POETRY.
OUR LADY OF EMPIRE.
IN the dim vaults of eternal twilight, Each upon his bed, as if in slumber, Lie the kings and chieftains of long-vanished empires.
He who drew his bow upon the plains of Shinar ; He whose face lives in Egyptian granite ; He who boasted as he saw his city's splendour ;
Macedon's great lord ; all-conquering Cesar; Attila the scourge of God ; and—fiercer- Europe's iron-hearted, waxen-faced dictator.
Very still they lie, their hearts scarce beating, AIL the world forgot and all its passions,
Love and hatred and ambition burned to ashes.
See the awful, silent door swings open, Who is this that enters, tall and stately, Robed in dazzling white, and tinctured as with sapphires?
In her right hand flames the sword of battle, Gleaming on her brow a golden circlet Set with jewels from the wide earth's farthest limits.
As the grasses stir beneath the South wind, So the sleepers turn, with eyes half open, " Art thou, too, become as we ?" their pale lips murmur.
On she moves with swift but noiseless footsteps, And a little smile, half pride, half pity, Plays around her parted lips, her only answer.
On she moves, undaunted by the shadows, For a voice is calling, and a vision Shines before her, brightest in the hours of darkness.
Mistress of the island and the empire !
Swords may break or rust, and crowns may perish, But the vision and the voice endure for ever.
B. PAUL NEUMAN.
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