POETRY.

THE SECRET.

HE who would sing of what is beautiful, Of secrets that can reconcile the soul,

Should frame his incantation with choice words, With rich-embroidered words, though dark :—alas ! I cannot chant mysterious Indian airs

Or sing of havens where some happier barque Haply, at sunset, furling sail, has felt Calmness and rest, beyond the reach of storms.

And yet I have my secret: and would share My secret with the world wherein I roam.

It may be with the first white flake of snow, Or after some long tramp across the hills; It may be after sickness which has seemed To strain the cords which hold us to the earth, Or by the provocation of a face Seen for a moment passing in the street ; It may he after years of drudgery, Youth gone, faith gone, friends gone :— As one who wanders Bewildeed, in the catacombs of life, And hurries this way and that, and has no knowledge,

Where all the air is full of dead men's groans,

Horrible martyrdoms, that ring and echo

Thin, inarticulate, ineffectual—

Wailing and darkness, and the sense of battle Terribly futile and foredoom'd :—as one Who, wandering thus through countless corridors Leading to nowhere, endlessly alike, Looks up, and through the rifted prison-rock Sees a faint streak of light, and the clear shapes Of venturous ferns pencilled against the sky ; And as he looks, the moon goes drifting past, And stars, and a red blush at break of day : So is my secret : so I look and sing.

0 Love eternal who hath chained me here To gaze with wistful eyes at those great sights, Dim are mine eyes with watching, yet I watch, kly heart is crampt and cold, but still endures : The world is nothing to me; why should I speak Of phantoms ? for but phantoms will they seem To those who wrestle in the nether blackness.

I stand and watch. Man is a fallen god, A. fallen angel; a tremendous doom

Usheed his birth folly to speak of this ! Lock thou my lips, seal with an iron seal The truth, and let me perish with the fool. We are but cyphers, and consume the earth To be by earth consumed :—and yet, the secret.

'Es not a thing of budding bush and blossom, Or spell of druid woods, and dying leaves,

And swollen brook :—not now, though once it was.

The breasts of Helen buoyant as the swan That flattered Leda with a love divine, Lure me no more; that phantom lures no more. Passion and spring are gone, I have grown calm : The laughter of women, and the light of youth Have passed beyond regret. Not wholly vain The turbulent years of youth and broken passion, Yet gone without regret : yea, I am glad That those great siren-rocks are out of sight. Yet still the secret lingers : 0 my love, A thousand times more fair than these are fair, Thou singest, and I follow.

The greatest prize That life can give to man is not success, But to behold life peeling, year by year, Stripping, disclosing with intenser brilliance The central lustre, the white pearl of pearls. Yes, lovelier than a disrobing bride To eager lover, every year that flies Hastens the happy day, and brings me nearer To that success, to that consummate hour When, like an artist, full of glorious pride, With tears of exultation, I shall stand Enthroned and vindicated : then, oh secret, No longer like a wandering beam or echo, Or shadow of drifting moon, or break of day, But robed in shining power, revealed and clear In the broad noon-light, that triumphant hour, Thou wilt receive me, and accept my love, And I shall sing no more. GASCOIGNE MACKIN.