POETRY.
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
["If you want to know what a man is, examine his castles in the air."— Spectator, May 17th, 1902.]
WHERE is my castle in the air,
My true self's home and palace fair ?
Its towers high-built in land of cloud, With dream-wrought pageantry endowed, A place of moon-enchanted air With glistening spires and turrets, where With magic spell the orbed queen Weaves warp and woof of shade and sheen, And brimming stars spill from the sky The jewels of their galaxy ?
Or is't a place of moss-grown walls Where sad sweet memory recalls The deeds of other spacious days Far past, yet ringing with men's praise P Or upland cot in some far dale ? Or where in deep sequestered vale A twilight bower, 'neath forest trees, Drowsy with hum of honey-bees, Tempts men to sleep and dream away The languorous length of summer day ?
Or is't among the thronging feet Of crowding multitudes, the street Resounding loud to drum and fife, The trumpet's blare, the clanging strife, And people's voice acclaiming far Some mighty victor from the war ?
Ah no ! ah no! my true home there, Where my glad spirit debonair Can range, from vain temptations free, To list diviner melody ; The songs of life and love and truth, Of child's romance, of manhood's rah, Of quiet joys and simple ways, The dear wife's smile, the good friend's praise : The laugh at ills by Fortune sent, The scorn of cynic argument How wiles expedient may redress The balance of the More and Less, Forgetful that to dare and fail Is better than to win and quail.
Nay this my chiefest aim and mark To be myself : then days may dark, My soul's at peace, my heaven's all light, Afar or near, at noon, at night,
Hap then what will, or weal or woe, Conscience will crown me, and I, so, King of myself, shall everywhere Be my own home and palace fair.
CHARLES W. STUBBS.,
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