IN And SCOFFERS. OCK on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau, every sand becomes a gem, Blown back, they blind the mocking eye, The atoms of Democritus And Newton's particles of light 66 THE GREY MONK.1 DIE, I die," the Mother said, 66 My children die for lack of bread! What more has the merciless tyrant said?" The Monk sat him down on her stony bed. See the verses To the Deists, with which the present poem corresponds to some extent. The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side, His hands and feet were wounded wide, His body bent, his arms and knees Like to the roots of ancient trees. His eye was dry, no tear could flow, He trembled and shuddered upon the bed; "When God commanded this hand to write 66 'My brother starved between two walls, His children's cry my soul appalls ; - I mocked at the rack and the grinding chain,— My bent body mocks at their torturing pain. Thy father drew his sword in the north, With his thousands strong he is marched forth; "But vain the sword, and vain the bow,- "For a tear is an intellectual thing, The hand of vengeance found the bed DAYBREAK. O find the western path, Right through the gates of wrath Sweet morning leads me on ; With soft repentant moan I see the break of day. The war of swords and spears, The sun is freed from fears, THAMES AND OHIO. HY should I care for the men of Thames, And the cheating waters of chartered streams, Or shrink at the little blasts of fear That the hireling blows into mine ear? Though born on the cheating banks of Thames— YOUNG LOVE. RE not the joys of morning sweeter And are the vigorous joys of youth Let age and sickness silent rob The vineyard in the night; RICHES. INCE all the riches of this world May be gifts from the devil and earthly kings, I should suspect that I worshiped the devil If I thanked my God for worldly things. The countless gold of a merry heart, The rubies and pearls of a loving eye, The idle man never can bring to the mart, Nor the cunning hoard up in his treasury. OPPORTUNITY. E who bends to himself a joy If you trap the moment before it's ripe, 康 SEED-SOWING. HOU hast a lapful of seed, "Shall I cast it on the sand, And turn it into fruitful land? For on no other ground can I sow my seed Without tearing up some stinking weed." |