Poems of power [electronic text]

THE MEETING OF THE CENTURIES.

A CURIOUS vision, on mine eyes unfurled In the deep night. I saw, or seemed to see, Two Centuries meet, and sit down vis-a-vis, Across the great round table of the world. One with suggested sorrows in his mien And on his brow the furrowed lines of thought. And one whose glad expectant presence brought A glow and radiance from the realms unseen.

Hand clasped with hand, in silence for a space, The Centuries sat; the sad old eyes of one (As grave paternal eyes regard a son) Gazing upon that other eager face. And then a voice, as cadenceless and gray As the sea's monody in winter time, Mingled with tones melodious, as the chime Of bird choirs, singing in the dawns of May.

THE OLD CENTURY SPEAKS:

By you, Hope stands. With me, Experience walks. Like a fair jewel in a faded box, In my tear-rusted heart, sweet pity lies. For all the dreams that look forth from your eyes,

And those bright-hued ambitions, which I knowMust fall like leaves and perish in Time's snow, (Even as my soul's garden stands bereft,) I give you pity! 'tis the one gift left.

THE NEW CENTURY:

Nay, nay, good friend! not pity, but Godspeed, Here in the morning of my life I need. Counsel, and not condolence; smiles, not tears, To guide me through the channels of the years. Oh, I am blinded by the blaze of light That shines upon me from the Infinite. Blurred is my vision by the close approach To unseen shores, whereon the times encroach.

THE OLD CENTURY:

Illusion, all illusion. List and hear The Godless cannons, booming far and near. Flaunting the flag of Unbelief, with Greed For pilot, lo! the pirate age in speed Bears on to ruin. War's most hideous crimes Besmirch the record of these modern times. Degenerate is the world I leave to you, — My happiest speech to earth will be —adieu.

THE NEW CENTURY

You speak as one too weary to be just. I hear the guns —I see the greed and lust. The death throes of a giant evil fill

The air with riot and confusion. Ill Ofttimes makes fallow ground for Good; and Wrong Builds Right's foundation, when it grows too strong. Pregnant with promise is the hour, and grand The trust you leave in my all-willing hand.

THE OLD CENTURY:

As one who throws a flickering taper's ray To light departing feet, my shadowed way You brighten with your faith. Faith makes the man. Alas, that my poor foolish age outran Its early trust in God. The death of art And progress follows, when the world's hard heart Casts out religion. 'Tis the human brain Men worship now, and heaven, to them, means — gain.

THE NEW CENTURY:

Faith is not dead, tho' priest and creed may pass, For thought has leavened the whole unthinking mass. And man looks now to find the God within. We shall talk more of love, and less of sin, In this new era. We are drawing near Unatlassed boundaries of a larger sphere. With awe, I wait, till Science leads us on, Into the full effulgence of its dawn.