What art thou, Death? A subtle draught
That lulls this instinct into rest,
Makes duty but a thing of naught,
And commonweal a theme for jest?
Its citizens rebellious grow,

The lean wax fat, the little great,
And selfish strife brings overthrow
And dissolution of the State.

Whence art thou, Life? Is thy far home
Some nebula of subtlest force,

Whither no straining glance may come,
Or coming, find naught in its course?
A vaporous cloud in distant skies,
So fine, so tenuous, so light,
Were all inorbed, in weight and size,
An atom would surpass it quite.
As men that traverse unknown seas,
And find each night new skies above,
Note nothing but the nearer breeze,

And if on stated course they move;
And of ten thousand things that creep
Or dart around, they nothing know;
Yet bear with them across the deep
Strange creatures on the keel below.

So planets, suns, and systems vast
Amid thy instinct æther float,
And bear away, when they have passed,
The thing called Life, as it were naught.

Or, art thou, Life, more heavenly still?
God's thought, instinct and infinite,

In infinite division, till

It may with dust of earth unite?

And energize and shape and bring
The mobile elements of earth
To unseen ends, through suffering,

And long laborious pangs of birth?

Till thou more stately homes and fair
Hereafter shalt devise and build,
And dwell in them, without a care,
Or aught for joy thou hast not willed,

Save memories of our sad lot,

Imperfect longings and blind strife, Dim memories, so far forgot,

As dreams they'll be of other life.

So well thou'lt build; in earth and sky
The tyrants we with fear obey

Shall be quick ministers of joy
And willing subjects to thy sway;

And thou, in thy ascent the same

Old Life, bequeathed from sire to son; New hands may bear the torch, the flame Is passed for aye unchanging on.

Where art thou, Death? Is thy vast home,
The void that lies all life around?
The chill to which all warmth must come,
The stillness of all act and sound?

Or art thou, Death, more glorious thought,
The coming home of exile bands,

That long at various toil have wrought
With weeping eyes in alien lands?

With lightsome tread and careless mien
We land upon the unknown shore;
Behind us fades the glorious scene,
The voices fail we knew of yore.

We dance upon the meadows near;

We sing the simple songs we love ; Then cast, as stones, without a fear,

Our boyish thoughts beyond, above,

Inland, toward the flashing streams
On far-off cliffs and mountains high,
That, rising, as in golden dreams,
All sunlit, kiss the clearer sky.

And there, deep glens, from base to crest,
Of rifted gloom, shot through and through
With shafts of sunlight, tempt our quest
For wonders we shall never view.

We climb and climb and onward press
Through summer sunshine, winter rain,

Not doubting of a full success,

After long toil and varied pain.

We stand upon the summit now,

And clutch the fulness of delight, With gasping breath and heated brow And hands sore wounded in the fight.

But all we feel is weariness,

And all we see, the path beneath ; Is this the prize of our success,

And all we long for, quiet death?

A darker land before us falls

In easy slopes unto the sea; A stronger voice beneath us calls; 'Descend, and hasten unto me."

We see upon the waters dark

The falling sails, a dark blue speck; We greet the signal to embark,

And, fainting, swoon upon the deck.

The anchor's up; heaven's breezes blow
The weary exiles to their home;

We know not where, we care not how,
So only to our land we come.

X

OOR JOHNNIE.

OH, Whaw is like oor Johnnie?
Oh, whaw's a faace sae bonnie?
There is naan like, there is naan sike,
In awl the toon as Johnnie.

Oh, Johnnie's broo is high and braade,
An' Johnnie's hair is wheyt,

An' Johnnie's e'e more sweetly beams
Than onny bullace breyt.

An' Johnnie's tongue speeaks fair and trew, An' Johnnie tells na lee,

An' Johnnie's heart's sa warm an' good,

There's naan sa good as he.

Oh, whaw's a tongue like Johnnie's?

Oh, whaw's a heart sa bonnie?

There is na heart, there is na tongue
In all the toon like Johnnie's.

An' Johnnie's land is awl his awn,
It ligs baith nigh an' dry;
There's eighty yakker an' a reead
An' barn an' ford yird by.

Oh, whaw is like oor Johnnie?

Oh, whaw's a farm sa bonnie?
There is na farm, there is na barn
In awl the toon like Johnnie's.