Let Envy crave, and Avarice save; I hold that on this side the grave- To count a truthful friend or two May bound a man's ambition. Swell, South-wind, swell my Neighbour's sails; Fill, Fortune, fill his coffers; I am not sad that he is great; Beside his wall I cultivate 1887. THE HOLOCAUST “Heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen.”—MAUD. AB BOVE my mantelshelf there stands Carved by its unknown artist's hands, Along the lid a Love lies dead- And round it women wailing go: A trick, a toy-mere " Paris ware," Some Quartier-Latin sculptor's whim, Wrought in a fit of mock despair, With sight, it may be something dim, Because the love of yesterday, Had left the grenier, light MUSETTE, And she who made the morrow gay, LUTINE or MIMI, was not yet— A toy. But ah! what hopes deferred, For there, last night, not sadly, too, A nest of cooing billets-doux, That just two decades back were dated. 1889. THE SONG OF THE SEA WIND HOW it sings, sings, sings, Blowing sharply from the sea-line, With an edge of salt that stings; How it laughs aloud, and passes, As it cuts the close cliff-grasses; How it sings again, and whistles As it shakes the stout sea-thistlesHow it sings! How it shrieks, shrieks, shrieks, In the crannies of the headland, In the gashes of the creeks; How it shrieks once more, and catches How it whirls it out and over To the corn-field and the clover— How it roars, roars, roars, In the iron under-caverns, In the hollows of the shores; How it roars anew, and thunders, |