading out to ocean’s breast; Takapuna slumbers, deeply Waitemata opes its arms, All its loveliness unfolding, circled by a hundred charms;

Fly we on to Taranaki, and ’neath Egmont’s shade we stand— Egmont, monarch of the mountains! bold, majestic, solemn, grand; Rising from the pleasant pastures, climbing to the clouds alone, Peerless, and without a rival, proudly sits he on his throne. It is morning in the summer, and the monarch is arrayed In his pure white cap and mantle, which were never known to fade. All the blue above is speckless, only one small cloud is seen Sleeping on the mountain’s bosom, nestling ’twixt the gold and green; Now it seems as if awakening, slowly it begins to creep Upwards in a spiral column, making for the summit steep. But it fails to reach the apex, so it curls itself away Round about the monarch’s shoulders, like a silken scarf of grey; And the East flings out its glories on the monarch as he stands, Crowning him with sparkling jewels, richly set in golden bands. On we go by happy homesteads, on to Wanganui’s flood— Oft were Wanganui’s waters, in the old time, stained with blood; Now along the stately river flocks and herds o’er uplands graze, Peace has swept away for ever traces of the warlike days. Leap we o’er the hills and valleys to Poneke’s noble tide, On whose swelling breast the navies of the Universe might ride,

Safely ride beneath the shadows of the mighty hills that keep Watch and ward against the tempests, born, upon the outer deep. Soar from island unto island, for were we to tarry here, Tracing all the North-land’s beauties, we might linger for a year. Fancy’s wings are swift and silent, o’er the sea and o’er the Strait— Canterbury smiles before us. Ah! we have no time to wait; Fly we o’er green pictures shining in their frames of spring’s new gold, Fly we past the smiling farmsteads, fly we over field and fold— Onward o’er the pass of Arthur! Magicland is drawing near— Halt! The Gorge of wildest grandeurs opens up its wonders here; Look below! and gaze above us! was there ever grander sight? Here is every shade of darkness, here is every tint of light; Listen to the torrent roaring in the deep ravine below, See the cataracts descending from their home among the snow, See the pine and larch and rata climbing up the mountain walls, Hearken to the tumbling torrents answering the distant falls. Weird Otira! grand Otira! is there any other clime That can show us such a picture, so entrancing, so sublime? Down the Gorge and through the valley, over floods that fret and foam, As they rush among the boulders, hast’ning to their Ocean home;

Now the matchless forests open all their brightness on the scene, And the gladdened eye is feasting on a hundred tints of green. We must leave the lordly forest—“Stay, oh, stay,” the wood-nymphs sing; “Stay, oh, stay,” the fairies whisper; “Stay, oh, stay,” the bell-bird ring. Fancy will not fold her pinions; onward, onward we must go Where Mount Cook in icy armour guards his pyramids of snow. Fancy can outwing the lightning, fancy can outwing the wind— Hill and plain and glen and valley soon are left far, far behind. We are resting on the high land over New Edina’s town, Wrapt in perfect admiration, looking up and looking down— Upwards at the wooded mountains, tinted now by opening day, Downwards at the noble city, stretching round the lovely bay. One short flight and we are sailing over Taieri’s plains of corn, Now we cross the lonely ranges, painted by the brush of morn; Wanaka and Manapouri pass before our wondering sight; Hawea, in sylvan softness, fills us with a calm delight; Wakatipu’s deep, dark waters, walled by mighty mountains, raise All our highest aspirations, till the soul is filled with praise. Here the poet soon might gather subject for a thousand lays, Here the artist might discover rich employment all his days.

God’s own country! God’s own country! we must hasten o’er the sea, Filled with sweetest recollections of thy beauty; blessing thee, Wishing thee all future greatness, bidding thee “Advance! advance!” Fruitful land, and land of wonders, richest region of romance! Mitre Peak, erect, majestic, slowly vanishes from view, And the distant waves are moaning, as we cry “Adieu! adieu!”

“Rogers of Eaglehawk”

“ROGERS OF EAGLEHAWK.”

THANK you! I’ll drink no more with you; I’m a stranger here; it’s my turn to ‘shout’ Then I’ll be off—I’ve some work to do— But who is this Rogers they rave about? What has he done to create such fuss? How has he caused such endless talk? To use a slang phrase—‘Why is this thus?’ Who is this Rogers, of Eaglehawk?”

“Tell him, Harry, for you were there Close to the mine, and you ought to know— Listen mate, if you’ve time to spare,— You haven’t been long upon Bendiga?” “It’s just a fortnight to-day, and yet, Although but a Sydney ‘Cornstalk,’ I’m very anxious to hear, you bet, The story of Rogers, of Eaglehawk.”

