Then the old Marsh Hen went hopping about; She said she was sure--she hadn’t a doubt-- Of the truth of each bird’s story; And she thought it her duty to stop her flight, To pull her down from her lofty height, And take the gilt from her glory. But, lo! from a peak on the mountain grand, That looks out over the smiling land, And over the mighty ocean, The Eagle is spreading her splendid wings-- She rises, rises, and upward swings, With a slow, majestic motion. Up in the blue of God’s own skies, With a cry of rapture, away she flies, Close to the Great Eternal. She sweeps the world with her piercing sight; Her soul is filled with the Infinite And the joy of things supernal. Thus rise forever the chosen of God, The genius-crowned or the power-shod, Over the dust-world sailing; And back like splinters blown by the winds, Must fall the missiles of silly minds, Useless and unavailing. THE WAY OF IT. This is the way of it, wide world over, One is beloved, and one is the lover, One gives and the other receives, One lavishes all in wild emotion, One offers a smile for a life’s devotion, One hopes and the other believes. One lies awake in the night to weep, And the other drifts off in a sweet, sound sleep. One soul is aflame with a godlike passion, One plays with love in an idler’s fashion, One speaks and the other hears. One sobs “I love you,” and wet eyes show it, And one laughs lightly, and says “I know it,” With smiles for the other’s tears. One lives for the other and nothing beside, And the other remembers the world is wide. This is the way of it, sad earth over, The heart that breaks is the heart of the lover, And the other learns to forget. “For what is the use of endless sorrow? Though the sun goes down, it will rise to-morrow; And life is not over yet.” Oh! I know this truth, if I know no other, That passionate Love is Pain’s own mother. THE SUICIDE. Vast was the wealth I carried in life’s pack-- Youth, health, ambition, hope and trust; but Time And Fate, those robbers fit for any crime, Stole all, and left me but the empty sack. Before me lay a long and lonely track Of darkling hills and barren steeps to climb; Behind me lay in shadows the sublime Lost lands of Love’s delight. Alack! Alack! Unwearied, and with springing steps elate, I had conveyed my wealth along the road. The empty sack proved now a heavier load: I was borne down beneath its worthless weight. I stumbled on, and knocked at Death’s dark gate. There was no answer. Stung by sorrow’s goad, I _forced_ my way into that grim abode, And laughed, and flung Life’s empty sack to Fate.