On this bowed head the awful Past

Once laid its consecrating hands; The Future in its purpose vast

Paused, waiting my supreme commands.

But look! whose shadows block the door?
Who are those two that stand aloof?
See! on my hands this freshening gore
Writes o'er again its crimson proof!

My looked-for death-bed guests are met;

There my dead Youth doth wring its hands, And there, with eyes that goad me yet, The ghost of my Ideal stands !

God bends from out the deep and says,

"I gave thee the great gift of life ;
Wast thou not called in many ways?
Are not my earth and heaven at strife?
I gave thee of my seed to sow,

Bringest thou me my hundred-fold?"

Can I look up with face aglow,

And answer, "Father, here is gold "?

I have been innocent; God knows
When first this wasted life began,

Not grape with grape more kindly grows,
Than I with every brother-man:

Now here I gasp; what lose my kind,

When this fast-ebbing breath shall part?

What bands of love and service bind

This being to the world's sad heart?

Christ still was wandering o'er the earth
Without a place to lay his head;

He found free welcome at my hearth,

He shared my cup and brake my bread:

Now, when I hear those steps sublime,
That bring the other world to this,

My snake-turned nature, sunk in slime,
Starts sideway with defiant hiss.

Upon the hour when I was born,
God said, "Another man shall be,"

And the great Maker did not scorn

Out of himself to fashion me;

He sunned me with his ripening looks,

And Heaven's rich instincts in me grew,

As effortless as woodland nooks

Send violets up and paint them blue.

Yes, I who now, with angry tears,

Am exiled back to brutish clod,

Have borne unquenched for fourscore years
A spark of the eternal God;

And to what end? How yield I back
The trust for such high uses given?

Heaven's light hath but revealed a track
Whereby to crawl away from heaven.

Men think it is an awful sight

To see a soul just set adrift

On that drear voyage from whose night
The ominous shadows never lift ;

But 't is more awful to behold

A helpless infant newly born,

Whose little hands unconscious hold

The keys of darkness and of morn.

Mine held them once; I flung away

Those keys that might have open set The golden sluices of the day,

But clutch the keys of darkness yet ;—

I hear the reapers singing go

Into God's harvest; I, that might With them have chosen, here below Grope shuddering at the gates of night.

O glorious Youth, that once wast mine!
O high Ideal! all in vain

Ye enter at this ruined shrine

Whence worship ne'er shall rise again;

The bat and owl inhabit here,

The snake nests in the altar-stone,

The sacred vessels moulder near,

The image of the God is gone.

THE OAK.

WHAT gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his! There needs no crown to mark the forest's king; How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss! Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring, Which he with such benignant royalty

Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent;

All nature seems his vassal proud to be,
And cunning only for his ornament.

How towers he, too, amid the billowed snows,
An unquelled exile from the summer's throne,
Whose plain, uncinctured front more kingly shows,

Now that the obscuring courtier leaves are flown!