Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/391

 And gathered hope and light, and never missed

To do a thing for the sake of good.

And every day that glided through the world

Saw some fine instance of his bright reform,

And some assurance he would never fall

Into the pits and traps of hell again.

And thus it came to pass that Basil's name

Grew sweet with men; and, when he died, his end

Was calm—was evening-like, and beautiful.

Here ends the tale of Basil Moss. To wives

Who suffer as the Painter's darling did,

I dedicate these lines; and hope they'll bear

In mind those efforts of her lovely life,

Which saved her husband's soul; and proved that while

A man who sins can entertain remorse,

He is not wholly lost. If such as they

But follow her, they may be sure of this,

That Love, that sweet authentic messenger

From God, can never fail while there is left

Within the fallen one a single pulse

Of what the angels call humanity.

years had the tiger, whose shape was that of a sinister man,

Been out since the night of escape—two years under horror and ban.

In a time full of thunder and rain, when hurricanes hackled the tree,

He slipt through the sludge of a drain, and swam a fierce fork of the sea.

Through the roar of the storm, and the ring and the wild savage whistle of hail,

Did this naked, whipt, desperate thing break loose from the guards of the gaol.

And breasting the foam of the bay, and facing the fangs of the bight,

With a great cruel cry on his way, he dashed through the darkness of night.