University of Santa Clara - Redwood Yearbook (Santa Clara, CA)

Page 22 text:

Nott Bm (Hmm In the wastes of infinity boundless Beyond furthest bounds of the world Dwelt Chaos, own mother of Cosmos, And to earth these words she hurled: ' ' Long have I haunted these reaches, This wild, this weary wold, Seared by the hand of oblivion Chilled by nihillic cold; ' Forgotten am I by my offspring. Cosmos and Chronos senile, Till I ' ve wearied and fretted in silence And longed for the world the while. ' ' But my advent spells tears and terror And thunder and anarchy dire, And wreck and wrack and reeking rot And flaunt of fuming fire. And the joys of men it drives afar As the wind drives thistle-down. While sorrows flock in its dismal wake Like thieves to a thriving town. And my breath like the breeze of some wierd, wan wind, That rushes hot from hell. Shall fan to fury a people ' s thoughts. And hate in their hearts shall dwell. 16

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THE REDWOOD 15 Reade, a slightly eccentric but very- powerful tale-teller, dabbling in all styles with nothing common-place in any of them and still not a masterpiece to his credit. Following him we have Mary Cross, known in literature as George Elliot, a truly great writer, though affected by the incriminating consequences of uncertainty of charac- ter, which seems to have attacked the novelist more than any other class. And to close this great century of prose fiction we have Robert Louis Stevenson, the supreme story teller of the period. His native humor, and im- agination, his hardly surpassed faculty of telling a story, his wit, and his com- mand of the pathetic and horrible, to- gether with his many attributes, make him a writer that will never be forgot- ten and although we are sorry that he is gone, still we may be thankful that he lived at all and only hope that the first, yea even all the novelists of the coming century, may be only half as great as the last of the nineteenth cen- tury.

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THE REDWOOD 17 ' ' For those hearts are unto that selfsame breath As reeds that cluster round The marge of some inland, idle lake Where the lone loon ' s cries resound. And the fruit of that hideous blossom Formed by my formless breath Shall be brother throttling brother And bayonets dripping death. ' ' Till nations and men and laws of men, And social illusions, too, Shall chafe at the bit of bridle chaotic And pristine folly rue. Till the wash of the years that wax and wane Shall lave the shores of time With flood of blood, proclaiming my rule Of gore and grisly grime. Till the stars, that in their lightsome course Through the blue, broad heavens wheel. Are fain from the sickening, saddening sight With aching hearts to reel. Still I ' m just above wordly measure. And my hand no race will blight Till its sins and vaunts and vanity Prove it prone to my moiling might. Till the eyes of the years were bleared with age They ' ve watched the hour-glass run In the hands of Chronos, my first-born, — Twin-born with the shivering Sun.