Selected Poetry.

Western Star, Issue 903, 6 December 1884, Page 2 (Supplement)

Selected Poetry.

“ VAE VICTIS.” With hook and pen I’ve toiled all day. Until my eyes grow dim and ache; I’ve kept regret and grief at bay. And fought them for my own heart’s sake. ’Tis twilight now and with a sigh Born half of sadness, half relief, I lay my pen a moment by, And thrust aside the written leaf. Soon, soon, will come a rush of light, And words and laughter echo free ; But in this hour, ’twist day and night, *• Myself stands forth and conquers me.” Oh ! by the forms of longings slain That strew my life’s dark battlefield, Sad memory comes with piercing pain, And bids me to her powers yield. She lights love’s beacon in the eye *tTbat looks me now so coldly o’er; She whispers low of joys gone by. Of dreams that I dare dream no more. She points to paths I may not tread, Through pleasant fields of waving grass; She shows the hope I deemed was dead, ,'ptill clinging hard to life, alas! Shfo leaves upon my lips the kiss jThafc never there in truth shall be ; She mocks me with the ghost of bliss ( That shall return no more for me. OlJoy, O Love, 0 Hopes that shine Beyond my life, so far apart, Give some few crumbs to still awhile The hunger of my starving heart! And have I fought all day for this. Chained to my desk and pen so long P To sink in woman’s weariness, ! So weak in struggles to be strong ! "Vi^ell! He who gave the heart knows best The untold anguish of its strife . . . One day will come the hour of rest, The end of all this weary life. Perhaps not all the palms will be ]But for the stalwart and the strong, Wihose lives seemed all one victory—jOne path of conquest broad and long. The weak whose hearts would bleed and yearn, Borne down by doubts and untold fears, The truth of these sweet words may learn — “ They reap in joy who sow in tears.” Mary Cross.

A BIRTHDAY MEDITATION. How many once-loved friends are gone ! Unto the land of light, ' Where I, perchance, may follow soon, And bid this world “ Good night I” This busy world! It seems to me | That here I have no place, | No courage for the battlefield,, No strength to run the race. \ This world is all a battlefield. Where heroes win the day ; , And where the weak must die, or yield, I And wounded pine away. This world is like a swift run race, The swiftest gains the prize ; And he who runs with feeble pace In vain the issue tries. This world is like a training school. Hard lessons, little play ; With many a strict, unvaried rule, And chastisements each day. And I am like a weary child Wishing my schooldays o’er. With, all life’s lessons learned, and I Set free for evermore. Marion Bernstein.