FORERUNNERS

One, who shall fervent grasp the sword of

song,

bard;

A mighty Poet, whom this age shall choose
To be its spokesman to all coming times.
In the ripe full-blown season of his soul,
He shall go forward in his spirit's strength,
And grapple with the questions of all time,
And wring from them their meanings. As
King Saul

Call'd up the buried prophet from his grave

To speak his doom, so shall this Poet-king Call the dead Past from its awful grave To tell him of our future. As the air

up

His old victorious banners flap the winds. He called his faithful herald to his side, 'Go! tell the dead I come!' With a proud smile,

The warrior with a stab let out his soul, Which fled and shriek'd through all the other world,

'Ye dead! My master comes!' And there was pause

Till the great shade should enter. Like that herald,

Walter, I'd rush across this waiting world And cry,' He comes!'" Lady, wilt hear the song? [Sings.

Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride,
And, in the fulness of his marriage joy,
He decorates her tawny brow with shells,
Retires a space, to see how fair she looks,
Then proud, runs up to kiss her. All is
fair-

All glad, from grass to sun! Yet more I love

Than this, the shrinking day that sometimes comes

In Winter's front, so fair 'mong its dark

peers,

It seems a straggler from the files of June,
Which in its wanderings had lost its wits,
And half its beauty; and, when it return'd,
Finding its old companions gone away,
It join'd November's troop, then marching
past;

And so the frail thing comes, and greets the world

With a thin crazy smile, then bursts in

tears,

And all the while it holds within its hand A few half-wither'd flowers. I love and pity it!

BEAUTY

BEAUTY still walketh on the earth and air, Our present sunsets are as rich in gold As ere the Iliad's music was out-roll'd; The roses of the Spring are ever fair, 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair,

And the deep sea still foams its music old. So, if we are at all divinely soul'd,

This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. 'Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us bending

Within old starry-gated Poesy,

To meet a soul set to no worldly tune, Like thine, sweet Friend! Oh, dearer this

to me

Than are the dewy trees, the sun, the moon, Or noble music with a golden ending.

ΤΟ

THE broken moon lay in the autumn sky,
And I lay at thy feet;

You bent above me; in the silence I
Could hear my wild heart beat.

I spoke; my soul was full of trembling fears
At what my words would bring:

You rais'd your face, your eyes were full of tears,

As the sweet eyes of Spring.

You kiss'd me then, I worshipp'd at thy feet

Upon the shadowy sod.

Oh, fool, I lov'd thee! lov'd thee, lovely cheat!

Better than Fame or God.

My soul leap'd up beneath thy timid kiss ; What then to me were groans,

Or pain, or death? Earth was a round of bliss,

I seem'd to walk on thrones.

And you were with me 'mong the rushing wheels,

'Mid Trade's tumultuous jars ; And where to awe-struck wilds the Night reveals

Her hollow gulfs of stars.

Before your window, as before a shrine,

I've knelt 'mong dew-soak'd flowers, While distant music-bells, with voices fine, Measur'd the midnight hours.

There came a fearful moment: I was pale, You wept, and never spoke,

But clung around me as the woodbine frail
Clings, pleading, round an oak.

Upon my wrong I steadied up my soul,
And flung thee from myself;

I spurn'd thy love as 't were a rich man's dole,

It was my only wealth.

I spurn'd thee! I, who lov'd thee, could have died,

That hop'd to call thee "wife,"
And bear thee, gently-smiling at my side,
Through all the shocks of life!

Too late, thy fatal beauty and thy tears,
Thy vows, thy passionate breath;
I'll meet thee not in Life, nor in the spheres
Made visible by Death.

AT HOME IN HEAVEN

"FOREVER with the Lord!"
Amen, so let it be ;

Life from the dead is in that word, "Tis immortality.

Here in the body pent,

Absent from him I roam,

Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home.