MATHILDE BLIND. XVII. CHRISTMAS EVE. ALONE-with one fair star for company, The loveliest star among the hosts of night, While the grey tide ebbs with the ebbing light— I pace along the darkening wintry sea. Now round the yule-log and the glittering tree But I-a waif on earth where'er I roam Uprooted with life's bleeding hopes and fears From that one heart that was my heart's sole home, Feel the old pang pierce through the severing years, And as I think upon the years to come That fair star trembles through my falling tears. XVIII. AN EXHORTATION. WHY do we fret at the inconstancy Of our frail hearts, which cannot always love? WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT. XIX. VANITAS VANITATIS. LAME, impotent conclusion to youth's dreams Fond wraths, brave raptures, all that sometime was Our daily bread of gods beneath the skies, How are ye ended, in what utter loss! Time was, time is, and time is yet to come, Till even time itself shall have an end. These were eternal-and behold, a tomb. Come let us laugh and eat and drink. God send What all the world must need one day as we, Speedy oblivion, rest for memory. 潞 XX. THE PRIDE OF UNBELIEF. WHEN I complained that I had lost my hope Of life eternal with eternal God; When I refused to read my horoscope In the unchanging stars, or claim abode. Was God's own son in His own likeness bred. And thrice strange pride! who thus am cast away WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT. XXI. ON THE SHORTNESS OF TIME. IF I could live without the thought of death, I would not ask for other joy than breath, I could sit on untroubled day by day Watching the grass grow, and the wild flowers range From blue to yellow and from red to grey In natural sequence as the seasons change. I could afford to wait, but for the hurt Of this dull tick of time which chides my ear. But now I dare not sit with loins ungirt And staff unlifted, for death stands too near. I must be up and doing—ay, each minute. |