Poems. John L. Stoddard

He shuns the garish light of day,

       And leaving mate and whelps at play,

       In mournful silence creeps away.

      From bush to bush, by devious trails,

       He drags himself from hill to hill,

       And, as his old strength slowly fails,

       Drinks long at many a mountain rill,

       Until he gains, with stifled moan,

       A height, to hated man unknown,

       Where he may die, at least alone.

      Relaxing now his mighty claws,

       He lies, half shrouded by his mane,

       His grand head resting on his paws,

       And heeding little save his pain,

       As o'er his eyes, so sad and deep,

       The film of death begins to creep—

       The prelude to eternal sleep.

      As Caesar, reeling 'neath the stroke

       And dagger-thrust of many a friend,

       Drew o'er his face his Roman cloak,

       To meet, unseen, his tragic end,

       So hath this desert-monarch tried

       With noble dignity to hide

       From others how and where he died.

      And now his spirit is serene;

       For here no stranger can intrude

       To view this last, pathetic scene,

       Or mar its sombre solitude;

       Prone on the lonely mountain crest,

       Confronting the resplendent west,

       The dying lion sinks to rest.

      Proud king of beasts! thy death should teach

       Mankind the cheapness of display;

       More eloquent than human speech,

       Thy grand example shows the way

       To pass from life, unheard, unseen,

       And with composed, majestic mien

       Death's awful sacredness to screen.

      Nay, more! thou didst select a place

       Where, unobserved, thy form could rest,

       Till Mother Earth with fond embrace

       Should hide it in her ample breast;

       Like Moses in lone Nebo's land,

       Thou hast been sepulchred in sand,

       Unseen by eye, untouched by hand.

      No pompous tomb shall ever rise

       Above thy lonely, sun-bleached frame;

       No epitaph of well-turned lies

       Shall be inscribed beneath thy name;

       No bells for thee a dirge shall ring,

       No choir beside thy grave shall sing,

       Yet hast thou perished like a king!

A STORY OF THE SEA

       Table of Contents

      Were you ever told the legend old

       Of the birth of storms at sea?

       You should hear the tale in a Channel gale,

       As happened once to me,

       On a fearful night off Fastnet Light,

       With Ireland on our lee.

      In the good old days, which poets praise

       As the best that man hath seen,

       The storm-king's hand might smite the land,

       But the sea remained serene;

       Blow east, blow west, its sun-kissed breast

       Kept ever its tranquil sheen.

      Not a single trace came o'er its face

       Of the storms that raged elsewhere;

       No misty screen e'er crept between

       The sun and its image there;

       And its depths at night were gemmed with light

       By stars in the crystal air.

      The fisherman laughed in his little craft,

       If a landsman felt alarm,

       For never did gale a ship assail,

       Or a sailor suffer harm;

       There was nothing to fear, for the skies were clear,

       And the ocean always calm.

      But on the shore, where more and more

       The human race increased,

       There were cold and heat, and snow and sleet,

       And troubles never ceased;

       For wind and rain beat down the grain,

       And the plague slew man and beast.

      And even worse was the moral curse,

       That came like a deadly blight

       Through men who seized whate'er they pleased,

       On the plea that might makes right,

       Till the fatal seed of selfish greed

       Made life a bitter fight.

      Hence many sighed, as they watched the tide

       Glide out to the sunset sea,

       And longed to go with its gentle flow

       To where they hoped might be

       A realm of peace, where sorrows cease,

       And souls from pain are free.

      At last they said—"We were better dead,

       Than endure this anguish more;

       Let us seek relief from care and grief

       Far out from the storm-swept shore;

       The sea can bring no sadder thing

       Than the life we lived before."

      So a ship was framed, which they fondly named

       "The Peace of the Human Mind,"

       And the weary band soon left the land

       And its ceaseless strife behind;

       But unattained the goal remained

       They had so longed to find.

      For the souls that came were quite the same

       As they were before they sailed;

       And, as pride and hate did not abate,

       The hope of the voyagers failed;

       And, facing alone the great Unknown,

       The bravest spirits quailed.

      Meanwhile the ship began to dip,

       And labored to and fro,

       For the sea, though fair, could no more bear

       This load of human woe;

       And at last the boat, with all afloat,

       Sank helplessly below.

      Down, down it swirled to the nether world;

       While up from the riven main

       Came the gurgling sound of those who drowned,

       As the vortex closed again;

       The sea surged back to its wonted track;