“Harken! stranger, to the story, Short it is, and to the point, Some folks say we know no glory, For the times are out of joint; I’m not larn’d in old romancing, I’m not vars’d in times gone by, Days when errant knights went prancing, Fighting for a lady’s sigh, Or her glove may-be, but stranger. Never ’neath the silver sun, By the bravest knightly ranger, Was a nobler action done Than the deed I’m going to dwell on; August, on the thirtieth day,—

That the very time it fell on,— Rogers rescued Sampson Bray. How it happen’d! Mate, you wonder? When I think on it, I know, We have heroes still, by thunder! They were working down below; They had charged four holes,—All ready Safe are all the fuses placed; Up they’re haul’d so firm and steady, Yet there’s little time to waste; Twenty-five feet up,—when slipping From his hold, poor Sampson Bray, Fell where deep the dark was dipping, Down the shaft, and there he lay. Quick as lightning, Rogers thundered— ‘Let me down! Oh, down again!’ Though the engine-driver wonder’d, Still he turned the engine then; Down went Rogers, quickly leaping From the bucket, on he flew To the spot where death was creeping Through the fuses; then he drew Three of them away. Thank Heaven! Ah! but there’s a fourth—too late— He cannot find it, and is driven Now to rest on God and fate: Down beside his mate he crouches Down beside his mate to die; Soft as down are stony couches, When upon them brave men lie: Loud reports—the hole exploded— Showers of stone and debris fell, And the drive with smoke was loaded, Loaded like a pit of hell. ‘Are they dead?’ ‘No! boys, they’re living, Haul them quickly to the plat! Let us thanks to Heaven be giving—’ That’s my tale, mate; on this Flat

I have lived a working digger Well nigh three and thirty year, But I’ve never known a bigger Hero, than our hero here.”

“Mates, I’m not much given to gushing, But when I listen’d to that there tale, At times I felt my cheeks a flushing, And then I fancied they turned quite pale; Tears in my eyes at times were starting— But hang it, lads, I’ve a way to walk, Fill up the glasses, as we’re parting, We’ll drink to Rogers of Eaglehawk.”

Hurrah for New Zealand

HURRAH FOR NEW ZEALAND.

SAID Freedom to Britain, that bold little nation, “I’ve lately discovered a fine piece of land, And as I intend there to ’stablish a station, I want your best children to give me a hand. Like thee, on the water, Thy beautiful daughter, A nymph of the ocean sits proud and elate; Then give me a few men, Thy brave and thy true men, To live and to work on my Southern estate, My Southern estate, My Southern estate. In majesty rises a bold and a free land, The starry cross glows O’er the unsullied snows That crown her grand mountains—“Hurrah for New Zealand!”

Then Britain to Freedom said, “Loving defender, Thy wish is my law, I’m a debtor to thee; Pick out loyal hearts who will honour and tend her, And make my fair daughter a Queen of the Sea. My Celt and my Saxon Shall ne’er turn their backs on The minions of tyranny, envy, or hate, Should they dare assail her, My sons shall not fail her, Their strong arms shall fence in thy Southern estate, Thy Southern estate, Thy Southern estate. In majesty rises a bold and a free land, The starry cross glows O’er the unsullied snows That crown her grand mountains—Hurrah for New Zealand!”

Oh, brothers! our race has a time-honoured story, With pride we look back on the days that are gone; Before us, Fame holds in a halo of glory The map of our future, and beckons us on. The East with its pleasures, The West with its treasures. The North with its lore, on our country shall wait; All freemen shall cheer her; And tyrants shall fear her, For freedom’s at home on her Southern estate, Her Southern estate, Her Southern estate. In majesty rises a bold and a free land, The starry cross glows O’er the unsullied snows That crown her grand mountains—Hurrah for New Zealand!

Our Pet Kangaroo

OUR PET KANGAROO. (AN AUSTRALIAN IDYLL FOUNDED ON FACT.)

WE caught the young marsupial One Winter ere he learned to spring, His Ma was shot, and from her pouch, Hopp’d forth the frisky little thing; His story’s short—his mater’s tail Was long, and made a rich ragout, A novel and romantic feed, We all enjoyed that Kangaroo.

The little orphan soon became Our pet; he quite familiar got. He jumped among the saucepans, though His loving Ma had gone to pot; He throve so well and grew so fat, Our chef de cuisine, Chong Ah Loo, Petitioned us to let him try His skill upon the Kangaroo.

