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All the loves of the poets who boast
Of their loves in their rhyme, Loves won, and the sadder loves lost :
IN THE TWILIGHT FAR off ? Not far away
Lies that fair land ; Shut from the curious gaze by day,
Hidden, but close at hand : Let us seek it who may.
Lie by me and hold me, sweet,
Člasp arms and sink ; There needs no weariness of the feet,
Neither to toil nor think ; Almost the pulse may cease to beat. Eyes made dim, and breathing low,
Hand locked in hand, Goodly the visions that come and go,
Glimpses of that land Fairer than the eyes can know.
Fair, passionless creatures of thought,
Most fair, most calm ;
To the soul its own balm ;
Lie treasured there still ; For the things that the dreamers fore
know The years shall fulfil, The fleet years and slow. Dreams, memories, hopes that were
bright, And hearts that were young ; All the stars and the glories of night,
All the glories of song,
Yea, love, with thee ;
Shall our passage be :
So may we glide
Lovingly side by side,
And then we turn unwilling feet
Master, when rain, and snow, and
OF THE BOOK-HUNTER
'T is to gloat on the glaze and the mark
sang ; 'T is a tale was undoubtedly true In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
In torrid heats of late July,
eye, He turns o'er tomes of low degrees, There soiled romanticists may lie, Or Restoration comedies ; Each tract that flutters in the breeze For him is charged with hopes and fears, In mouldy novels fancy sees Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do,
a sage never heeded a shrew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
eyes Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees, In dismal nooks he loves to pry, Whose motto evermore is Spes ! But ah ! the fabled treasure flees ; Grown rarer with the fleeting years, In rich men's shelves they take their
ease, Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs !
Prince, all the things that tease and
please, Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and
tears, What are they but such toys as these, – Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs ?
“ 'Dead and gone,' – a sorry burden of the Ballad of Life." - DEATH'S Jest Book.
SAY, fair maids, maying
Say, kings, arraying
And through the silver Northern night
The sunset slowly died away,
Stole forth among the branches gray ; About the coming of the light,
They fled like ghosts before the day ! I know not if the forest green
Still girdles round that castle gray ; I know not if the boughs between
The white deer vanish ere the day ; Above my Love the grass is green,
My heart is colder than the clay!
Through the mad world's scene
OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE
HERE I'd come when weariest !
Here the breast
Takes the west,
Silent here are lark and plover ;
In the cover
O'er their nest,
To the blest
Ends my quest,
As one that for a weary space has lain
free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy
flowers, And, through the music of the languid
hours, They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
MID April seemed like some November
day, When through the glassy waters, dull as
lead, Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear
the dead, Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian
bay, Rounded a point, — and San Terenzo lay Before us, that gay village, yellow and red, The roof that covered Shelley's homeless
head, His house, a place deserted, bleak and gray. The waves broke on the doorstep; fisher
My Love dwelt in a Northern land.
A gray tower in a forest green Was hers, and far on either hand
The long wash of the waves was seen, And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,
The woven forest boughs between !
Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast
(THE PLACE OF THE LITTLE HAND)
DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet ; Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Slain Men blow,
Dead, for they chose to die
When that wild race was run ; Dead, for they would not fly,
Deeming their work undone, Nor cared to look on the face of the sky,
Nor loved the light of the sun.
TEARS for my lady dead,
Over and o'er.
Sighs do we send,
Mistress and friend.
Tears that we shed,
Gifts to the dead.
Fare from her tomb, Wend where my lady went,
Down through the gloom. Ah, for my flower, my love,
Hades hath taken ! Ah for the dust above,
Scattered and shaken! Mother of all things born,
Earth, in thy breast Lull her that all men mourn,
Gently to rest !
Honor we give them and tears,
And the flag they died to save, Rent from the raid of the spears,
Wet from the war and the wave, Shall waft men's thoughts through the dust
of the years, Back to their lonely grave !
A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC To have fallen, fighting in vain,
For thy father, thy faith, and thy DARK Lily without blame,
crown ! Not upon us the shame,
More than thy marble pile, Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance With its women weeping for thee, true ;
Were to dream in thine ancient isle, They, by the Maiden's side,
To the endless dirge of the sea ! Victorious fought and died ;
But the Fates deemed otherwise ; One stood by thee that fiery torment Far thou sleepest from home, through,
From the tears of the Northern skies, Till the White Dove from thy pure lips In the secular dust of Rome. had passed,
A city of death and the dead, And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine But thither a pilgrim came, at the last.
Wearing on weary head
The crowns of years and fame : Once only didst thou see,
Little the Lucrine lake In artist's imagery,
Or Tivoli said to him, Thine own face painted, and that precious Scarce did the memories wake thing
Of the far-off years and dim, Was in an Archer's hand
For he stood by Avernus' shore. From the leal Northern land.
But he dreamed of a Northern glen, And he murmured, over and o'er,
« For Charlie and his men : THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE And his feet, to death that went, CHARLES
Crept forth to St. Peter's shrine,
And the latest Minstrel bent
O'er the last of the Stuart line.
He sat among the woods ; he heard
The sylvan merriment; he saw 1744
The pranks of butterfly and bird,
The humors of the ape, the daw.
And in the lion or the frog,
In ass and peacock, stork and dog,
He read similitudes of men.
“Of these, from those," he cried, Rests on the grace of thy brow !
Our hearts, our brains descend from 1773
these." Cruel and angry face,
And, lo ! the Beasts no more were dumb, Hateful and heavy with wine,
But answered out of brakes and trees : Where are the gladness, the grace, The beauty, the mirth that were thine ? “ Not ours,” they cried ; “ Degenerate,
If ours at all,” they cried again, Ah, my Prince, it were well,
“ Ye fools, who war with God and Fate, Hadst thou to the gods been dear, – Who strive and toil ; strange race of To have fallen where Keppoch fell,
With the war-pipe loud in thine ear! To have died with never a stain
“ For we are neither bond nor free, On the fair White Rose of Renown, For we have neither slaves nor kings ;