 | The lion's cub |  |
THE CROSSING OF THE WAYS.
(John Eliot Bowen.)
Did I see it, or does it seem,In some world of classic dream?
Who knows this is more wise than I,
It was so distant, is so nigh.
Where ruined tombs and temples stand,
In a many-peopled land,
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Where many haste, but no one stays,
Toward which a man with eager gaze
Urges forward, fair and fleet,
With gold sandals on his feet:
I dream of him by night and day,
At once so serious and gay,
Leaves of November, buds of May,
Wreathed with myrtle, crowned with bay;
Two natures in him, gentle, bold,
Affections young, but judgment old,
Over him their light and shadow plays,
As he nears the crossing of the ways.
But who are These, that fast, or slow,
Seem now to come, and now to go?
One stealing silently along,
The other marching with bursts of song;
One clad in a waving, yellow robe,
Such as Summer all over the globe
Wears at the earliest flush of June,
When the hearts of all things are in tune.
But the other, that ominous other,
Twinned of the same great Mother,
Why differs he so from his brother?
Visions and apparitions fly,
Here before them, and there behind,
Those to loosen, and these to bind,
As the hours delay, and the days go by.
Each bravely holds aloft his torch,
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But now that they reach the altar,
And stand by the sacred fires,
The bride and the groom both falter,
For the flame of one torch expires.
What more? In my dream remains
The end of my friend—not my pains.
He is gone; he will not return;
Nothing left us here but—an Urn.
| The lion's cub | |