The Heather.

IF I were king of France, that noble fine land,
And the gold was elbow deep within my chests,
And my
castles lay in scores along the wine-land
With towers as high as where the eagle nests;

If harpers sweet, and swordsmen stout and vaunting,
My history sang, my stainless tartan wore,

Was not my fortune poor, with one thing wanting,—
The heather at my door!

My galleys might be sailing every ocean,
Robbing the isles, and sacking hold and keep,

My chevaliers go prancing at my notion,

To bring me back of cattle, horse, and sheep;

Fond arms be round my neck, the young heart's

tether,

And true love-kisses all the night might fill,

But oh! mochree, if I had not the heather,

Before me on the hill!

A hunter's fare is all I would be craving,

A shepherd's plaiding, and a beggar's pay,
If I might earn them where the heather, waving,
Gave fragrance to the day.

The stars might see me, homeless one and weary,
Without a roof to fend me from the dew,

And still content, I'd find a bedding cheery,

Where'er the heather grew!

The Gift of the Gods.

"GIVE me thy dreams," she said, and I
With empty hands and very poor,
Watched my fair flowery visions die
Upon the temple's marble floor.

"Give joy," she said. I let joy go;
I saw with cold unclouded eyes
The crimson of the sunset glow
Across the disenchanted skies.

"Give me thy youth," she said. I gave.
And, sudden-clouded, died the sun,
And on the green mound of a grave
Fell the slow raindrops, one by one.

"Give love," she cried. I gave that, too. "Give beauty." Beauty sighed and fled. For what, on earth, should beauty do, When love, who was her life, was dead?

She took the balm of innocent tears
To kiss upon her altar-coal;
She took the hopes of all my years,
And, at the last, she took my soul.

With heart made empty of delight,

And hands that held no more fair things, I questioned her-" What shall requite The savour of my offerings?"

"The gods," she said, "with generous hand
Give guerdon for thy gifts of cost.
Wisdom is thine-to understand
The worth of all that thou hast lost!"

By Faith with Thanksgiving.

Love is no bird that nests and flies,
No rose that buds and blooms and dies,
No star that shines and disappears,
No fire whose ashes strew the years:
Love is the God who lights the star,

Makes music of the lark's desire;
Love tells the rose what perfumes are,
And lights and feeds the deathless fire.

Love is no joy that dies apace
With the delight of dear embrace;
Love is no feast of wine and bread,
Red-vintaged and gold-harvested:
Love is the god whose touch divine

On hands that clung and lips that kissed, Has turned life's common bread and wine Into the Holy Eucharist.

The Star.

I HAD a star to sing by, a beautiful star that led, But when I sang of its splendour the world in its wisdom said:

"Sweet are your songs, yet the singer sings but in madness when

He hymns but stars unbeholden of us his fellows of

men;

Glow-worms we see and marshlights; sing us sweet songs of those

For the guerdon we have to give you, laurel and gold and rose;

Or, if you must sing of stars, unseen of your brother

man,

Go, starve with your eyes on your vision; your star may save if it can!”

So I said, "If I starve and die I never again shall

see

The glory, the high white radiance that hallows the world for me;

I will sing their songs, if it must be, and when I have

golden store,

I will turn from the marsh and the glow-worms, and sing of my star once more."