POETRY.
MIN.
["For a great God is in them, and he groweth not old."—Cimaus.] OPT of the Mother we sung,
Oft of the deep and its might, Oft of the Moon that is hung High in the cavern of night.
Nor shall our voices be mute Hymning the creature of God, Man, who is born of the brute E'en as the brute of the clod.
Lowly is he, of the dust, Yet bath he vision within, Vision that breedeth mistrust, Breedeth remorse for his sin.
Sleepless, invisible laws All who have breath must obey, None from their shadow withdraws, Choosing a devious way.
Laws that the wise may not scorn, Simple are they to the wise, Not of men's foolishness born, Nor of the darkness that flies.
Laws that are sisters of fate, Owning no brothers in time, Who to their reign sets a date ?
Man in the pride of his prime ?
Nay, it were folly to bid Stars from their heaven descend, Or to the sun that is hid Cry, 'Thy dominion hath end.'
Calm, everlasting, secure, Ne'er shall their kingdom decay ; Guile from their height may not lure, Force cannot hound them away.
T. S. D. DYBALD.
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