Puslapio vaizdai



This is the advent of the lark

- the priest

He gave us Falstaff, and a hundred quips, in gray apparel

A hundred mottoes from immortal lips ; Who doth prepare to trill in air his sinless And, year by year, we smile to keep away summer carol ;

The generous tears that mind us of the This is the prelude to the lay

sway The birds did sing in Cæsar's day,

Of his great singing, and the pomp And will again, for aye and aye, in praise

thereof. of God's creation.

His was the nectar of the gods of Greece, O dainty thing, on wonder's wing, by life The lute of Orpheus, and the Golden and love elated,

Fleece Oh ! sing aloud from cloud to cloud, till Of grand endeavor ; and the thunder-roll day be consecrated ;

Of words majestic, which, from pole to pole, Till from the gateways of the morn,

Have borne the tidings of our English The sun, with all his light unshorn,

tongue. His robes of darkness round him torn, doth scale the lofty heavens !

He gave us Hamlet; and he taught us MARY ARDEN

Than schools have taught us ; and his fairy

lore O thou to whom, athwart the perished days Was fraught with science ; and he called And parted nights, long sped, we lift our from death gaze,

Verona's lovers, with the burning breath Behold! I greet thee with a modern Of their great passion that has filled the rhyme,

spheres. Love-lit and reverent as befits the time, To solemnize the feast-day of thy son. He made us know Cordelia, and the man

Who murdered sleep, and baleful Caliban ; And who was he who flourished in the And, one by one, athwart the gloom apsmiles

peared Of thy fair face? 'T was Shakespeare of Maidens and men and myths who were the Isles,

revered Shakespeare of England, whom the world In olden days, before the earth was sad.

has known As thine, and ours, and Glory's, in the zone Ay! this is true. It was ordained so ; Of all the seas and all the lands of He was thine own,

three hundred years ago; earth,

But ours to-day; and ours till earth be

red He was unfamous when he came to thee, With doom-day splendor for the quick and But sound, and sweet, and good for eyes to

dead, see,

And days and nights be scattered like the And born at Stratford, on St. George's

leaves. Day, A week before the wondrous month of It was for this he lived, for this he died : May ;

To raise to Heaven the face that never And God therein was gracious to us all.


To lean to earth the lips that should beHe loved thee, lady! and he loved the world ;

Fraught with conviction when the mouth And, like a flag, his fealty was unfurled ;

was dumb, And kings who flourished ere thy son was And all the firm, fine body turned to born

clay. Shall live through him, from morn to furthest morn,

He lived to seal, and sanctify, the lives In all the far-off cycles yet to come. Of perished maids, and uncreated wives,

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And gave them each a space wherein to For— though so seeming-bold in this my dwell;

song And for his mother's sake he loved them I turn to thee with reverence, in the throng well

Of words and thoughts, as shepherds And made them types undying of all

scanned afar truth.

The famed effulgence of that eastern star

Which ushered in the Crowned One of O fair and fond young mother of the boy

the heavens. Who wrought all this --O Mary!- in this thy joy

In dreams of rapture I have seen thee Didst thou perceive, when, fitful from his

pass rest,

Along the banks of Avon, by the grass, He turned to thee, that his would be the best As fair as that fair Juliet whom thy son Of all men's chanting since the world Endowed with life, but with the look of began?

Who knows the nearest way to some new Didst thou, O Mary! with the eye of trust

grave. Perceive, prophetic through the dark and dust

And often, too, I've seen thee in the flush Of things terrene, the glory of thy son, Of thy full beauty, while the mother's And all the pride therein that should be won

« Hush!” By toilsome men, content to be his Hung on thy lip, and all thy tangled hair slaves ?

Re-clothed a bosom that in part was bare

Because a tiny hand had toyed therewith! Didst thou, good mother! in the tender ways

Oh ! by the June-tide splendor of thy face That women find to fill the fleeting days, When, eight weeks old, the child in thine Behold afar the Giant who should rise

embrace With foot on earth, and forehead in the Did leap and laugh -0 Mary! by the skies,

same, To write his name and thine among the I bow to thee, subservient to thy fame, stars ?

And call thee England's Pride forever

more !
I love to think it; and in dreams at night
I see thee stand, erect, and all in white,
With hands out-yearning to that mighty

As if to draw him back from out the storm I CANNOT sing to thee as I would sing
A child again, and thine to nurse withal. If I were quickened like the holy lark,

With fire from Heaven and sunlight on his I see thee, pale and pure, with flowing hair, wing, And big, bright eyes — far-searching in the Who wakes the world with witcheries of air

the dark For thy sweet babe — and, in a trice of Renewed in rapture in the reddening air. time,

A thing of splendor do I deem him then, I see the boy advance to thee, and climb, A feathered frenzy with an angel's throat, And call thee “Mother!” in ecstatic A something sweet that somewhere seems tones.

to float

'Twixt earth and sky, to be a sign to men. Yet if my thought be vain — if, by a touch He fills me with such wonder and despair ! Of this weak hand, I vex thee overmuch - I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright, Forbear the blame, sweet Spirit ! and endow As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun. My heart with fervor while to thee I bow Oh! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one, Athwart the threshold of my fading And do thou teach me, Love, to sing dream.




