Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/173

MERIDIAN In this meridian hour she far has sped

And left them but her phantom mask instead.

A grave, sweet poet in a song has told

Of one, a king, who in his palace old

Hung up a bell; and placed its cord anear

His couch,—that thenceforth, when the court should hear

Its music, all might know the king had rung

With his own hand, and that its silver tongue

Gave out the words of joy he wished to say,

"I have been wholly happy on this day!"

Joy's full perfection never to him came;

Voiceless the bell, year after year the same,

Till, in his death-throes, round the cord his hand

Gathered—and there was mourning in the land.

I pray you, search the wistful past, and tell

Which of you all could ring the happy bell!

The treasure-trove, the gifts we ask of Fate,

Come far apart, come mildewed, come too late.

What says the legend? "All that man desires

Greatly at morn he gains ere day expires;"

But Age craves not the fruits that gladden Youth,—

It sits among its vineyards, full of ruth,

Finding the owner's right to what is best

Of little worth without the seeker's zest.

Yet something has been gained. Not all a waste

The light-winged years have vanished in their haste,

Howbeit their gift was scant of what we thought,

So much we thought not of they slowly wrought!

Not all a waste the insight and the zeal

We gathered here: these surely make for weal;

The current sets for him who swims upbuoyed

By the trained skill, with all his arts employed. 143