POETRY.
IN MEMORIAM.—A. 0.
How many million years have gone to mould Those mountain fastnesses that gave you birth? How many million years must yet be told From that dark day when you returned to earth e What hope, when I have followed in your train And all this mortal coil shall melt away, That finite senses and this finite brain
Shall slip their circumambient shroud of clay, And some supernal intimacy of touch, Some limitless new dawn of spirit-play, Assure me that I have not hoped too much, Reveal you to me on my burial day ?
How vain to question, and how vain to crave An answer from your silent granite grave!
Swift death and laggard time Are but as particles of the sublime, The dominant, the all-pervasive will, Which, though rebellious, we must follow still.
Break down the pride, accept the frown or nod, Then we, No longer fretful nuralings at the knee Of our divine progenitor, Lie back on life and death as on the lap of God.
H. F. B.
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