Far away, by the sea in the south,

The hills of olive and slopes of fern Whiten and glow in the sun's long drouth, Under the heavens that beam and burn; And all the swallows were gathered there Flitting about in the fragrant air,

And heard no sound from the larks, but flew Flashing under the blinding blue.

Out of the depths of their soft rich throats
Languidly fluted the thrushes, and said:
'Musical thought in the mild air floats,
Spring is coming and winter is dead!
Come, O Swallows, and stir the air,
For the buds are all bursting unaware,

And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees long
To hear the sound of your low sweet song.'

Over the roofs of the white Algiers,

Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar,
Flitted the swallows, and not one hears
The call of the thrushes from far, from far;
Sighed the thrushes; then, all at once,
Broke out singing the old sweet tones,

Singing the bridal of sap and shoot,

The tree's slow life between root and fruit.

But just when the dingles of April flowers
Shine with the earliest daffodils,
When, before sunrise, the cold clear hours
Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils, -
Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried,
Perched on a spray by a rivulet-side,

Swallows, O Swallows, come back again
To swoop and herald the April rain.

And something awoke in the slumbering heart
Of the alien birds in their African air,
And they paused, and alighted, and twittered apart,
And met in the broad white dreamy square,
And the sad slave woman, who lifted up

From the fountain her broad-lipped earthen cup,
Said to herself, with a weary sigh,

'To-morrow the swallows will northward fly!'

THE APOTHEOSIS OF ST. DOROTHY.

A MAIDEN wandering from the east,
A saint immaculately white,

I saw in holy dream last night,
Who rode upon a milk-white beast;
Across the woods her shadow fell,
And wrought a strange and silent spell,
A miracle.

With firm-set eyes, and changeless face,
She passed the cities, one by one;
Her hair was colored like the sun,

And shed a glory round the place

Where'er she came, she was so fair
That men fell down and worshipped there
In silent prayer.

And ever in her sacred hands

She bore a quaintly carven pyx
Of serpentine and sardonyx,

The wonder of those eastern lands;
Wherein were laid preserved in myrrh,
The gifts of vase and thurifer

She bore with her.

And after many days she came

To that high mountain, where are built

The towers of Sarras, carved and gilt
And fashioned like their spires of flame :
Then like a traveller coming home,
She let her mild-eyed palfrey roam,
And upward clomb.

Oh! then methought the turrets rang
With shouting joyous multitudes,
And through the tumult, interludes
Of choral hosts, that played and sang;
Such welcome, since the world hath been,
To singer, prophetess or queen,

Was never seen.

The golden gates were opened wide;
The city seemed a lake of light,
For chrysopras and chrysolite
Were wrought for walls on every side;
Without the town was meet for war,
But inwardly each bolt and bar
Shone like a star.

Then, while I wondered, all the sky
Above the city broke in light,
And opened to my startled sight
The heavens immeasurably high,
A glorious effluence of air,

And shining ether, pure and rare,
Divinely fair.

And, rising up amid the spires,
I saw the saintly maiden go,
In splendor like new-fallen snow,
That robs the sun-rise of its fires;
So pure, so beautiful she was,
And rose like vapory clouds that pass
From dewy grass.

Between her hands, the pyx of gold
She held up like an offering sent
To Him, who holds the firmament
And made the starry world of old;
It glimmered like the golden star
That shines on Christmas eve afar,
Where shepherds are.

And clouds of angels, choir on choir,
Bowed out of heaven to welcome her,
And poured upon her nard and myrrh,
And bathed her forehead in white fire,

And waved in air their gracious wings,
And smote their kindling viol-strings
In choral rings.

But she, like one who swoons and sees
A vision just before he dies,
With quivering lips and lustrous eyes
Gazed up the shining distances;
But soon the angels led her on
Where fiercer cloudy splendor shone,
And she was gone.

And then a voice cried: This is she

Who through great tribulation trod
A thorny pathway up to God,
The blessed virgin Dorothy.

Still to the blessed Three-in-One
Be glory, honor, worship done
Beneath the sun!'

LYING IN THE GRASS.

BETWEEN two golden tufts of summer grass,
I see the world through hot air as through glass,
And by my face sweet lights and colors pass.

Before me, dark against the fading sky,
I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie:
With brawny arms they sweep in harmony.

Brown English faces by the sun burnt red,
Rich glowing color on bare throat and head,
My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead!

And in my strong young living as I lie,

I seem to move with them in harmony,

A fourth is mowing, and that fourth am I.

The music of the scythes that glide and leap,
The young men whistling as their great arms sweep,
And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep,

The weary butterflies that droop their wings,
The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings,
And all the lassitude of happy things,

Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood
That gushes through my veins a languid flood,
And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.

Behind the mowers, on the amber air,
A dark-green beech wood rises, still and fair,
A white path winding up it like a stair.

And see that girl, with pitcher on her head,
And clean white apron on her gown of red, -
Her even-song of love is but half-said:

She waits the youngest mower.

Now he goes;

Her cheeks are redder than a wild blush-rose:
They climb up where the deepest shadows close.

But though they pass, and vanish, I am there.
I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair,
Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer.