LINES WRITTEN FOR MISS STORY'S ALBUM
THE armless Vatican Cupid
Hangs down his beautiful head
For the priests have got him in prison,
And Psyche long has been dead.
But see, his shaven oppressors
Begin to quake and disband!
And The Times, that bright Apollo,
Proclaims salvation at hand.
' And what,' cries Cupid, 'will save us?' Says Apollo: Modernise Rome!
What inns! Your streets, too, how narrow!
Too much of palace and dome!
'O learn of London, whose paupers
Are not pushed out by the swells!
Wide streets with fine double trottoirs ;
And then-the London hotels!'
The armless Vatican Cupid
Hangs down his head as before. Through centuries past it has hung so, And will through centuries more.
'MAN is blind because of sin,
Revelation makes him sure;
Without that, who looks within,
Looks in vain, for all's obscure.'
Nay, look closer into man!
Tell me, can you find indeed
Nothing sure, no moral plan
Clear prescribed, without your
'No, I nothing can perceive!
Without that, all's dark for men.
That, or nothing, I believe.'—
For God's sake, believe it then!
CREEP into thy narrow bed,
Creep, and let no more be said!
Vain thy onset! all stands fast.
Thou thyself must break at last.
Let the long contention cease!
Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
Let them have it how they will!
Thou art tired; best be still.
They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee!
Better men fared thus before thee;
Fired their ringing shot and pass'd,
Hotly charged and sank at last.
Charge once more, then, and be dumb!
Let the victors, when they come,
When the forts of folly fall,
Find thy body by the wall!
THUS saith the Lord to his own :'See ye the trouble below?
Warfare of man from his birth! Too long let we them groan; Haste, arise ye, and go,
Carry my peace upon earth!'
Gladly they rise at his call,
Gladly obey his command,
Gladly descend to the plain.
-Ah! How few of them all,
Those willing servants, shall stand
In the Master's presence again!
Some in the tumult are lost;
Baffled, bewilder'd, they stray.
Some, as prisoners, draw breath.
Some, unconquer'd, are cross'd
(Not yet half through the day)
By a pitiless arrow of Death.
Hardly, hardly shall one
Come, with countenance bright,
At the close of day, from the plain ; His Master's errand well done,
Safe through the smoke of the fight,
Back to his Master again.
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