Poetry

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume X, Issue 1115, 5 August 1882, Page 5 (Supplement)

Poetry

four Letters. INSCRIBED TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. In an old almanac of the year 1809, against the date August 29, there is this record, “ Son b.” The sand that was thrown upon the fresh ink 70 years ago can still be seen upon the Four letters on a yellow page We read the story quaintly told— A son is born ! What August day So lavish of its gold. Thy son. O young sire, hadst thou known What now the wide world knows of him, How had thy great soul thrilled with joy, How had tliine eyes grown dim. Couldst thou, through all the swift, bright years, Have looked, with glad, far-reaching gaze, And seen him as he stands to-day, Crowned with unfading bays. While Love’s red roses at his feet Pour all their wealth of rare perfume, And Truth’s white lilies, pure as snow His lofty way illume— How had thy heart's strong throbbin gs shown The eager pea, the firm right hand, That threw upon this record quaint These grains of glittering sand ! O irony of Time and Fate! That saves and loses, makes and mars, Keeps the small dusk upon the scales, And blotteth out the stars! Kingdoms and thrones have passed away; Conquerorshave fallen, empires died, And countless sons of men gone down Beneath War’s crimson tide. The' whole wide earth has changed its face; Nations clasp hands across the seas; They speak, and winds and waves-repeat The mighty symphonies. Mountains have bowed their haughty crests, And opened wide the ponderous doors, The sea lias gathered in its dead, Love-wept on alien shores. Proud cities, wrapped in fire and flame, Have challenged all the slumbering land Yet neither Time nor C hange have touched These few bright grains of sand. Scribner* Monthly