ORIGINAL POETRY.

Akaroa Mail and Banks Peninsula Advertiser, Volume 3, Issue 211, 26 July 1878, Page 2

ORIGINAL POETRY.

REMORSE,

Remorse—how lightly used a word ' By those who never felt ita sting. How soft it passes from the lips Of those whose heart it cannot wring! It falls as soft as snow-flake lights On the calm bosom of the lake, It stirs no thought within their minds, Recalls no pang, renews no ache.

How can those know its meaning dread Whose lives, have' passed from day to day In one glad .rouijd, without a ©toady ?V .f ABut whatf mo|_'s sunfcould The "pleasure-boat* upon the lake Can ne'er know how the storm-king '*''■**''"' rides; '"■ '** ~ : ~'*" -■*"»«""'■'»'» -' .--''■ At midnight o'er the roaring sea That washes with its spray Heaven's sides.

It'he'er can feel the rending shock Through.every quivering timber fly, "When waves wmdr&addened, swollen with

rage, ~ Rearing their liissing creation •higlfy 'Rush frantic f oh jvh^t9yeV i d;a'jesj -; ?y; To _iieet their i savage Mhelmmg forcei When wave to wave a challenge calls In angry ac_euts loud and hoarse. I

Nought but a ripple ever Btirs f The glassy face of. inland / t With scarce enough of. Jd curv| • The shadow thatthe still'boat makes. ~ Such lives as these to some are given: ■' So tranquil, fair, and smooth are they, That, changeless; in the midst ~of change, Their shadows fall f rdm day to day.

Not theirs to feel temptation's breath Melting away firm-made resolves, As the increasing heat of day. The icicles of night dissolves : Not theirs to feel how oft some chance— If such a thing as chance there be— May burst the barriers of resolve, And set the pent-up passions free.

What channels are in some men's lives, (Stained deep with blood tho' washed with tears), Where passion swept its maddened course To heap up pain for after years! Some Indian rivers gently glide

With tranquil undulating flow, Although' an undercurrent fierce Sweeps with a giant force below.

So 'tis with men ; and who can say That, underneath a friend's calm face, There ran not such a current wild,

. Though they its channel cannot trace ? They cannot see the shadpvfy forms , That gjfeet his eyes" froov c[ay to day, Nor phantom figures of the past, • Which ever-mocking round him play.

They cannot dream his nightly dreams, ; Where real becomes what might have been, When days gone-by return again,

And things long-past once more are seen. Who, then, but he can tell the pain, Borne on the wings of morning light. The poignant yearning fresh aroused For what has vanished from his sight ?

What greater torment could there be Depicted for a future state, Than the keen anguish, of remorse Bred from repentance when tojo late ? To see, with open eyes, the sins Of our whole life, heart's dark desire, Glowing from out infernal gloom In never fading lines of fire ?

" What might have been! what might have been!" Can words more mournful meaning

bear, Fraught with envenomed memories Of blighted hopes, of souls' despair ? Maddened with woe .comes oft the cry, > Up welling from hearts anguish-torn, ' The bitterest of all human cries— " Oh would that I had ne'er been born.'

" Oh for one draught of Lethe's spring To drown the memory of the past!" Poor souls! such peace can not be gained, As long as life your pain must last. But, though there is no mortal spring Of Lethe, yet there flows above A stream to quench all earthly woe, The blood of Christ, the soul of Love.

X; T. P.