Alfred Castner King

When close by my bed the Death Angel shall stand And deliver his summons, at last; When my brow feels the chill of his cold, clammy hand,

O, tomb of the past Where buried hopes lie, In my visions I see

When passing years have streaked with frost These tresses now as jet, When life's meridian is crossed

Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind Sees God in the clouds and hears Him in the wind. --Pope.

As the shifting sands of the desert Are born by the simoon's wrath, And in wanton and fleet confusion,

Is there a Death? The light of day At eventide shall fade away; From out the sod's eternal gloom

Almighty Power! Who through the past Our Nation's course has safely led; Behold again the sky o'ercast,

Once more the merry Christmas bells, Are ringing far and wide; Their chime in rhythmic chorus swells,

Deprive this strange and complex world Of all the charms of art; Deprive it of those sweeter joys

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled; When vanishes each prospect fair, When the last flickering ray has sped,

The hour-glass speeds its final sands, In splendor sinks the golden sun, So men must yield to death's demands

What means this gathering multitude, Upon thy shores, O, Galilee, As various as the billows rude

Ah, empty are the mother's arms Which clasp a vanished form; A darling spared from life's alarms,

There is a cliff, no matter where, Which softened by the agencies Of rain, exposure to the air,

Within a vale in distant Saxony, In time uncertain, though 'twas long ago. There dwelt a woman, most unhappily,

Gently lead me, Star Divine, Lead with bright unchanging ray; O'er my lowly pathway shine,

When the poor, erring woman sought In tears the Master's feet, Her breast, with deep contrition fraught,

Dedicated to the mountains of the San Juan district, Colorado, as seen from the summit of Mt. Wilson. I stood at sunrise, on the topmost part Of lofty mountain, massively sublime;

For some the river of life would seem Free from the shallow, the reef, or bar, As they gently glide down the silvery stream

Hope is the shadowy essence of a wish, A fond desire which floats before our eyes; With lurid aberration, feverish,--

I stood upon a crowded thoroughfare, Within a city's confines, where were met All classes and conditions, and surveyed,

I think when I stand in the presence of Death, How futile is earthy endeavor, If it be, with the flight of the last labored breath,

If I have lived before, some evidence Should that existence to the present bind; Some innate inkling of experience

Almighty God! Supreme! Most High! Before Thy throne, in reverence, we kneel; We cannot realize Thine infinity;

DYING THOUGHTS. As Life's receding sunset fades And night descends,

I live, I move, I know not how, nor why, Float as a transient bubble on the air, As fades the eventide I, too, must die;

Within the precincts of a hospital, I wandered in a sympathetic mood; Where face to face with wormwood and with gall,

I love thee, my darling, both now and forever, My heart feels the thralldom of love's mystic spell, 'Tis fettered with shackles which nothing can sever,

O, silvery moon, fair mistress of the night, Thou mellow, ever vaccilating orb, How many eons of unmeasured time

Pity the child who never feels A mother's fond caress; That childish smile a void conceals

Mother! Mother! The startled cry of childish fright Rang through the silence of the night,

I love to tread the solitudes, The forests and the trackless woods, Where nature, undisturbed by man,

In forest shade my couch is made. And there I calmly lie, With thought confined in pensive mind,

O, a beautiful thing is the flower that fadeth, And perishing, smiles on the chill autumn wind; A sweet desolation its ruin pervadeth,

On the margin of a lakelet, In a rugged mountain clime, Where precipice and pinnacle

Shall love as the bridal wreath, wither and die? Or remain ever constant and sure, As the years of the future pass rapidly by,

Shall our memories live, when the sod rolls above us And marks our last home with a mouldering heap? Shall the voices of those who profess that they love us

There is the warm, congenial smile, Benign, and honest, too, Free from deception, fraud, and guile;

I gazed at the azure-hued mantle of heaven, The measureless depths of ethereal space; I gazed at the clouds, so invisibly driven,

They say that all nature is smiling and gay, And the birds the most happy of all, But the sparrow, pursued by the sparrowhawk,

I passed along a mountain road, Which led me through a wooded glen, Remote from dwelling or abode

The leafless branch and meadow sere, The dull and leaden skies, Join with the mournful wind and drear

The fragrant perfume of the flowers, Exuding in the summer hours, E'en as the altar's incense rare

St. Regimund, e'er he became a saint, Was much imbued with vulgar earthly taint; E'er he renounced the honors of a Knight

Clink! Clink! Clink! The song of the hammer and drill! At the sound of the whistle so shrill and clear,

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay. --Goldsmith.

Wherever I wander, my spirit still dwells, In the silvery San Juan[1] with its streamlet and dells; Whose mountainous summits, so rugged and high,

The spirit of freedom is born of the mountains, In gorge and in ca'on it hovers and dwells; Pervading the torrents and crystalline fountains,

What anguish rankled 'neath that silent breast? What spectral figures mocked those staring eyes, Luring them on to Stygian mysteries?

O! Sun, resplendent in the smiling morn, As thou dost view the wastes of earth and sky, Canst thou behold the realms of the Unborn,

In the golden West, by fond Nature blest, Lies a vale which my heart holds dear; Where the zephyr blows from eternal snows

There is an air of majesty, A bearing dignified and free, About the mountain peaks;

They cannot see the wreaths we place Upon the silent bier, They cannot see the tear-stained face,

Think not that the heart is devoid of emotion, Because of a countenance rugged and stern, The bosom may hide the most fervent devotion,

I dug a grave, one smiling April day, A grave whose small proportions testified To empty arms, and playthings put away,

As repeated in chorus on the anniversary of her Names-day by the Sisters of St. Hubert at St. Anthony's Hospital, Denver, Col., Oct. 29, 1900. Mother, our greetings be to thee, On the glad anniversary

Ye sad musicians of the wood, Whose dirges fill the solitude, Whose minor strains and melodies