Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
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Post-Letters.
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
Post-Letters.
Lottery tickets every day,—
And ever drawn a blank:
Yet none the less we pant and pray
For prizes in that bank:
Morn by morn, and week by week,
They cheat us, or amuse,
Whilst on we fondly hope, and seek
Some stirring daily news.
And ever drawn a blank:
Yet none the less we pant and pray
For prizes in that bank:
Morn by morn, and week by week,
They cheat us, or amuse,
Whilst on we fondly hope, and seek
Some stirring daily news.
The heedless postman on his path
Is scattering joys and woes;
He bears the seeds of life and death,
And drops them as he goes!
I never note him trudging near
Upon his common track,
But all my heart is hope, or fear,
With visions bright, or black!
Is scattering joys and woes;
He bears the seeds of life and death,
And drops them as he goes!
186
Upon his common track,
But all my heart is hope, or fear,
With visions bright, or black!
I hope—what hope I not?—vague things
Of wondrous possible good;
I dread—as vague imaginings,
A very viper's brood:
Fame's sunshine, fortune's golden dews
May now be hovering o'er,—
Or the pale shadow of ill news
Be cowering at my door!
Of wondrous possible good;
I dread—as vague imaginings,
A very viper's brood:
Fame's sunshine, fortune's golden dews
May now be hovering o'er,—
Or the pale shadow of ill news
Be cowering at my door!
O Mystery, master-key to life,
Thou spring of every hour,
I love to wrestle in thy strife,
And tempt thy perilous power;
I love to know that none can know
What this day may bring forth,
What bliss for me, for me what woe
Is travailing in birth!
Thou spring of every hour,
I love to wrestle in thy strife,
And tempt thy perilous power;
I love to know that none can know
What this day may bring forth,
What bliss for me, for me what woe
Is travailing in birth!
See, on my neighbour's threshold stands
Yon careless common man,
Bearing, perchance, in those coarse hands
—My Being's alter'd plan!
My germs of pleasure, or of pain,
Of trouble, or of peace,
May there lie thick as drops of rain
Distill'd from Gideon's fleece!
Yon careless common man,
Bearing, perchance, in those coarse hands
—My Being's alter'd plan!
My germs of pleasure, or of pain,
Of trouble, or of peace,
May there lie thick as drops of rain
Distill'd from Gideon's fleece!
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Who knoweth? may not loves be dead,—
Or those we loved laid low,—
Who knoweth? may not wealth be fled,
And all the world my foe?
Or who can tell if Fortune's hour
(Which once on all doth shine)
Be not within this morning's dower,
A prosperous morn of mine?
Or those we loved laid low,—
Who knoweth? may not wealth be fled,
And all the world my foe?
Or who can tell if Fortune's hour
(Which once on all doth shine)
Be not within this morning's dower,
A prosperous morn of mine?
Ah, cold Reality!—in spite
Of hopes, and endless chance,
That bitter postman, ruthless wight,
Has cheated poor Romance:
No letters! O the dreary phrase:
Another day forlorn:—
And thus I wend upon my ways
To watch another morn.
Of hopes, and endless chance,
That bitter postman, ruthless wight,
Has cheated poor Romance:
No letters! O the dreary phrase:
Another day forlorn:—
And thus I wend upon my ways
To watch another morn.
Cease, babbler!—let those doubtings cease:
What? should a son of heaven
With the pure manna of his Peace
Mix up this faithless leaven?
Not so!—for in the hands of God,
And in none earthly will,
Abides alike my staff, and rod,
My good, and seeming ill.
What? should a son of heaven
With the pure manna of his Peace
Mix up this faithless leaven?
Not so!—for in the hands of God,
And in none earthly will,
Abides alike my staff, and rod,
My good, and seeming ill.
| Ballads for the Times | |