THE MEETING OF THE CENTURIES

A curious vision on mine eyes unfurled

In the deep night. I saw, or seemed to see,

Two Centuries meet, and sit down vis-a-vis

Across the great round table of the world:

One with suggested sorrows in his mien,

And on his brow the furrowed lines of thought;

And one whose glad expectant presence brought

A glow and radiance from the realms unseen.

Hand clasped with hand, in silence for a space

The Centuries sat; the sad old eyes of one

( As grave paternal eyes regard a son )

Gazing upon that other eager face.

And then a voice, as cadenceless and gray

As the sea's monody in winter time,

Mingled with tones melodious, as the chime

Of bird choirs, singing in the dawns of May.

By you, Hope stands. With me, Experience walks.

Like a fair jewel in a faded box,

In my tear-rusted heart, sweet Pity lies.

For all the dreams that look forth from your eyes,

And those bright-hued ambitions, which I know

Must fall like leaves and perish, in Time's snow,

( Even as my soul's garden stands bereft,)

I give you pity!‘ tis the one gift left.

Nay, nay, good friend! not pity, but Godspeed,

Here in the morning of my life I need.

Counsel, and not condolence; smiles, not tears,

To guide me through the channels of the years.

Oh, I am blinded by the blaze of light

That shines upon me from the Infinite.

Blurred is my vision by the close approach

To unseen shores, whereon the times encroach.

Illusion, all illusion. List and hear

The Godless cannons, booming far and near.

Flaunting the flag of Unbelief, with Greed

For pilot, lo! the pirate age in speed

Bears on to ruin. War's most hideous crimes

Besmirch the record of these modern times.

Degenerate is the world I leave to you, -

My happiest speech to earth will be — adieu.

You speak as one too weary to be just.

I hear the guns — I see the greed and lust.

The death throes of a giant evil fill

The air with riot and confusion. Ill

Ofttimes makes fallow ground for Good; and Wrong

Builds Right's foundation, when it grows too strong.

Pregnant with promise is the hour, and grand

The trust you leave in my all-willing hand.

As one who throws a flickering taper's ray

To light departing feet, my shadowed way

You brighten with your faith. Faith makes the man

Alas, that my poor foolish age outran

Its early trust in God! The death of art

And progress follows, when the world's hard heart

Casts out religion.‘ Tis the human brain

Men worship now, and heaven, to them, means — gain.

Faith is not dead, tho’ priest and creed may pass,

For thought has leavened the whole unthinking mass,

And man looks now to find the God within.

We shall talk more of love, and less of sin,

In this new era. We are drawing near

Unatlassed boundaries of a larger sphere.

With awe, I wait, till Science leads us on,

Into the full effulgence of its dawn.