And all the crowd shrieked out, and muttering charms, Threw down their fiddle-bows and merchandise, Around the stark corpse knelt with suppliant cries, Nor ceased still wondering where was gone

- the dead!

PARTED LOVE.

EVENING.

As in a glass at evening, dusky-gray,

The faces of those passing through the room
Seen like ghost-transits thwart reflected gloom,
Thus, darling image! thou, so long away,
Visitest sometimes my darkening day:

Other friends come; the toy of life turns round,

The glittering beads change with their tinkling sound, Whilst thou in endless youth sit'st silently.

How vain to call time back, to think these arms
Again may touch, may shield, those shoulders soft

And solid, never more my eyes can see;

But yet, perchance-(speak low)- beyond all harms,
I may walk with thee in God's other croft,
When this world shall the darkling mirror be.

PYGMALION.

'MISTRESS of gods and men! I have been thine
From boy to man, and many a myrtle rod
Have I made grow upon thy sacred sod,

Nor ever have I passed thy white shafts nine
Without some votive offering for the shrine,

Carved beryl or chased bloodstone; -aid me now,
And I will live to fashion for thy brow

Heart-breaking priceless things: O, make her mine.'

Venus inclined her ear, and through the Stone

Forthwith slid warmth like spring through sapling-stems, And lo, the eyelid stirred, beneath had grown

The tremulous light of life, and all the hems

Of her zoned peplos shook

upon his breast,

She sank by two dread gifts at once oppressed.

ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR O'SHAUGH

NESSY.

ODE.

We are the music makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;·
World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world forever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample a kingdom down.

We, in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself in our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

A breath of our inspiration
Is the life of each generation;

A wondrous thing of our dreaming Unearthly, impossible seeming – The soldier, the king, and the peasant Are working together in one,

Till our dream shall become their present, And their work in the world be done.

They had no vision amazing
Of the goodly house they are raising;
They had no divine foreshowing
Of the land to which they are going:
But on one man's soul it hath broken,
A light that doth not depart;

And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
Wrought flame in another man's heart.

And therefore to-day is thrilling
With a past day's late fulfilling;
And the multitudes are enlisted
In the faith that their fathers resisted,
And, scorning the dream of to-morrow,
Are bringing to pass, as they may,
In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
The dream that was scorned yesterday.

But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we !

The glory about us clinging

Of the glorious futures we see,

Our souls with high music ringing:

O men! it must ever be

That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, A little apart from ye.

For we are afar with the dawning
And the suns that are not yet high,
And out of the infinite morning
Intrepid you hear us cry —

How, spite of your human scorning,
Once more God's future draws nigh,
And already goes forth the warning
That ye of the past must die.

Great hail! we cry to the comers

From the dazzling unknown shore;
Bring us hither your sun and your summers,
And renew our world as of yore;

You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
And things that we dreamed not before:
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
And a singer who sings no more.

OUTCRY.

In all my singing and speaking,
I send my soul forth seeking:
O soul of my soul's dreaming,
When wilt thou hear and speak?
Sorely and lonely seeming,
Thou art there in my dreaming;
Hast thou no sorrow for speaking?
Hast thou no dream to seek?

In all my thinking and sighing,
In all my desolate crying,
I send my heart forth yearning,
O heart that mayst be nigh!
Like a bird weary of flying,
My heavy heart, returning,