Poetry
... - THE THREE VOICES. Wbat saith the Past to thee ? Weep i Truth is departed; Bleauty bath died like the dream of a sleep, Love is faint-hearted; Trifles of sense, the profoundly unreal, Scare from our spirits God's holy ideal- So, as a funeral bell, slow and deep, So tolls the Past to thee! Weep! How speaks the Present hour? Act! Walk, upward glancing; So shall thy footsters in glory be tracked ...