ODDS AND ENDS. 



WHAT'S THE USE? 



By GEO. F. BUTLER, M. D. 



I sit alone within my quiet room 



And gaze, O Skull! into your soulless eyes, 



And mark the ghastly look on thy lean 



visage, 

 While thoughts, like waves that roll from 



shore to shore, 

 Sweep o'er my brain and murmur to me 



things 



Far. far beyond my feeble mind to grasp 

 Until, impelled by some mysterious force, 

 I fain would call thy spirit back again 

 From the strange confines of its bound- 

 less home. 

 Would thou couldst speak to me who toil 



on earth 



Unceasingly, groping for light to climb 

 The torturous path to honor, fame and 



wealth: 

 Would thou couldst utter to my wonder 



ing soul 



The truth I seek, yet nevermore may find. 

 But what's the use ? 



Yes, dread memento of man's living state, 



No less than grewsome herald of his 

 death, 



'Tis in the subtle sphere of thy omni- 

 science 



To solve the mystery that shrouds my 

 days. 



And flood my life with knowledge that 

 shall shine 



Like morning splendors 'round my pil- 

 grimage. 



Thine 'tis to rend the veil that hides from 

 me 



The pathway I should follow now I tread 



With trembling feet the labyrinthine 

 ways 



Amid whose darkness fate has made me 

 creep, 



With only here and there a fitful gleam 



Of light enough to warn, but not to 

 guide 



Thinking that every turn must "be the last 

 That bars me from my heart's ambition: 

 The blessed goal of all my tenderest hope. 

 For I was fashioned in no passive mould, 

 But dowered with human passions from 



my birth 

 Fires that burned within me, thoughts 



that seethed 

 Deep down in hidden crypts of my lone 



spirit, 

 And urge to maddening impulse and dark 



deeds 



My quivering fancy shudders to recall. 

 Oft have I wandered forth into the night, 

 Communing with the lightnings and the 



storm 

 When rock and crag, like demons, seemed 



to shriek 

 My name, and the shrill cataract laughed 



at me. 



As, like Orestes from the furies, swift 

 I speed, not knowing whither, only mad, 

 Mad with the frenzy of a pitiless doom. 

 If life be swe^ t, as in our dreams it is, 

 Why was this bitter mingled with the 



sweet? 



Why in the paltry span of three-score-ien 

 Must be confined all mortal happiness? 

 If bit'er, why so long? Why unto men 

 Was^erst decreed so dire a mockery 

 Of bliss to bear Pandora's precious gifts 

 So wantonly disturbed, the good and ill 

 Shaken pell-mell, as in a lottery urn 

 The only certain prize uncertainty. 

 Tell me, O Skull! thou oracle, that still 

 Must be by lingering knowledge tenanted, 

 Tell me these things and calm my feverish 



zeal 



But what's the use? 



Flower and seed their purposes fulfill, 

 Ripen and die, obeying nature's law: 

 Yet man his mission ofttimes leaves un- 



wrought, 



Perishes ere his time, and leaves his task 

 Uncrowned by fair fruition. Every leaf 



