href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@37365@[email protected]#p52" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">The New Old Story
Recreation
Paestum
Rondeau: An April Day
Autumn
My Two Boys
My Old Classical Master
The Gold-Miners of British Columbia
War-ships in Port
On Finding a Copy of Burns's Poems in the House of an Ontario Farmer
The Ideal Preacher
The Wheel of Misfortune
Tim O'Gallagher

SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE.

THE OLD AND THE NEW.

Scorn not the Old; 'twas sacred in its day,
    A truth overpowering error with its might,
A light dispelling darkness with its ray,
    A victory won, an intermediate height,
Which seers untrammel'd by their creeds of yore,
    Heroes and saints, triumphantly attained
With hard assail and tribulation sore,
    That we might use the vantage-ground they gain'd.

Scorn not the Old; but hail and seize the New
    With thrill'd intelligences, hearts that burn,
And such truth-seeking spirits that it, too,
    May soon be superseded in its turn,
And men may ever, as the ages roll,
March onward toward the still receding goal.

HOW MANY A MAN!

How many a man of those I see around
    Has cherished fair ideals in his youth,
And heard the spirit's call, and stood spellbound
    Before the shrine of Beauty or of Truth,
And lived to see his fair ideals fade,
    And feel a numbness creep upon his soul,
And sadly know himself no longer swayed
    By rigorous Truth or Beauty's sweet control!

For some, alas! life's thread is almost spun;
    Few, few and poor, the fibres that remain;
But yet, while life lasts, something may be done
    To make the heavenly vision not in vain;
Yet, even yet, some triumph may be won,
    Yea, loss itself be turned to precious gain.

THE SADDEST THOUGHT.

Sad is the wane of beauty to the fair,
    Sad is the flux of fortune to the proud,
Sad is the look dejected lovers wear,
    And sad is worth beneath detraction's cloud.
Sad is our youth's inexorable end,
    Sad is the bankruptcy of fancy's wealth,
Sad is the last departure of a friend,
    And sadder than most things is loss of health.

And yet more sad than these to think upon
    Is this—the saddest thought beneath the sun—
Life, flowing like a river, almost gone
    Into eternity, and nothing done.
Let me be spared that bootless last regret:
Let me work now; I may do something yet.

THE HOUSE-HUNTER.

As one who finds his house no longer fit,
    Too narrow for his needs, in nothing right,
Wanting in every homelike requisite,
    Devoid of beauty, barren of delight,
Goes forth from door to door and street to street,
    With eager-eyed expectancy to find
A new abode for his convenience meet,
    Spacious, commodious, fair, and to his mind;

So living souls recurrently outgrow
    Their mental tenements; their tastes appear
Too sordid, and their aims too cramped and low.
    And they keep moving onward year by year,
Each dwelling in its turn prepared to leave
For one more like the mansion they conceive.

ON MOVING INTO A NEW HOUSE.

Heaven bless this new abode; defend its doors
    Against the entry of malignant sprites—
    Gaunt Poverty, pale Sickness, Care that blights;
And o'er its thresholds, like the enchanted shores
Of faery isles, serene amid the roars
    Of baffled seas, let in all fair delights
    (Such as make happy days and restful nights)
To tread familiarly its charmèd floors.

Within its walls let moderate Plenty reign,
    And gracious Industry, and cheerful Health:
    Plenish its chambers with Contentment's wealth,
Nor let high Joy its humble roof disdain;
    Here let us make renewal of Love's lease,
    And dwell with Piety, who dwells with Peace.

LITERATURE.

Here is a banquet-table of delights,
    A sumptuous feast of true ambrosial food;
Here is a journey among goodly sights,
    In choice society or solitude;
Here is a treasury of gems and gold—
    Of purest gold and gems of brightest sheen;
Here is a landscape gloriously unroll'd,
    Of heights sublime and pleasant vales between.

Here is the realm of Thought, diverse and wide,
    To Genius and her sovereign sons assign'd;
The universal church, o'er which preside
    The heaven-anointed hierarchy of mind
And spirit; the imperishable pride
    And testament and promise of mankind.

A LIBRARY.

As one, who, from an antechamber dim,
    Is ushered suddenly to his surprise
    Before a gathering of the great and wise,
Feels for the moment all his senses swim,
Then looks around him like a veteran grim
    When peerless armies pass before his eyes,
    Or Michael when he marshals in the skies
The embattled legions of the cherubim;

So shall the scholar pause within this door
    With startled reverence, and proudly stand,
        And feel that though the ages' flags are furled
By Time's rude breath, their spoils are here in store,
    The riches of the race are at his hand,
        And well-nigh all the glory of the world.