POETRY.
A PESSIMIST'S REPROACH TO NA.CURE.
Ir but the solemn murmurs of the night Might breathe some knowledge of our destiny !
If but th' illumination of noon's light Might gild the edges of life's mystery !
Thou fair, mysterious Universe, So eloquent, withal so dumb, What profit that thou art the Nurse Of many yearnings (partial curse) And that thou scatter'st ne'er one crumb Of intellectual food, to sate The more than human appetite For knowledge wherefore we are come P What profiteth, although upon the key Of myriad human passions thou dost play ?— Thou canst not tell why we are -we, Nor sing solutions of man's brief-spun day. Thou art no teacher of the inner lore, A medley thou of sights and sounds and scents, A book of Elements, —Thou art no more. VERNON BLACKBURN.
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