Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, By record of a well-filled past; Well worth a life to hold in fee. THE ROSE: A BALLAD. I. In his tower sat the poet Gazing on the roaring sea, "Take this rose," he sighed, " and throw it Where there 's none that loveth me. On the rock the billow bursteth And sinks back into the seas. But in vain my spirit thirsteth That hath lain against my breast; On thy black and angry bosom It will find a surer rest. Life is vain, and love is hollow, Ugly death stands there behind, Forth into the night he hurled it, How the surly tempest whirled it Foam and spray drive back to leeward, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, II. Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Tracing words upon the sand: "Shall I ever then behold him Who hath been my life so long,— Ever to this sick heart fold him,— Be the spirit of his song? Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore, Swells the tide and overflows it, Full of bliss she takes the token, 66 With the ocean's fierce unrest. Love is thine, O, heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone.” III. In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth And the moon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night. Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden-lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. “Life is joy, and love is power, Strength and wisdom only flower Hope is truth, the future giveth Nearer God from day to day." Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's check. |