Sometimes a breath floats by me, An odor from Dreamland sent, Of memories that stay not and go not, That cannot forget or reclaim it, A something too vague, could I name it, As if I had lived it or dreamed it, AN AUTOGRAPH O'ER the wet sands an insect crept Ages ere man on earth was known And patient Time, while Nature slept, The slender tracing turned to stone. 'T was the first autograph: and ours? Prithee, how much of prose or song, In league with the creative powers, Shall 'scape Oblivion's broom so long. 24th June, 1886. William Wetmore Story Oh! for a storm and thunder- Take rather his buckler and sword, And crash them and clash them together Till this sleeping world is stirred. Hark! to my Indian beauty — My cockatoo, creamy white, That flashes across the light. And shrieks as he madly swings! Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony! There leave me, and take from my chamber That stupid little gazelle, With its bright black eyes so meaning less, I will lie and dream of the past time, I wandered, where never the track Of a human creature had rustled I sucked in the noontide splendor, And wandered my mate to greet. And struck at each other our massive arms How powerful he was and grand! As he crouched and gazed at me, With a wild triumphant cry, For his love like his rage was rude; And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck At times, in our play, drew blood. Often another suitor — For I was flexile and fairFought for me in the moonlight, While I lay couching there, Till his blood was drained by the desert; And, ruffled with triumph and power, He licked me and lay beside me To breathe him a vast half-hour. Then down to the fountain we loitered, Where the antelopes came to drink; Like a bolt we sprang upon them, Ere they had time to shrink. We drank their blood and crushed them, That was a life to live for! Come to my arms, my hero! The shadows of twilight grow, IO VICTIS I SING the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life, The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife; Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame, But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart, Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part; Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away, From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, With Death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown, While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat, In the shadow, with those who have fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer, Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, They only the victory win, Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within; Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high; Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight, - if need be, to die." Speak, History! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals, and say, Are they those whom the world called the victors - who won the success of a day? The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans, who fell at Thermopyla's tryst, Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges or Socrates? Pilate or Christ? PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE A THOUSAND silent years ago, When from his work the Sculptor stayed "When all our hopes and fears are dead, "This senseless stone, so coldly fair, "Its peace no sorrow shall destroy; "And there upon that silent face "And strangers, when we sleep in peace, Shall say, not quite unmoved, 'So smiled upon Praxiteles The Phryne whom he loved!'” |