Poems. John L. Stoddard

O'er the unknown cause that has made them changed?

      Ask once, that they make the matter clear,

       But ask no more, if the lesson fail;

       Let changelings go, however dear,

       And shed no tears for a love so frail.

      Be not the slave of a friend's migraine,

       Nor let him play, now hot, now cold;

       The master of thyself remain,

       And the key of thine inmost heart withhold!

      For they who weep and sue and plead,

       Are used and dropped, like a worn-out glove,

       And the friends with "moods" are the friends who need

       To learn that they are not worth our love.

TO MY DEAD DOG

       Table of Contents

      All is noiseless;

       Cold and voiceless

       Lies the form I've oft caressed;

       Heedless now of blame or praises,

       'Neath the sunshine and the daisies

       Dear, old Leo lies at rest.

      Eager greeting,

       Joy at meeting,

       Watching for my step to come,

       Grief at briefest separation,

       Sorrow without affectation—

       These are over—he is dumb!

      Loyal ever,

       Treacherous never,

       Lifelong love he well expressed;

       Ah! may we deserve like praises

       When beneath the sun-kissed daisies

       We, like Leo, lie at rest!

TO-DAY

       Table of Contents

      "The sun will set at day's decline";

       Qu'importe?

       Quaff off meanwhile life's sparkling wine!

       Of what avail are mournful fears,

       Foreboding sighs and idle tears,

       They hinder not the hurrying years;

       Buvons!

      "This fleeting hour will soon be past";

       Qu'importe?

       Enrich its moments while they last!

       To-day is ours; be ours its joy!

       Let not to-morrow's cares annoy!

       Enough the present to employ;

       Vivons!

      "These pleasures will not come again";

       Qu'importe?

       Enjoy their keenest transport then!

       If but of these we are secure,

       Be of their sweetness doubly sure,

       That long their memory may endure!

       Rions!

      "With time love's ardor always cools";

       Qu'importe?

       Leave that lugubrious chant to fools!

       Must doubt destroy our present bliss?

       Shall we through fear love's rapture miss,

       Or lose the honey of its kiss?

       Aimons!

      "The sun will set at day's decline";

       Qu'importe?

       Will not the eternal stars still shine?

       So even in life's darkest night

       A thousand quenchless suns are bright—

       Blest souvenirs of past delight;

       Allons!

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI, AFTER READING HER "RECOLLECTIONS OF LORD BYRON"

       Table of Contents

      Like one who, homeward bound from distant lands,

       Describes strange climes and visions passing fair,

       Yet deftly hides from others' eyes and hands

       A private casket filled with treasures rare,

       So, favored Countess, all that thou dost say

       Is nothing to thy secrets left unsaid;

       Thy printed souvenirs are but the spray

       Above the depths of ocean's briny bed.

       For, oh! how often must thy mind retrace

       Soft phrases whispered in the Tuscan tongue,

       Love's changes sweeping o'er his mobile face,

       And kisses sweeter far than he had sung;

       The gleam of passion in his glorious eyes,

       The hours of inspiration when he wrote,

       Recalled to Earth in sudden, sweet surprise

       At feeling thy white arms about his throat;

       To have been loved by Byron! Not in youth

       When ardent senses tempt to reckless choice,

       But in maturer years, when keen-eyed Truth

       Reveals the folly of the siren's voice.

       Last love is best, and this thou didst enjoy;

       Thy happy fate to see no rival claim

       A share in what was thine without alloy;

       How must the remnant of thy life seem tame!

       Yet this thy recompense—that thou dost keep

       Thy friend and lover safe from every change;

       For, loyal to thy love, he fell asleep,

       And life it is, not death, that can estrange.

THE DEATH OF ANTONINUS PIUS

       Table of Contents

      Through the marble gates of Ostia,

       Where the Tiber meets the sea,

       And a hundred Roman galleys

       Strain their leashes to be free,

       Streams a flood of sunset glory

       From the classic sea of old,

       Till Rome's seven hills stand gleaming,

       And the Tiber turns to gold.

      Why, indifferent to this splendor,

       Do the people throng the streets?

       What is everyone demanding

       Of the stranger whom he meets?

       They have heard alas! the rumor

       That, ere dawn regilds the sky,

       All the world may be in mourning,

       For the Emperor must die.

      Search, O Romans, through the annals

       Of the rulers of