Art thou alone, and does thy soul complain It lives in vain? Not vainly does he live who can endure Oh be thou sure, That he who hopes and suffers here, can earn A sure return. Hast thou found nought within thy troubled life Save inward strife? Hast thou found all she promised thee, Deceit, And Hope a cheat? Endure, and there shall dawn within thy breast Eternal rest! VERSE: HOME AT LAST Child, do not fear; We shall reach our home to-night, For the sky is clear, And the waters bright; And the breezes have scarcely strength To unfold that little cloud, That like a shroud Spreads out its fleecy length Then have no fear, As we cleave our silver way Through the waters clear. Fear not, my child! Though the waves are white and high, And the storm blows wild Through the gloomy sky; On the edge of the western sea, See that line of golden light, Is the haven bright Where home is awaiting thee; Where, this peril past, We shall rest from our stormy voyage In peace at last. Be not afraid; But give me thy hand, and see How the waves have made A cradle for thee. Night is come, dear, and we shall rest; So turn from the angry skies, And close thine eyes, And lay thy head on my breast: Child, do not weep; In the calm, cold, purple depths There we shall sleep. VERSE: UNEXPRESSED Dwells within the soul of every Artist More than all his effort can express; And he knows the best remains unuttered; Sighing at what we call his success. Vainly he may strive; he dare not tell us All the sacred mysteries of the skies: Vainly he may strive; the deepest beauty Cannot be unveiled to mortal eyes. And the more devoutly that he listens, And the holier message that is sent, Still the more his soul must struggle vainly, Bowed beneath a noble discontent. No great Thinker ever lived and taught you All the wonder that his soul received; No true Painter ever set on canvas All the glorious vision he conceived. No Musician ever held your spirit Charmed and bound in his melodious chains, But be sure he heard, and strove to render, Feeble echoes of celestial strains. No real Poet ever wove in numbers All his dream; but the diviner part, Hidden from all the world, spake to him only In the voiceless silence of his heart. So with Love: for Love and Art united Are twin mysteries; different, yet the same: Poor indeed would be the love of any Who could find its full and perfect name. Love may strive, but vain is the endeavour All its boundless riches to enfold; Still its tenderest, truest secret lingers Ever in its deepest depths untold. Things of Time have voices: speak and perish. Art and Love speak--but their words must be Like sighings of illimitable forests, And waves of an unfathomable sea. VERSE: BECAUSE It is not because your heart is mine--mine only-- Mine alone; It is not because you chose me, weak and lonely, For your own; Not because the earth is fairer, and the skies Spread above you Are more radiant for the shining of your eyes-- That I love you!