EPHEMERA.
[44 Miss Martineau asks what it can signify whether we, with our in- dividual consciousness, live again ; and says that ' the real and justifi- able subject of interest to human beings is the welfare of their fellows,' and the important thing is that the universe should be full of life.'" See letter, signed "E. W. S.," on "The New Asceticism," in the last number of the Spectator.]
IF Fate, indeed, with fixed and stony face, Looked death on Aspiration's eager fire, Stilled the strained chords of Hope's ecstatic lyre, And mutely mocked life's glory, power, and grace, The soul, as stolid as its sphinx-faced Doom, With cold and patient scorn might pass into the gloom.
If like the brave fore-fated band whose breasts Court a beleaguered bastion's iron rain, Humanity's fleeting myriads not in vain Might pave fair paths to Conquest's hidden crests With their dead generations, there are those Who'd calmly pass to earth dreaming of Life's full rose.
But shall it ever flower ? If, in sooth, From dust to dust in endless cycles sum The Hope of all the Ages, love is dumb, And sacrifice may mourn its squandered ruth.
What food hath faith, whose farthest dreams descry Ephemeral motes that crowd a dull infinity ?
Life ! and what life ? The life that, like a spark, Quickens a moment deftly-moulded clay—
Teaching it torture's thrill, some passing play Of cheating rapture, quenched in hastening dark— Is worthless as a marsh-fire, though it light Eyes numberless as are the stars of winter's night.
What interest, though selfless as the love Of self-slain Deity, may live through all The eternal farce of life ephemeral, With dreams beyond its destiny, hopes above Its highest stretch, and pains unmotived, save As prelude to that birth whose portal is,—a grave ?
What welfare is there worth a prayer, a pain, If rounded by the final ill of death?
Or boots it e'en to breathe unburthened breath Some bare brief days, then stoop to dust again ? To whom, or man or God, hath life such worth That's but an interlude of dreams 'twist earth and earth ? Soul-life hath no true glory save the crown Of Immortality. If that's a dream, Face we our fate, scorn we illusion's gleam, But shape not lies to dupe us while we drown.
Why mock the man-mime's hour of storm and stress With ghosts of baseless love and barren selflessness ?
E. J. M.
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