But no—we scorn’d so mean a trick, And made the Tartar-tempter fly; He spoke of soup, and we could see The gravy in his almond eye— His bitter almond eye, for he Was cruel to be kind—“For you Me makey soupy welly lich, All samey puppy Kangaloo.”

But from that day Chong never dared To make the same suggestion: we Some kittens lost, but that was not A serious catastrophe;

Our native bear “vamoosed” one day, We missed our pure-bred bull-pup too, We mourned them not, but set our hearts Upon the tame young Kangaroo.

We named him Budgeree—that’s “good” In native lingo, as you know; He earned the appellation well, We watch’d our pet in goodness grow; We taught him many a harmless trick, He couldn’t smoke, but he could chew; We always found him “up to snuff,” He grew so cute our Kangaroo.

He followed us about the house, And on our rambles round the run; And when his kin we hunted down, He’d look sedate and watch the fun. We took him once unto a ball In Tapley’s pub at Bangaboo, And didn’t he enjoy the hop? You bet he did—that Kangaroo.

He skipped right through the gay Quadrille, And joined the Waltz’s mazy whirl; He lick’d the fiddlers foaming pint, And kiss’d the hurdy-gurdy girl; “Du sollst ist nicht thun!” she exclaimed (Which means, “Now, don’t; be quiet, do!”) And no one there enjoyed the spree More fully than our Kangaroo.

But thunder often follows calm And clouds at times obscure the sun, Though old, those proverbs still are trite, The Lancers and a Waltz were done.

When Tapley jumped upon a chair, And said, “I’ve to announce to you That Dougal Gunn has just arrived:” All cheered except the Kangaroo.

Big Dougal was a kilted Celt, Who never swore an English oath, He measured six foot three or four, His tartans had not check’d his growth ; At all the games he prizes won, For bagpipe tunes—so well he blew I thought and said, “He’ll charm our pet, For sweet sounds please our Kangaroo.

Then Dougal march’d around the room With ribbons streaming from his pipes, His mien was royal though he wore So many brilliant stars and stripes. With cheeks distended, he prepared To play the “March of Callum Dhu;” Our Budgeree surveyed the pipes, And wondered much that Kangaroo.

And now the instrument emits Preliminary grunts and groans, Notes, wild and fitful, rise and swell, The chanter struggles with the drones; And louder yet, and wilder still, The pibroch swells—when madly flew— Crash! smash! dash!—through the window panes Our peaceful pet, our Kangaroo.

The narrative is very sad— Full ten feet high, from off his tail He’d sprung, he couldn’t understand The martial music of the Gael.

We gallop’d home in hopes to find Him safe and sound, but not a clue From that time out we ever found Of Budgeree, our Kangaroo.

And often now, on New Year’s Day, When sound the war notes of the Celt Through new Edina’s streets, old times Rush back, and cause my eyes to melt. Fond mem’ry conjures up that night, In Tapley’s pub. at Bangaboo, When Budgeree left home and friends, And fled afar, poor Kangaroo!

Yes! yes! whene’er I hear the pipes, Old scenes will rise before my gaze, I see the homestead lawn in spring, Where wealthy wattles all ablaze, Made scented sunshades for the lambs; But bah! I’m getting quite “too too,” I talk just like a bleating bard, While dreaming of that Kangaroo.

The Timaru Wrecks

THE TIMARU WRECKS. 1882.

WHO are Earth’s heroes? Who are they that claim A shrine immortal in their country’s breast, A niche within the citadel of fame, Or higher still a home among the blest. One answers, they are those who in the fight Win heav’n’s approval and the world’s applause; The men who die for justice and for right, The men who bleed for freedom’s holy cause. Another answers, heroes lead the van Of peace and progress in the march of mind, And spread God’s treasures at the feet of man, And shed the rays of knowledge o’er their kind. Ay, these and those are heroes, true and brave, Whose deeds and words are treasured, fond and fast, Whose memories are untarnished by the grave; Heroes who build the future on the past, And raise a stately edifice above The Gulf of Ages, filled with blood and tears, A human temple round whose shrine of love, All men shall gather in the coming years. But there are other heroes on the earth, Heroes who often sow but never reap The Seed of Glory till the Second Birth; Heroes who often sink and fall asleep In duty’s arms, unnoticed and unknown; Heroes who for their fellows nobly die, Heroes whose dirge is ocean’s solemn moan, Mingled with orphan’s sob and widow’s sigh; Such are the heroes whom we honour here, Men who have passed on to the light beyond; And those they held in life most true and dear, Appeal to us for aid shall we respond?

