ECHOES.

Ofttimes when Even’s scarlet flag Floats from the crest of distant woods, And over moorland waste and crag A weary, voiceless sorrow broods; Around me hover to and fro The ghosts of songs heard long ago. And often midst the rush of wheels, Of passing and repassing feet, When half a headlong city reels Triumphant down the noontide street, Above the tumult of the throngs I hear again the same old songs. Rest and Unrest—’tis strange that ye, Who lie apart as pole from pole, Should sway with one strong sovereignty The secret issues of the soul; Strange that ye both should hold the keys Of prisoned tender memories. It maybe when the landscape’s rim Is red and slumberous round the west, The spirit too grows still and dim, And turns in half-unconscious quest To those forgotten lullabies That whilom closed the infant’s eyes. And maybe, when the city mart Roars with its fullest, loudest tide, The spirit loses helm and chart, And on an instant, terrified, Has fled across the space of years To notes that banished childhood’s fears. We know not—but ’tis sweet to know Dead hours still haunt the living day, And sweet to hope that, when the slow Sure message beckons us away, The Past may send some tuneful breath To echo round the bed of death. L. J. G.