Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/504

 488 WILLIAM P. BRANNAN. [l«50-6. LOST YOUTH. A STRAIN, like songs of dying swans — A fragment of forgotten rhyme — A vision of the ghostly dawns, That woke me in the olden time To hopeless love and cruel scorns. And thoughts of unforgiven crime. Thus come the memories of the past, With faded light and smothered joys ; With daring hopes, too bright to last, With peals of fame — now empty noise. With high aspirings, grand and vast. My hopeless soul no more enjoys. Like Indian Summer's azure air, And music heard in holy dreams — Like voices lost in silent prayer. And murmurings of distant streams. Come back those days, when life was fair, With muffled sounds and hazy gleams. Within my soul the memory preys ; My lost youth was a dream of fame. Those half-forgotten, wildering days. When I, too, sought to win a name, Give but the phantom sounds of praise — The knell of what I fain would claim. REPENTANCE. Oh ! human souls, throw wide your doors ! A fellow mortal pleads his pain; With anguish bowed he fain implores His prayer be not in vain. vSome drops of heavenly pity shed O'er erring souls that go astray, Lift up a drooping brother's head And point the better way. boast not loudly nor elate Thy power o'er sin and human wrong, Thy strength to show thy brother's fate, Thy faith and virtue strong. For know, a man of gentlest mould Some giant sin may lead astray. With mighty power and demon hold. With fierce and fiendish sway. 0, gentle hearts, throw wide your doors. And let the pleading stranger in ; A wayworn pilgrim fain implores Release from shame and sin. HOMELESS. I HAVE a home no more. The humble cot, That, like a modest bride half hid in flowers. Smiled all its blessings on life's morning hours, Has passed from earth — now strangers own the spot. The guardian power that holds my life in trust. Still shows the picture to my loving view. And paints the blessed forms, to mem'ry true, Which long have slept in consecrated dust. All things have changed — my home is home no more — The favorite haunts where hopes, de- spairs, and loves Once circled round my soul like cottage doves, The glass of Fancy only can restore. The alien plowshare, for unnumbered years. Has made deep furrows for my bitter tears.