ESSAYS IN VERSE.

Evening Post, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 88, 13 April 1912, Page 13

ESSAYS IN VERSE.

UNREALISED. There are paths that lead to the Hills of Joy, But I somehow missed the way, I came from the vales of dreaming youth, Sandaled with love, and crowned with truth. And smiled in the face of day. I entered a straight and narrow gate. 'Twas the path of duty clear, And I dreamed that this would brine me ' thro' To the Hills, soft kissed by heaven's own blue, Where the aneels hover near. There are thorm besetting duty's road. There is paiu and' bitter tears — Yet T followed on to the desolate sea. And launched my barque right fearlessly Ou the sorrowful tide of the years. At last I came to the Isles of Peace — 'Twas a dreary pilgrimage — For the clouds hang low on the peaceful i«les And hide the light of the sun's warm •mileE, And the waters foam and rags. 'Tis the peace that comes to the stricken heart, That has grown too dull for woe; Yet I sometimes catch, thro' a tiny rift, When the mist veils* rise and dip and drift, And the winds of memory blow, A glimpse of those distant Hills of Joy Aud tbo faces glad and bright, While the banks of fragrant, dewy flowers, And the cool, green shade of the vin«clad bowers, For a moment mock my sight. Do I never long for those happy hills, And your hand to lead me thence? Alas, can I measure measureless pain? Tba voice of my duty calls again — ■■ I must bear my burden hence.. — L. Adelaide Sherman. Springfield Republican. AT KESWICK. In mountain-girdled Keswick, once I «ate Beneath the stars, discoursing with a man Whose plaid bespoke him of » Highland clan Renowned for sons, bold, true, and passionate, Not far away, in moonlight armour, great Skiddaw reposed among his warrior van; The Derwent, near, a wandering minstrel, ran, Hinting of deeds that legends old relate. Soon, clouds arose to mar the glamoured night. And charging winds manoeuvred through, the spruce; Yes still, up Scotia's ancient paths of might Our spirits clomb, like those who scorn return, Seeming, betimes, to hear the voioe of Bruce, Thunderous, upon the field of Bannockburn. — C. G. Blanden. Chicago- Pott. WHAT IS THE WORLD FORT A fire-mist and a planet — A crystal and a cell— A ielly-fisb and a saurian, And caves where the cave-men dwell; Then a sense of law and beauty. And a fape turned from" tho plod — Some call it Evolution, And others call it God. A haze on the far horizon, The infinite, tender sky, The ripe rich tint of the corn-fields, And the wild geese sailing high — And all over upland and lowland ' The charm of the, goldenrod — Some of us call it Autumn, And others call it God. Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, When the moon is new and thin, Into our hearts high yearnings Come welling ana surging in— Come from the mystic ocean, Whose rim no foot has trod — ', Some of us call it Longing, And others call it God. A picket frozen on duty-*— A mother starved for her brood — Socrates drinking the hemlock, And Jesus on the rood; And millions who, humble and nameless, The straight hard pathway plod — Some call it Consecration, And others call it God. Rev. Huntington.