22 AUGUST 1874, Page 14

POETRY.

TWO SONNETS.

IF we be fools of chance, indeed, and tend No whither, then the blinder fools in this : That, loving good, we live, in scorn of bliss, Its wageless servants to the evil end.

If at the last, man's thirst for higher things Be quench'd in dust, the giver of his life.

Why press with growing zeal a hopeless strife,- Why—born for creeping—should he dream of wings ?

0 Mother Dust ! thou hast one law so mild,

We call it sacred—all thy creatures own it— The tie which binds the parent and the child,—

Why has man's loving heart alone outgrown it ?

Why hast thou tiavaird so to be denied, So trampled by a would-be matricide?

IL Ripe fruit of sciencelidemonstrated fact-

- We grasp at thee in trembling expectation, We humbly wait on thee for explanation : Words of the Universe, enshrin'd in act !

Words, pregnant words, but only parts of speech As yet, curt utterance such as children use, With meanings struggling through but to confuse, And hinted signs which soar beyond our reach.

Work on in patience, children of the time Who lend your faultering modes to Nature's voice,— Fulfil your present task ; some prize sublime Ye wot not of your hearts may still iejoice,—

Some strain of music shape the wild turmoil. And consecrate the pauses of your toil. - EMILY PFEIFFER.