"The ill-timed truth we might have kept-- Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say-- Who knows how grandly it had rung?
"Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders--oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!"
The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, "Be merciful to me, a fool!"
This bronze doth keep the very form and mold Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he: That brow all wisdom, all benignity; That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold; That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea For storms to beat on; the lone agony Those silent, patient lips too well foretold. Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men As might some prophet of the elder day,-- Brooding above the tempest and the fray With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken. A power was his beyond the touch of art Or armèd strength: his pure and mighty heart.
Years have flown since I knew thee first, And I know thee as water is known of thirst: Yet I knew thee of old at the first sweet sight, And thou art strange to me, Love, to-night.
Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at life's end, I have set on the face of Death in trust for thee. Through long years keep it fresh on thy lips, O friend! At the gate of Silence give it back to me.
[7] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.
Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down Each with its loveliness as with a crown, Drooped in a florist's window in a town.
The first a lover bought. It lay at rest, Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast.
The second rose, as virginal and fair, Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair.
The third, a widow, with new grief made wild, Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.
A man said unto his angel: "My spirits are fallen thro', And I cannot carry this battle; O brother! what shall I do?
"The terrible Kings are on me, With spears that are deadly bright, Against me so from the cradle Do fate and my fathers fight."