Original Poetry

Colonist, Volume III, Issue 232, 10 January 1860, Page 4

Original Poetry

THE BBOOK AND THE BOOK.

Down by the churchyard grey, Y Then winds of autumn tossed the leaflets sere, That strewed the'path of the departing year, At eve I bent my way. Close by a low-voiced stream That in tho silence of the twilight dim Bang like a widowed heart a plaintive hymn, 1 sat me down to dream. And 10, methought the brook As it went tinkling on its pebbly way, Into my pensive ear wierd-like did say '■Go thou, and write a book, The which, when thou hast writ, No tome that e'er hath been behold of men, No volume, offspring of an earthly pen, So vast shall be as it, Whoso every page shall cry Like to the blood of him his brother slew, Up from the outraged earth, and echo through The far depths of the sky. That wax shall never old Like to its kin, but fresh its strength and youth Embalmed and shrined in its own mighty truth, Till Time his tale hath told." I pray thee tell to me Oh mournful singing, and mysterious brook, This spell-fraught thing, this rare and noble book, Of what it all may bo. " Not of the joys of earth, The charms that wealth of fame or gold may yield, 2s ot of heroic deeds on wave or field, Not of the statesman's worth, But woman's sighs and tears; All she hath borne from proud and tyrant man, Since the dark night when first her life began, Night of six thousand years. Of the world's bitter scorn, If to the paths of sin her feet may stray. Though hand in hand with him upon the way, By her Cain's brand be worn. Of the fell deeds of wrong Of ruined peace, of violated trust, Of broken hearts, of hopes laid in the dust, Of slavery dire and long. Serf of his royal whim, A thing for leading strings, yet not that Heaven Unto him greater power of soul hath given, But greater power of limb." I fear me it were run My race unto the tomb, oh gentle brook, And thine own channel dry, when this dread book Was scarcely yet begun. BETH.