HENRY S. SUTTON

S

THE BATTLE OF GOD

O strive, so rule, Almighty Lord of All!
So greatly win thy planet-victory!

So gloriously what baffles bring in thrall!
So strongly work, Earth's final jubilee
With gladness and with singing to instal!

And man may work with the great God: yea, ours
This privilege, all others how beyond!
To tend the great Man-root until it flowers;
To scorn with godly laughter when Despond
Tamely before a hoary hindrance cowers;

Effectually the planet to subdue,

And break old savagehood in claw and tusk;
That noble end to trust in and pursue
Which under Nature's half-expressive husk
Lies ever from the base conceal'd from view ;

To draw our fellows up, as with a cord
Of love, unto their high-appointed place,
Till, from our state barbaric and abhorr'd,
We do arise unto a royal race:

To be the blest companions of The Lord.

RICHARD HENGIST HORNE

DON QUIXOTE

AT THE GRAVE OF ROSINANTE

DROOP, stately trees!

And bow your heads with all their heaviest shades,
While your leaves quiver as the daylight fades ;
Let midnight dews distil upon this grave,

Where sleeps my friend — the loyal and the brave :
Droop, stately trees!

O, ignorant earth!

Canst thou indeed contain the spirit high
That bore me through my task of chivalry?
Alive, so correspondent with my soul-
Can it be dead — erased from hope's white scroll
Nothing, henceforth?

This long, black shield

This interposing darkness of despair
But separates us now, and taints the air,
Higher enchantments, bred of virtuous aim,
May melt, and give a constellated fame
In starry field!

Whate'er thy doom,

My heart, chief mourner, shall companion thee,
Thou rarest friend-true in extremity!

IV

And this old, wither'd arm shall battle wage
With death's foul Shadows, smiting back their rage
Into the gloom.

FACOB VAN DORT

OR THE MODERN SADDUCEE

JACOB

I

ACOB VAN DORT, of Amsterdam
A man consider'd thoroughly good,

As husband, father, citizen,
Incapable of lies or sham,
I am

• Our people say I am ;—

A model of sound flesh and blood:

And at our synagogue, 'midst holy men,
Devoutly I have ever knelt and stood.

Thus have I lived for ninety years in health,
With fair fame, happiness, and wealth:
Now I am lying

Serenely dying,

What have I done in my life's span·
My little circle oppidan-

To look for life beyond the fate

Of worlds that have some final date?

III

What is this Immortality,—

This dazzling prism beyond the range of Time?— Far as my brain can climb,

Then, struggling on—and shimmering back to me?

It is not possible to gain

A truthful comprehension of this thought-
This dream so god-like and un-sane
Fearing, resisting, hating to be naught.

V

Would not a million years,.

In rising circles, satisfy man's hope?

Ten millions, then, of life 'midst dying spheresWouldst thou still cry "Give me yet wider scope"?

VI

We know not what we crave

We plunge through wordy midnights of the mind-
And all because we dread our needful grave,
Seeking to reconstruct the laws design'd.

VII

What has the best man done

What could the best that ever lived e'er do
To justify a rank with Star and Sun?

Nay, more for they may end when dates fall due.

VIII

Be rational, Van Dort! - firmly resign'd

Die in thy senses!

Die as thou livedst, illusions all withstood,

And pious pretences!

Dying, you scarce can hold your health's strong mind;
But some of it keep clear:

Be trustful of the Power which brought you here
That your "hereafter" will be good,

And last as long as Nature means it should.

IX

Whate'er the Future bring to thee,

Be grateful for all good thou hast enjoy'd,—
O deeply grateful, if security

From bodily pain and weakness hath been thine;
No faculties destroy'd,

Worn dull, or cloy'd,

While silver age did o'er thee smile and shine
Write on my tomb

In golden letters, but of simplest sort-
"JACOB VAN DORT,

Contented

grateful whatsoe'er may come."

X

O, God-aspiring man!

Who cravest a life beyond thy measuring brain-
A Never-ceasing spin of thy small story-
Which Million'd years on Millions no more hold
Than morn's first clouds unroll'd

Comprise a Universe of Everlasting glory –
Why should God give thy problem-dream

A life to last beyond, or with each Solar Scheme?

SOLITUDE AND THE LILY

THE LILY

I

BEND above the moving stream,

And see myself in my own dream,—

Heaven passing, while I do not pass.
Something divine pertains to me,
Or I to it: reality

Escapes me on this liquid glass.