What were their deeds? We open up the scene— Behold a spreading city by the sea, Belted by sunny slopes and plains of green, And skirted by the foam of breakers free, That leap and dance for joy along the shore, Racing like white-haired children on the sand, Babbling their mother ocean’s mystic lore, Whisp’ring her secrets to the silent land. A sabbath calm is resting o’er the place, And souls are soaring upward from their clay. Celestial smiles gild nature’s tranquil face, And thought flies far above life’s little day. Out on the sleeping waves tall vessels ride At anchor, all is calm. Ah! will it last? Look yonder, look! here comes a storm-spent tide; The murmuring fury of the distant blast Sweeps in upon us. God! we’re lost! we’re lost! The boats! the boats! now pull for land and life! They’re off! they’re safe! they land! though billows tossed And breakers dashed around them in the strife. But lo! along the shore the cry is raised, “Man, man the life boat!” and a willing band Rush forward at the call. The crowd, amazed, Behold the gallant fellows leave the land, And plunge through seething surf and furious foam. “Hurrah! Hurrah! God speed ye gallant hearts!” Ah! well might they exclaim, “God speed ye home!” God took them home: the tear of pity starts, But not for those who went, but those who weep For husbands vanished, and for fathers gone. Be ours the task to honour them that sleep, By helping those they loved, now left alone; Be ours the task—nay, friends, ’tis not a task, It is a debt of duty we’ve to pay. God speaks to us when babes and widows ask; We hear His voice in theirs, and we obey.

How Von Tempsky Died

HOW VON TEMPSKY DIED.

BRAVE young land, thy roll of glory shines with many a gallant name, Thou hast many a thrilling story dear to honour, true to fame, Thou canst boast a band of heroes whose undying deeds shall blaze, When thy chronicles of valour shall be read in after days. We are busy with the present, and we seldom glance behind— Busy building up a nation, we seem thoughtless and unkind, Sentiment is out of fashion, gratitude is fast asleep, We have little time for thinking, little time to sing or weep— Little time to sing their praises, or to weep for those who bought Peace for us and for our children, with their life-blood; men who fought With the hearts and souls of lions, ’gainst a fearless, savage foe, Trusty rifle against rifle, hand to hand, and blow for blow; For the nonce they are forgotten, but the time is close at hand, When the men who saved our country shall be honor’d in the land. Then, among the line of heroes, one shall take a foremost place, One who was not of our people, one who was not of our race; One who followed Glory’s beacon from his boyhood, till he fell,

Dying like a valiant soldier, after fighting long and well, List the story of Von Tempsky—master of the sword and lance— Brief the record, yet it seems like some wild legend or romance: Born in the Germanic nation, in a martial cradle nursed, Gallant son of gallant soldier, glory claimed him from the first; For the blood of ancient Poland filled his veins and made his heart Leap with a desire to play in freedom’s cause a leading part. His a breast that knew not danger, his a stalwart arm and bold, His a nature far too tameless to be cribbed in cages old. All the narrow ways of Europe, all the selfishness of caste, All the tyranny of custom, all the serfdom of the past, Roused his eagle soul to anger, and the soldier fled afar; To the wild Mosquito region, where the hurricane of war, Blew away the Old World cobwebs from his eyes and from his brain, As he led the untamed Indians ’gainst the troops of Sunny Spain; Then again his love of ’venture took him to the Golden Gate, Swept him back once more to Europe and from thence his wayward fate Tempted him across the ocean to the land of cloudless skies; Where the hunters after fortune madly sought the precious prize. Not for him the golden treasure, not for him the yellow corn: He was doomed to die a soldier, for a soldier he was born. On the plains of fair New Zealand, savage war was in the air:

Plucky yeomen wanted leaders, and Von Tempsky’s place was there. Are there any Forest Rangers—any of his comrades here? If there are, then they can tell us of the hero’s bright career; How he with the flying column drove the rebels from their lair— In the wild Henua Ranges; how his rifle’s flash and flare Mark’d the van in every movement; how his aim was firm and true; How he always was the foremost where the bullets thickest flew; How he with McDonnell venteured boldly into danger’s teeth, Moving up at Paparata to the very mouth of death. They could tell of Mangapiko, and of famed Orakau’s fight, Where Von Tempsky won fresh laurels by his valor and his might. Peace came in and spread her mantle all along Waikato’s shore; And the hero briefly rested, till war’s demon shriek’d once more— Through romantic Taranaki—then again he sought the front, Ready to protect our banner and to bear the battle’s brunt; Ready at the call of duty, ready to fill honour’s post; Quick to grapple with the foeman, very slow to count the cost. Self with him was next to nothing, bravery was all in all: If we need the proof ’tis furnished in the picture of his fall. Here it is:—Behold the forces, marching boldly through the bush; Rurarua must be taken—must be taken with a rush.

