Too Late

Too late the prize is drawn, the goal attained.
Too late, too late, our heart's desire is gained.
Wealth's use is past; Fame's crown of laurel mocks
The downward drooping head and grizzled locks.
The end is reached — the end of toil and strife —
The end of life.

Love flowers and fades like grass, and flowers again,
And strong young hearts spend all their strength in vain.
The fiery passions burn out, one by one,
And then, too late, when our best days are done,
Spirit and body find their perfect mate —
Too late, too late!

Long sought, long seeking, through the lonely years,
We meet at last to weep our useless tears
For time and chance irrevocably flown,
For dreams outlived and fervent hopes outgrown,
For babes unborn, for myriad joys unseen,
That might have been.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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An Old Doll

Low on her little stool she sits
To make a nursing lap,
And cares for nothing but the form
Her little arms enwrap.

With hairless skull that gapes apart,
A broken plaster ball,
One chipped glass eye that squints askew,
And ne'er a nose at all -

No raddle left on grimy cheek,
No mouth that one can see -
It scarce discloses, at a glance,
What it was meant to be.

But something in the simple scheme
As it extends below
(It is the 'tidy' from my chair
That she is rumpling so) -

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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Practising the Anthem

A summer wind blows through the open porch,
And, 'neath the rustling eaves,
A summer light of moonrise, calm and pale,
Shines through a vale of leaves.

The soft gusts bring a scent of summer flowers,
Fresh with the falling dew,
And round the doorway, glimmering white as snow,
The tender petals strew.

Clear through the silence, from a reedy pool
The curlew's whistle thrills;
A lonely mopoke sorrowfully cries
From the far-folding hills.

O lovely night, and yet so sad and strange!
My fingers touch the key;
And down the empty church my Christmas song
Goes ringing, glad and free.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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Good Night

1.

Love, thou hast wandered far and wide,
But here thy wanderings cease;
Thy long- sought mate is by thy side,
And thou canst sleep in peace.

2.

Night moans outside our window- pane,
And weeps from dripping eaves;
The air is thick with falling rain
Upon dead autumn leaves.

3.

The winds of winter rave and chafe
Around thy tranquil nest,
But I am here, and thou art safe —
Thy very soul may rest.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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At Sea

When the investing darkness growls,
And deep reverberates to deep;
When keyhole whines and chimney howls,
And all the roofs and windows weep;
Then, through the doorless walls of sleep,
The still-sealed ear and shuttered sight,
Phantoms of memory steal and creep,
The very ghosts of sound and light--
Dream-visions and dream-voices of a bygone night.

I see again, I hear again,
Where lightnings flash and house-eaves drip,
A flying swirl of waves and rain--
That storm-path between Sound and Rip.
I feel the swaying of the ship
In every gust that rocks the trees,
And taste that brine upon my lip
And smell the freshness of the breeze
That sped us through the welter of those racing seas.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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Grey

Is the morning dim and cloudy? Does the wind drift up the leaves?
Is there mist upon the mountains, where the sun shone yesterday?
Are the little song-birds silent? Is the sky all blurred and grey?
Does the rain fall, patter, patter, from the eaves?

Does your glass go down? And does your heart sink in the dreary lull?
Are the strings relax'd and limp, and do the soft notes whine and cry?
Has the damp got in and jarred the chords and spoil'd the melody?
Are you out of tune, belovèd? are you dull?

Has the chill wind found an entrance? Does it sigh and rustle there?
Is it drifting, not the dead leaves, but your dead hopes, all about?
Is it waking up your sorrow while your light is blotted out?
Does your heart seem sad and cold and full of care?

Are you listless and discouraged, dear? and does your life look grey?
Does there seem no use in trying? Does your work fall from your hand?
Would you give up the great riddle that's so hard to understand?
Oh, then, go you to your chamber straight, and pray.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Crown of Thorns

“And unto Adam He said . . . . cursed is the ground for thy sake. Thorns . .
. . shall it bring forth.”
“And the soldiers platted a crown of thorns, and put it on His head.”

In bitterest sorrow did the ground bring forth
Its fatal seed. Thine eyes beheld the birth—
Beheld the travail of accursèd earth;
E'en then, O Lord! in greater love than wrath!

Thou sawest the sin that none could gather out—
The vineyard cover'd with the thorn and briar;
Thou sawest the fair land ready for the fire—
And still Thy pity compass'd it about.

Thou, O most merciful! didst spare the brand;
Thou didst redeem the Paradise of God;
The thorns were rooted from the stubborn sod,
In pain and toil, by Thine own blessèd hand.

How was our path to heaven o'ergrown with sin—

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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In Memoriam

“He asked life of thee, and thou gavest him a long life, even for ever and ever.”

Life—length of days—the time to work and strive
In his Lord's vineyard; to bring heavenly light
Into the drear, dark places of the earth,
And make them fair and fruitful in His sight.

Life—it seem'd all so bright and beautiful once!
It lay spread out before his kindling eyes,
A land of sunny hills, in white mist veil'd,
Of sweet green valleys under summer skies.

Such tender light and tender shadows there!
No dazzling blaze, no savage blots of gloom,
No keen-cut outline of the barren cliff,
No glaring waste,—but all one gentle bloom

Of happy, innocent hope,—a morning tint
Of pearly grey and gold, with just a shade
Of bright cloud-colour, giving life to it,—

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Winged Mariners

Through the wild night, the silence and the dark,
Through league on league of the uncharted sky,
Lonelier than dove of fable from its ark,
The fieldfares fly.

Mate with his tiny mate, and younglings frail,
That only knew the crevice of their tree
Until, in faith stupendous, they set sail
Across the sea.

The black North Sea, that takes such savage toll
Of ships and men - and yet could not appal
These little mariners, who seek their goal
Beyond it all.

Turning those soft, indomitable breasts
To meet the unchained Titans of the deep -
Calm, as if cradled in Norwegian nests,
Their course they keep.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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This Enlightened Age

I Say it to myself—in meekest awe
Of Progress, electricity and steam,
Of this almighty age—this liberal age,
That has no time to breathe, or think, or dream,—

I ask it of myself, with bated breath,
Casting a furtive glance about the hall,—
Our fathers, were their times so very dark?
Were they benighted heathens after all?

Had they not their Galileo—Newton too—
And men as great, though not a Stephenson?
Had they not passable scholars in fair Greece,
Who traced the paths we deign to walk upon
Had they not poets in those dismal days—
Homer and Shakespeare, and a few between?
Had they not rulers in their barbarous states,
Who scattered laws for our wise hands to glean?

Had they not painters, who knew how to paint—

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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