Poems. John L. Stoddard

And first discerned through a mist of tears;

       For youth is full of illusions fair

       Which manhood sees dissolve in air.

      "Your millions will not make you blest,

       They will rob you, instead, of peace and rest:

       Your beautiful wife may be the prey

       Of a treacherous friend or a skilled roué;

       And the splendid palace that you crave

       Will make you Society's gilded slave.

      "'Tis a weary road to political fame;

       Its price you must often pay in shame;

       And the world-known name for which you yearn

       On a bulletin board or a funeral urn,

       Is scarcely worth the toil and strife

       Which poison the peaceful joys of life.

      "For be you ever so wise and good,

       By some you will be misunderstood,

       And fame will bring you envious foes

       To spoil for you many a night's repose;

       And alas! as your pathway upward tends,

       You will find self-interest in your friends!

      "The loudest shout of the mob's applause

       Will die out after a moment's pause;

       And what is the greatest public praise

       To one whose form in the earth decays?

       The cruel world will always laugh

       At the fulsome lie of an epitaph.

      "But Spring recks not of Winter's snow,

       And you will not believe, I know,

       That all those boons that tempt your powers,

       If gained, will be like fragile flowers,

       Whose freshness wilts in the fevered hand,

       Like roses dropped on the desert sand.

      "And much of the work you deem sublime

       Is like the grain of pink-hued lime

       Which once was a coral insect's shell,

       But now is a microscopic cell,

       Entombed with countless billions more

       In a lonely reef on an unknown shore!"

      "Alas!" said the youth—and his eyes were wet—

       "Is old age merely a vain regret,

       The retrospect of wasted years,

       Of false ideals and lost careers?

       Advise me! What must I reject,

       And what for my permanent good select?"

      "Belovd youth," the old man said,

       "All is not vain, be comforted!

       Seek not thine own, but others' joy;

       Ring true, like gold without alloy;

       Waste not thy time in asking Why,

       Or Whence, or Whither when we die;

      "The actual world, the present hours

       Will give enough to tax thy powers;

       At no clear duty hesitate;

       Serve well thy neighbor and the State;

       So shalt thou add thy tiny form

       To bind the reef that breasts the storm!"

SUNSET AT INTERLAKEN

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      The sun is low;

       Yon peak of snow

       Is reddening 'neath the sunset glow;

       The rosy light

       Makes richly bright

       The Jungfrau's veil of snowy white.

      From vales that sleep

       Night's shadows creep

       To take possession of the steep;

       While, as they rise,

       The western skies

       Seem loath to leave so fair a prize.

      The light of day

       Still loves to stay

       And round that pearly summit play;

       How fair a sight

       That realm of light,

       Contended for by Day and Night!

      Now fainter shines,

       As Day declines,

       The lustrous height which he resigns;

       The shadows gain

       Th' illumined plane;

       The Jungfrau pales, as if in pain.

      When daylight dies,

       The azure skies

       Seem sparkling with a thousand eyes,

       Which watch with grace

       From depths of space

       The sleeping Jungfrau's lovely face.

      And when the Light

       Hath put to flight

       Night's shadows from each Alpine height,

       Along the skies

       It quickly flies,

       To kiss the Maiden's opening eyes.

      The timid flush

       And rosy blush

       Which then from brow to bosom rush,

       Are pure and fair

       Beyond compare,

       Resplendent in the crystal air.

      And thus alway

       By night and day

       Her varying suitors homage pay;

       And tinged with rose,

       Or white with snows,

       The same fair, radiant form she shows.

UNDER THE STARS

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      The breath of summer stirs the trees,

       A thousand roses round me bloom,

       Whose saffron petals give the breeze

       A wealth of exquisite perfume,

       As, climbing high, with tendrils bold,

       They clothe the walls with cups of gold.

      No sound disturbs the silence sweet,

       The weary birds have sunk to rest;

       For where the snow and sunset meet

       The light is fading in the west,

       And now the carking cares of day

       Slip lightly from my heart away.

      The emptiness of social strife,

       The pettiness of human souls,

       The cheap frivolities of life,

       The keen pursuit of paltry goals—

       How small they seem beneath the dome

       That shelters my Tyrolean home!

      A