Sonnets and Other Verse.
by W. M. MacKeracher.
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Scorn not the Old; "twas sacred in its day, A truth overpowering error with its might, A light dispelling darkness with its ray, A victory won, an intermediate height, Which seers untrammel"d by their creeds of yore, Heroes and saints, triumphantly attained With hard a.s.sail and tribulation sore, That we might use the vantage-ground they gain"d.
Scorn not the Old; but hail and seize the New With thrill"d intelligences, hearts that burn, And such truth-seeking spirits that it, too, May soon be superseded in its turn, And men may ever, as the ages roll, March onward toward the still receding goal.
HOW MANY A MAN!
How many a man of those I see around Has cherished fair ideals in his youth, And heard the spirit"s call, and stood spellbound Before the shrine of Beauty or of Truth, And lived to see his fair ideals fade, And feel a numbness creep upon his soul, And sadly know himself no longer swayed By rigorous Truth or Beauty"s sweet control!
For some, alas! life"s thread is almost spun; Few, few and poor, the fibres that remain; But yet, while life lasts, something may be done To make the heavenly vision not in vain; Yet, even yet, some triumph may be won, Yea, loss itself be turned to precious gain.
THE SADDEST THOUGHT.
Sad is the wane of beauty to the fair, Sad is the flux of fortune to the proud, Sad is the look dejected lovers wear, And sad is worth beneath detraction"s cloud.
Sad is our youth"s inexorable end, Sad is the bankruptcy of fancy"s wealth, Sad is the last departure of a friend, And sadder than most things is loss of health.
And yet more sad than these to think upon Is this--the saddest thought beneath the sun-- Life, flowing like a river, almost gone Into eternity, and nothing done.
Let me be spared that bootless last regret: Let me work now; I may do something yet.
THE HOUSE-HUNTER.
As one who finds his house no longer fit, Too narrow for his needs, in nothing right, Wanting in every homelike requisite, Devoid of beauty, barren of delight, Goes forth from door to door and street to street, With eager-eyed expectancy to find A new abode for his convenience meet, s.p.a.cious, commodious, fair, and to his mind;
So living souls recurrently outgrow Their mental tenements; their tastes appear Too sordid, and their aims too cramped and low.
And they keep moving onward year by year, Each dwelling in its turn prepared to leave For one more like the mansion they conceive.
ON MOVING INTO A NEW HOUSE.
Heaven bless this new abode; defend its doors Against the entry of malignant sprites-- Gaunt Poverty, pale Sickness, Care that blights; And o"er its thresholds, like the enchanted sh.o.r.es Of faery isles, serene amid the roars Of baffled seas, let in all fair delights (Such as make happy days and restful nights) To tread familiarly its charmed floors.
Within its walls let moderate Plenty reign, And gracious Industry, and cheerful Health: Plenish its chambers with Contentment"s wealth, Nor let high Joy its humble roof disdain; Here let us make renewal of Love"s lease, And dwell with Piety, who dwells with Peace.
LITERATURE.
Here is a banquet-table of delights, A sumptuous feast of true ambrosial food; Here is a journey among goodly sights, In choice society or solitude; Here is a treasury of gems and gold-- Of purest gold and gems of brightest sheen; Here is a landscape gloriously unroll"d, Of heights sublime and pleasant vales between.
Here is the realm of Thought, diverse and wide, To Genius and her sovereign sons a.s.sign"d; The universal church, o"er which preside The heaven-anointed hierarchy of mind And spirit; the imperishable pride And testament and promise of mankind.
A LIBRARY.
As one, who, from an antechamber dim, Is ushered suddenly to his surprise Before a gathering of the great and wise, Feels for the moment all his senses swim, Then looks around him like a veteran grim When peerless armies pa.s.s before his eyes, Or Michael when he marshals in the skies The embattled legions of the cherubim;
So shall the scholar pause within this door With startled reverence, and proudly stand, And feel that though the ages" flags are furled By Time"s rude breath, their spoils are here in store, The riches of the race are at his hand, And well-nigh all the glory of the world.
ON CHARLES LAMB"S SONNET, "WORK."
"Who first invented work?" asks Elia, he Whose life to an ungenial task was wed, And answers, "Satan"; but it could not be-- On idleness his foul ambition fed; By idleness the heavenly domiciles Were lost to him and all his idle crew; In idleness he hatches all his wiles, And mischief finds for idle hands to do.
His business ever was to scamp and shirk, And scout the task that too ign.o.ble seemed, And in snug corners serpentlike to lurk Where no one of his presence ever dreamed; He never knew the zest of honest work, Nor ever shall, or he would be redeemed.
WORK.
Not to the Arch-Idler be the honor given Of first inventing work, but to his Lord, Who made the light, the firmament of heaven, And sun and moon and planets in accord, The land and cattle on it, and the sea And fish therein, and flying fowl in air, And gra.s.s and herb and fair fruit-yielding tree, And man, His own similitude to wear;
Whose works are old and yet for ever new, Who all sustains with providential sway, Whose Son, "My Father worketh hitherto And I work," said, and ere He went away, "Finished the work thou gavest me to do,"
And unto us, "Work ye while it is day."
THE JOY OF CREATION.
How must have thrilled the great Creator"s mind With radiant, glad and satisfying joy, Ever new self-expressive forms to find In those six days of rapturous employ!
How must He have delighted when He made The stars, and meted ocean with His span, And formed the insect and the tender blade, And fashioned, after His own image, man!
And unto man such joy in his degree He hath appointed, work of mind and hand, To mould in forms of useful symmetry Words, hues, wood, iron, stone, at his command To toil upon the navigable sea And ply his industry upon the land.