Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat, Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass; AND thou hast walked about, (how Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great Temple's dedication. I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled; For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled; Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou could'st develop - if that withered tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen How the world looked when it was fresh and young, And the great Deluge still had left it green; [pages Or was it then so old that history's Contained no record of its early ages? Since first thy form was in this box Why should this worthless tegument extended We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended New worlds have risen we have lost old nations; And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. endure, If its undying guest be lost forever? Oh! let us keep the soul embalmed MAY RILEY SMITH. IF. IF, sitting with this little worn-out shoe And scarlet stocking lying on my knee, I knew his little feet had pattered through The pearl-set gates that lie 'twixt heaven and me, I should be reconciled and happy too, And look with glad eyes toward the jasper sea. If, in the morning, when the song of birds, Reminds me of lost music far more sweet, I listened for his pretty broken words, And for the music of his dimpled feet, I could be almost happy, though I heard No answer, and I saw his vacant seat. I could be glad if, when the day is done, And all its cares and heart-aches laid away, [sun, I could look westward to the hidden And, with a heart full of sweet! yearnings, say "To-night I'm nearer to my little one By just the travel of a single day." If he were dead, I should not sit today And stain with tears the wee sock on my knee; I should not kiss the tiny shoe and say, "Bring back again my little boy to me! I should be patient, knowing it was God's way, And wait to meet him o'er death's silent sea. Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good. And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine, We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, But oh! to know the feet, once pure Be sure a wiser hand than yours or and white, The haunts of vice have boldly ven mine Pours out the potion for our lips to tured in! drink; |