POETRY.
THE PATH OF POWER.
Sour, and body, follow me,
Cold and free the mountains gleam,
Leave the vale of laughing ease Where the trees o'erhang the stream.
Come, my body, joy of sense Shall not henceforth be thy spoil, Leave, my soul, thy fellow-fires : Who aspires alone must toil.
Festal riot, lure of love, Up above ye shall not find. Pine trees toss their spears of black
O'er our track beneath the wind.
Whispering their music dies As we rise, and now I seek On the ridge the mounded stones Hide his bones who tried the height.
Though the daylight wane and fail, I must scale the peak to-night.
Soul and body, can ye fear When so near my battle- ground ?
Fear the darkness ?—ye would flee Could ye see where I am bound.
Lonely wastes of silent snow Spread below the windy peak.
Mote-like in the vale one stands Lifting hands to wave me back, Sighs that kindle, eyes that burn Shall not turn me from my track.
PHILIP P. GRAVES.
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