This is fierce Titiko Waru’s stronghold, and it must come down. Hunt the rebels from their fastness; onward, lads for Queen and Crown! “Onward, lads!” a storm of bullets whistles through the Rata trees, And a yell of fierce defiance swells on the September breeze. “Back, lads, back! the swarthy devils are invincible, ’tis vain; We can’t storm the Pah, while bullets fall among us thick as rain; Back, lads!” See the troops retreating with their wounded and their dead, While the gallant Forest Rangers, with Von Tempsky at their head, Fill the gory gap of danger, covering their friends’ retreat, While Death’s leaden messengers continue flying sharp and fleet. Safely hidden in the Ratas are the rebels; vanished hope Leaves confusion close behind her; open courage cannot cope With the foes who lie in ambush; chances of success are past. “Under cover, comrades!” cries he, while exposed the leader stood, Whizz’d the bullet, and the green grass turn’d to crimson with his blood, As the gallant soldier’s spirit vanished from the soldier’s shell. This is how the hero left us, this is how Von Tempsky fell.

Pax Vobiscum

PAX VOBISCUM.

IN a forest far away, One small creeklet, day by day, Murmurs only this sad lay: “Peace be with thee, Lilian.”

One old box-tree bends his head, One broad wattle shades her bed, One lone magpie mourns the dead: “Peace be with thee, Lilian.”

Echoes come on every breeze, Sighing through the ancient trees, Whisp’ring in their melodies: “Peace be with thee, Lilian.”

Mellow sunbeams, morn and eve, Quick to come and slow to leave, Kiss the quilt where daisies weave Rich designs o’er Lilian.

When the dying blossoms cling To the skirts of passing Spring, Wattle-boughs and branches fling Showers of gold o’er Lilian.

When the Summer moon mounts high, Queen of all the speckless sky, Shafts of silver softly lie O’er the grave of Lilian.

Mystic midnight voices melt Through each leafy bower and belt, Round the spot where friends have knelt— “Peace be with thee, Lilian.”

Far away from town and tower, Sleeping in a leafy bower, Withered lies the forest flower— “Peace be with thee, Lilian.”

There, where passions ne’er intrude; There, where nature has imbued With her sweets the solitude, Rests the form of Lilian.

Dear old forest o’er the sea, Home of Nature’s uphony, Pour thy requiem psalmody O’er the grave of Lilian.

Guard that daisy-quilted sod: Thou hast there no common clod; Keep her ashes safe; for God Makes but few like Lilian.

Sceptics ask me: “Is that clay In the forest far away Part of her?”—I only say: “Flow’rets breathe out Lilian;

“From her grave their sweets mount high— Love and beauty never die— Sun and stars, earth, sea, and sky All partake of Lilian.

Leah

LEAH.

FREE at last from the gloom that clouded Life and love in thy sinking day; Thy brow is veil’d, thy fair limbs shrouded, Clay is married again to clay.

Free at last from the curse of beauty, Free at last from the weeds that grow Round the buds on the path of duty, Where genius walks; ’tis better so—

Better so, when the world grows dreary; Better so, when young hopes have fled; Better so, when the heart grows weary— Better living among the dead.

Living among the dead—I’ve said it— Some may rot, and some shall rise Out of the grave; then who shall dread it? ’Tis but the soulless clod that dies.

Strangers smoothed thy raven tresses Over thy marble brow, my girl; Closed thy lips with no fond caresses. Closed them over the rows of pearl.

Strangers seal’d up those orbs whose flashes Kindled often a quenchless spark; Seal’d them under their long dark lashes, Cover’d thy face and then all was dark.

“Earth to earth!” and the clay was scatter’d, Scatter’d over thy peaceful breast; “Dust to dust!” and it little matter’d— Only a woman had gone to rest.

What knew they of the passions tameless? They but planted another clod; “Let her sleep, though she was not blameless. Give her soul to her Father—God.

“He is merciful, good and gracious; He can raise up the weak and low; In the halls of His mansion spacious Scarlet sins are made white as snow.”

Softly spoken the words, and kindly— Freezing natures that have not known Scorching rays can but measure blindly Any heat that is not their own.

Night steals on, and the leaflets tremble Up on the boughs of tall dark trees; Night steals on, and the ghosts assemble Out on the skirts of sighing seas.