E’en tho’ Opportunity’s latch-string is out, They, shelterless, wait for events to compel, And deem themselves goaded by Destiny’s knout While held in the toils of her mystical spell. Credulity, Sloth and their following throngs Forever are weaving entangling snares— ’Tis not till a victim is bound with their thongs, To thwart his endeavor that Destiny dares. Bring WILL to the front—strike Destiny down, And throttle the Fate that would hinder success— You’ll find that dame Fortune will put off her frown And yield, for past sufferings, an ampleredress. Unclaimed. Just beyond the reach of thought, Just beyond the grasp of mind Is a sense of Presence—fraught With blessing—felt, yet undefined. At times it seems a wondrous power— A strength, awaiting _Faith’s_ command— For trusting soul, a proffered dower, That’s held by Love’s omniscient hand. Is it the gift, reserved of God For those whom Faith brings nearest Him?— The power that smote the rock?—the rod That rives the fountain’s brim, That all His thirsty souls may drink? “O, ye of little faith,” He cries— So many faithless Peters sink, _And the proffered power dies_. Death. When thou, O Death, art come to be the old man’s guest Who, bowed beneath the heavy weight of toil and years, So longeth for thy rest, Or to the weary mother, looking through her tears, To the bright celestial shore Where her loved have gone before, Then, truly, thou art blest. To them the ties that bound are broken, all, And they will stretch glad hands of welcome unto thee Who comes to break their thrall— To slip the leash of weary life and set them free; They, impatient, wait release To pass the golden gates of Peace And gladly list thy call. But, in Love’s young home, where Life is one bright, pulsing sea Of joy and hope, thy summons hath heart-breaking sound, Like cruel Fate’s decree; As tho’ alone, by stealth, she had thy gyves unbound, When thou hadst to this Eden crept And wrought, while guardian angels slept, What Envy’s dream might be. We feel the surging depth of Sorrow’s stifled cry, Yet in thy presence, helpless, dumb with grief, we stand And silent question—Why?— Why budding life is frozen by thine icy hand, Why yielded to thy devastating claim Are all the loveliest of earth,— E’en God’s sweetest, dearest gift of birth— A mother-love, Which is for life’s most holy joys, the precious name. While cloud-depths veil in gloom the steely form of truth, The heart, athrob with grief, still questions why:— Ah, why Love’s brightly burning flame Is ever smothered by thy breath,— Its altar, dark and cold, whereon dead ashes lie;— Oh! why are love, and hope, and youth, All left within thy grasp, O, Death? Night-Blooming Cereus.