Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 131.djvu/136

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130

ANTIPAS, ETC.


ANTIPAS.

And who was Antipas? and where dwelt he,
The martyred "faithful," honored of his Lord?
Had he, as men count honor, high degree?
Or was he nurtured at a peasant board?
Vain questions these: the inspired words afford
His crown and claim; he perished gloriously.

And many a deed shall wither with time's scroll,
That shook the earth — and many a name, whose sound
Went forth triumphantly from pole to pole,
Shall drop into oblivion, unrenowned,
When Ire, thus briefly chronicled, is found
In heaven's high registry, a victor soul.

Needs not for entrance there the laurelled crest,
The distant battle-field, and trumpet's din,
Nor history's sounding page; the sealed breast
Hides man's true history, whose worst foe's within!
In daily conflict with the legion sin,
Souls may the martyr's crown and triumph win,
Unknown on earth, unhonored, and unblest.

Mrs. G. G. Richardson.




POETRY.
"And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking
in the garden in the cool of the day." — Genesis iii. 8.

Ah, the most ancient time,
When God and man were friends,
And earth was rounded with a summer clime,
And the dull doubt that lends
Sorrow to life was all a thing unknown.
Before those hours had flown
God walked at eventide thro' Eden's shade
And spoke to man, and man was not afraid.

Cannot that time return?
Is it not here, for those
Who from the strong still work of God can learn
His grandeur of repose?
A day with him is as a myriad years,
A tear outweighs the spheres,
And as he walked 'neath Eden's mystic tree
In the cool eventide he walks with me.

Athenæum.Mortimer Collins.




STANZAS WRITTEN IN OCTOBER.

The leaves are falling all around —
Reluctant, waveringly they fall;
The river has a moaning sound,
The redbreast's notes are low and small.

With boding croak and flagging wing,
The rook sails slowly o'er the lea;
Time's annual shades are gathering,
And winter's coming step I see.

Each falling leaf's a moral page;
Time's myriads thus are trodden low;
Each season of our pilgrimage
Has voices warning as we go.

We hear, but heed not, nature's knell;
We see, but mark not, time's decay;
We cling to pleasure's flowery spell,
Till every leaf has dropped away.

Mrs. G. G. Richardson.




IN MEMORIAM.

Farewell! since never more for thee
The sun comes up our eastern skies,
Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be
To some fond hearts and saddened eyes.

There are, who for thy last, long sleep,
Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore;
Shall weep because thou canst not weep,
And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er.

Sad thrift of love! the loving breast
On which the. aching head was thrown
Gave up the weary head to rest,
But kept the aching for its own.

1867. R. J.




THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW.

They sat at peace in the sunshine
Till the day was almost done,
And then at its close an angel
Stole over the threshold stone.

He folded their hands together,
He touched their eyelids with balm,
And their last breath floated outward,
Like the close of a solemn psalm.

Like a bridal pair they traversed
The unseen, mystical road
That leads to the beautiful city,
Whose builder and maker is God.

Louise Chandler Moulton.




FROM THE ITALIAN.

The past is not, — the hues in which 'tis drest
Fond memory supplies;
The future is not, — hope-born in the breast
Its fancied joys arise;
The present is not, — like the lightning's gleam
Its brief illusions seem;
This is the life allotted unto man,
A memory, — a hope, — a fleeting moment's span.

Spectator. C.