Dost thou remember, friend of vanished

How, in the golden land of love and song,
We met in April in the crowded ways
Of that fair city where the soul is strong,
Ay! strong as fate, for good or evil

praise ?
And how the lord whom all the world


The lord of light to whom the stars belong,
Illumed the track that led thee through

the throng?
Dost thou remember, in the wooded dale,
Beyond the town of Dante the Divine,
How all the air was flooded as with wine ?
And how the lark, to drown the nightingale,
Pealed out sweet notes? I live to tell the

But thou? Oblivion signs thee with a


f. Wpville Home


I heard the billows break beneath and fill

The wide air with the thunder of the surge ; SPEAK, quiet lips, and utter forth my fate ; And near my cheek, half fearful to emerge,

Before thy beauty I bow down, I kneel, A violet grew upon the grassy hill. Girl, and to thee my life I dedicate, There while I lay, Poet, I dreamed of thee. And seal the past up with a dateless seal. Thy very voice, whose matchless music yet

O'ermasters all the world's, surrounded me, What delicate hours and seasons without Singing, and in the sound of it there met storm

With all the might and passion of the sea Have nursed thee, and what happy Eng- The utter sweetness of the violet.

lish dale ? For tenderer is thy light and gracile form

Than any snowy wind-flower of the vale. IN A SEPTEMBER NIGHT O wild-flower, though the bee that drinks THERE the moon leans out and blesses thy wine

All the dreamy hills below :
Must soar past crags that front the leap- Here the willows wash their tresses
ing sea,

Where the water-lilies blow
I climb to thee ; thy beauty shall be mine ; In the stream that glideth slow.
Or let the cold green wave go over me.

High in heaven, in serried ranges,

Cloud-wreaths float through pallid light, DOVER CLIFF

Like a flock of swans that changes

In the middle Autumn night
Last April, when the winds had lost their North for South in ordered flight.

I lay down dreamily upon the verge What know ye, who hover yonder,
Of Shakespeare's Cliff, where sea and sea- More than I, of that veiled good
wind scourge

Whither all things tend, I wonder, The eternal barrier that withstands them That ye follow the wind's mood still.

In such patient quietude ?

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Queen of the sunrise and the sun,

As we ride on.

Take me now to thy breast,

Earth, sweet mother of men.

The wanton wind has kissed her face,

His lips have left a rose, He found her cheek so sweet a place

For kisses, I suppose, He thought he'd leave a sign, that so

Others might know.

Hide me and let me sleep;

Giv me a lonely tomb
So close and so dark and so deep

I shall hear no trumpet of doom.

There let me lie forgot

When the dead at its blast are gone ; Give me to hear it not,

But only to slumber on.

The path grows narrower as we ride,

The green boughs close above, And overhead, and either side,

The wild birds sing of Love :
But ah, she is not listening

To what they sing !
Till I take up the wild-birds' song,

And word by word unfold
Its meaning as we ride along,
And when


tale is told, I turn my eyes to hers again,

And then, - and then,

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(The bridle path more narrow grows,

The leaves shut out the sun ;) Where the wind's lips left their one rose

My own leave more than one : While the leaves murmur up above,

And laugh for love. This was the place ;

-you see the sky Now 'twixt the branches bare ; About the path the dead leaves lie,

And songless is the air ;All's changed since then, for that, you


Was long ago.
Let us ride on! The wind is cold, -

Let us ride on - ride fast !.
'Tis winter, and we knew of old

That love could never last Without the summer and the sun !

Let us ride on !

A PALE and soul-sick woman with wan

eyes Fixed on their own reflection in the glass, Uncertain lips half-oped to say “ Alas, Naked I stand between two mysteries, Finding my wisdom naught who am most

wise." Behind, the shapes and fiery shadows pass Of fervent life; no joy in them she has, But gazing on herself she moans and sighs. And yet of knowledge she doth hold the

key, And Power and Pleasure are her hand

maidens, And all past years have given of their best To make her rich and great and strong

and free, Who stands in slack and listless impotence, Marvelling sadly at her own unrest.

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The hoarded wealth and wisdom of the

Dead Of all past time they have inherited, And still within their hands it doth

increase ; Yet in their eyes is mirrored her dis-peace, Her weariness within their hearts is shed; Her dreary sorrow weighs each drooping

head, And each soul sickens with her fell disease.

I would have nothing but rest,

I would not struggle again ;

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