Helena Coleman

Afloat upon the tide one summer night, Dreamily watching how the moonbeams bright Made little broken rings of fairy light, And vaguely lost in that half-conscious mood That steals upon the sense in solitude, I drifted near a shadowy island wood Where all was silent, scarce a leaf was stirred- So still the air — when suddenly I heard The piercing, anguished cry as of a bird In such distress it made the echoes ring And set the startled silence quivering — The wild appeal of some sweet feathered thing In its extremity. And then a sound, Half-muffled, faint, and all again was drowned In silence inarticulate, profound. I went my way; but that despairing cry, Unheeded and unanswered from on high, Rang through me like the voice of Destiny. And in my restless heart the old, deep strain — The bitter doubt and wild rebellious pain I thought were laid — came surging up again.

About the old deserted place, So long forsaken and forlorn, There lingers still a touch of grace, A fragrance every year new-born.

For lilacs there in Spring unfold Beside the long unopened door, Communion still they seem to hold With those who come and go no more.

Against the window-frame they lean, Their banners floating to the air, And spread their arms as if to screen The silent shadows lurking there.

Pale spires uplifted to the sun Break into bloom as if to fill, In memory of days long done, The empty place with fragrance still.

As if with beauty they would hide The fallen fortunes of the race, Still cherishing with love and pride The old traditions of the place.

So year by year they closer press, And every season slowly spread, Praising with silent loveliness The unknown, long-forgotten dead.

A SUDDEN turn — at last was scaled The summit of his aim, The cheer went up, his name was hailed With generous acclaim.

But he for whom they raised the shout And wreathed the shining bay Strove in his soul with new-born doubt, And silent turned away.

Before his vision there arose, Like spectres of the night, The nameless company of those Who perished in the fight ;

The host baptized in blood and tears, Outstripped upon the way, To whom the gray monotonous years Bring no redeeming day;

The hapless, toiling, tired throng Who sow but never reap, And through their weary lives one long Unceasing vigil keep.

And as he gazed there rose and burned An anguish in his soul, His earlier dreams forgot, he turned Back from the hard-won goal ;

Back to the crowded ways to bear The common lot again, To mingle tears with tears, and share Life's heritage of pain.

There, though he bears no meed of praise, Yet, rounded with content, He knows a joy that far outweighs The world's aggrandisement.

From green to gold, from gold to amethyst, Transmuted by the sun's last lingering ray, The tranquil hills in dreaming silence lay, Wrought to a beauty eye could not resist; Till, folded in with veils of purple mist That slowly wrapt them from reluctant day, They mingled with the dusk and flowed away, Renewing with the stars their nightly tryst.

And as the soft enchantments round us spread, And twilight with its pensive shadows fell — Loosed from the prison-wards of care and dread, Lured from our selfish griefs by beauty's spell — Along dim thoroughfares our thoughts were led To haunts of peace where love and silence dwell.

LURED by the golden glamor of the West, He crossed the pathless plains and scaled the bold Titanic forms that, rising fold on fold, Touch heaven's blue; and, toiling, strove to wrest From Nature's rugged and reluctant breast The treasure she had hidden there of old — The treasure of her hoarded yellow gold — Seductive hope of many a hapless quest!

For this he left all other hopes behind, And gave his manhood's prime and powers away, Content to be forgotten of his kind — Yet all the while within himself there lay The unregarded treasure of the mind, Deep-buried, priceless, wasting day by day.

Unrealized, the dim hours come and go, A hooded, listless file of shadows pale; Men's deeds like visions pass, and scarce avail To stir dull thought or give it ebb or flow; The hopes that pushed us Heavenward once, aglow With passionate desire, now flag and fail; The lights have vanished, and the wine grown stale, The blade is rusted and unstrung the bow.

Oh, better far to climb the toilsome height Than linger in the valley's flowered way, Far better in a losing cause to fight Than feel one's sinews wasting day by day; Give me the hemlock draught and dreamless night, Before this daily death of apathy !

She knew but one desire, one single aim Consumed her days and robbed her nights of rest — To reconcile the two whom she loved best, Who, long estranged, yet of one household came; And while for this she strove, her gentle frame And tender heart were often sore distressed, For all her longing love and pain repressed Seemed but as fuel added to the flame.

But on that day of silence when she passed By unseen pathways to the distant spheres, What life had failed to do, death wrought at last, For they who through the long, embittered years Had spoken not, now stood with hands locked fast, And looked into each other's face with tears.

I WOULD not lose the sense of mystery That broods about our little lives and springs Eternal from the unknown heart of things, Nor miss by rude familiarity Perception of the finer harmony That underlies all dissonance and brings The unseen to our consciousness and flings A glory round our way continually.

For they alone shall win their happiness Who still make room for things inscrutable; And he who sees the greater in the less — Who finds in folded leaf or purple bell The Infinite — doth in himself possess Some kinship with the daily miracle.