POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2450, 11 February 1882, Page 3

POETRY.

THE WEAVER A weaver sat by the side of his loom, A-flinging the shuttle fast; And a thread that would wear till the hour of doom Was added at every cast. Hia warp had been by the angels spun And his weft was bright and new, Like threads which the morning unbraids from the sun— All jewelled over with dew. And fresh-lipped, bright-eyes, beautiful flowers In the rich, soft web were bedded ; And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours— Not yet were Time’s feet leaded.

But something there came, slow, stealing by And a shade on the fabric fell; And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly. For thought hath a wearisome spell.

And a thread that next o’er the warp was lain. Was of melancholy gray; And anon I marked there a tear-drop’s Stain, Where the flowers had fallen away.

But still the weaver kept weaving on, Though the fabric all was gray, And the flowers and the buds, and the leaves were all gone, And the gold threads cankered lay.

And dark—and still darker—and darker grew Each newly-woven thread ; And some there were of a death-mocking hue, And some of a bloody red.

And things all strange were woven in, Sighs, down-crushed hopes, and fears, And the web was broken, and poor, and thin, And it dripped with living tears.

And the weaver fain would have flung it

aside, But he knew it would be a sin ; So, in light and in gloom, the shuttle he plied, A-weaviog these life-chords in.

And, as he wove, and, weeping, still wove, A tempter stole him nigh, And with glowing words ho to win bins strove— But the weaver turned his eye.

He upward turned his eyes to Heaven, And still wove on on-on ! Till the last, last chord from his heart was riven, And the tissue strange was done.

Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed, And about his grizzled head. And, gathering close the folds of his shroud Lay him down among the dead. And I after saw, in a robe of light, The weaver in the sky ; The angels' wings were not more bright, And the stars grew pale it nigh. And I saw, ’mid the folds, all the Iris-hued flowers That beneath his touch had strung, More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours. Which the angels have to us flung. And wherever a tear had fallen down, Gleamed out a diamond rare, And jewels, befitting a monarch’s crown, Were the footpiints left by Care. And, wherever had swept the breath of a sigh, Was left a rich perfume ; And, with light from the Fountain of Bliss in the sky, Shone the labor of Sorrow and Gloom. And then I prayed, when my last work is done And the silver life-chord riven, Be the slain of Sorrow the deepest one That I bear with me to Heaven !