Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/143

  The King closed his weary eyes. And bloody rings begin to madly circle Before his tightly closed and tired pupils. Madly they dance while they upward slowly rise, And others come, revolve and disappear, The while the King would want to catch them all To entertain his eyes with their lithe dancing.

From out the sea a wind blows o’er the plain, The wind that breathes the plains’ perfumed breath, The King dilates his wasted trembling nostrils, To catch this scent The soul of grassy plains, The lillies’ sighs, the scented breath of Roses Roses of Sharon, blessed by the priests In sacred chants of Lord of Sabaoth, Like love’s excitement is this breath of Roses, Roses of Sharon, glorified in Cantos, Sung in the evening by maidens around the fountain. The sweetened odor sinks into his bosom And wakes therein again an age-old pain; His Miriam, this proud and dusky maid unconquered, His Miriam, so mercilessly murdered, His dream, his lonesome soul’s eternal grief, For his Rose of Sharon yearns the grief-sick King.

’Tis true that by the will of God remains Concealed our future life but the knowing man, Like a pilot steering carefully his craft Avoids the dangers of protruding rocks, Of destructive winds, treacherous sandy shoals, And does not take to sail when tempests rage.

My own life’s course, my bosom friend Cornelius Nepos, plans to perpetuate Within his histories; Such picture serves Not merely as remembrance but as an inspiration And example: In such a manner we can will The sum of our life’s experience to our heirs And friends, as carefully collected treasures.