The Somerset reporter. [volume] (Skowhegan, Me.) 1868-1909, 1897-04-29
For the Reporter.
Lines upon Immortality.

The autumn leaves appear to die,
But like tired children seeking rest.
The trees but lay their garments by
To sleep awhile on Natures breast.
Then mother-like in spring, she takes
The oldest clothes that e'er were seen,
And working o'er them silent, makes
Fresh, lovely robes of living green.
At length, the trees themselves decay,
But in the earth's vast bosom warm,
They live, and on some future day
They will appear in some new form.
The tear that dims maiden's eve.
Or down mourner's cheek that flows.
May live in rainbows in the sky.
Or in dew drop on rose
The wind that sweeps the Polar seas
And Arctic glaciers cleaning cold
May once have coaxed with soft warm
breath
The southern violet from the mould.
The path is short that lies between
The babe's first robe and burial cloth.
The bridal dress of silken sheen,
Are winding sheets OF poor dead moths.
From year to year, from age to age,
The great mysterious play goes on,
And silent moves across the stage
To day as in the ages gone.
The same old actors come each year,
But charm us ever, none the less,
Perform their parts, then disappear
Behind the scenes, to change their dress
And so the drama strange moves on.
In light and darkness, heat and frost,
And though new scenes we look upon,
Yet there is nothing ever lost
From this we learn simple truth,
That even death has recompense,
For from it rises brighter youth,
In everything of time and sense
And II in dull material things
This deathless current ever rolls,
Must we not think eternal life
Would be impaired to the soul?
If that which springs from out the sod
viii live, when ii has passed away,
Is not the life which comes from God
Superior to this changing clay?
When loved ones die, If we believed
We never more should meet again,
Like frantic birds we should beat out
Our hearts against our bars Of pain.
How could we bear mems sordid strife,
Without that hope of future life,
That makes us suffer and grow strong
The aspirations in each breast,
For better and diviner things,
Are unfiedged birds. in narrow nests,
That soon shall soar on heavenly wings
Would God have made the world SO fair,
And put such glories in the sky,
s,cl a. -. IL.
For us, il we like beasts must die?
Have made the seasons come and go,
The smiling sun to give us light?
Or speak to us in golden signs
OF love eternal, every night?
Would He have made the boundless sea
Thrill us with anthems SO sublime
We seem to feel eternity
Roll in upon the shores Of time?
In all Of beauty s forms, we seem
To go beyond the things of time,
And feel they are but shadows fair,
OF something in a brighter cline.
The music that doth charm our ear,
Makes all our eager soul arise
And list intent, that We may hear
The language spoken in the skies.
All races have abiding faith
In some far better world beyond,
Where there's no parting and no death,
And love is ever true and fond
And even in the savage breast
These same immortal instincts rise,
For hunting grounds of wider range,
Meath greener woods, and fairer skies.
This narrow soul can see the hand
OF some Great Spirit in the woods,
And dimly feel his thoughts expand
Amid the vast lone solitudes.
This faith is but the seed divine
That sleeps within our souls until
1t breaks the sod, and upward soars
Its glorious promise to fulfill
There lives in all heavenly fire,
Though it be no more than spark,
And if tits famed by pure desire
1t strives to live amid the dark
In some these fires are buried deep
Beneath duh ashes poor and cold.
But sparks divine forever keep,
And future light and heat doth hold.
And when some great devoted soul
Gives all for Love, and "in His name"
How many cold and hungry hearts
Are warmed and fed beside the flame.
These pent up souls that struggle here,
And long to grow like smothered ire,
Must find that wider life beyond
To which their human hearts aspire.
The eager reach toward the light,
As plants that have but little sun
And know through all the darkest night
That somewhere, morning has begun.
Immortal voices call to man,
In every breeze that passes by,
In all of natures harmonies,
In all the spaces of the sky
In all the silence of the woods,
When far from haunts OF man we roam
From all the grandeur of the hills,
These spirit voices call us home
And when we see the perfect law
That rules the tides, and tints the fiowt
We know in all things He abides,
We are no creatures of an hour.
lie weighs the planets in His hand,
And bids the suns His will perform,
He rides upon the mighty wind,
And passes by upon the STERN.
And yet that Great Heart lies so near,
That like tired children we can creep
At all times to our Fathers arms.
And give up all, and fall asleep.
Immortal! Do not for a moment doubt
That Love eniolds you every where,
Nor think one child can be left out
OF those who once have felt his care.
EMILY p. WBBB
Pasadena, April 18th, 1897.
Names First Rose Festival.
Augusta Me, April 2S-The Sta