Did he drop on knee before her—
"Son Amour, son Cœur, sa Reine".
In his high-flown way adore her,
Urgent, eloquent implore her,
Plead his pleasure and his pain?

Did she turn with sight swift-dimming, And the quivering lip we know, With the full, slow eyelid brimming, With the languorous pupil swimming, Like the love of Mirabeau ?

Stretch her hand from cloudy frilling, For his eager lips to press;

In a flash all fate fulfilling

Did he catch her, trembling, thrillingCrushing life to one caress?

249

Did they sit in that dim sweetness
Of attained love's after-calm,
Marking not the world-its meetness,
Marking Time not-nor his fleetness,
Only happy, palm to palm?

F 3

Till at last she,-sunlight smiting

Red on wrist and cheek and hair,— Sought the page where love first lighting, Fixed their fate, and, in this writing, Fixed the record of it there.

Did they marry midst the smother,
Shame and slaughter of it all?

Did she wander like that other
Woful, wistful, wife and mother,

Round and round his prison wall ;—

Wander wailing, as the plover

Waileth, wheeleth, desolate, Heedless of the hawk above her, While as yet the rushes cover,

Waning fast, her wounded mate ;

Wander, till his love's eyes met hers,
Fixed and wide in their despair?

Did he burst his prison fetters,

Did he write sweet, yearning letters "À Lucile-en Angleterre"?

Letters where the reader, reading,

Halts him with a sudden stop, For he feels a man's heart bleeding, Draining out its pain's exceeding― Half a life, at every drop :

Letters where Love's iteration
Seems to warble and to rave;
Letters where the pent sensation
Leaps to lyric exultation,

Like a song-bird from a grave.

Where, through Passion's wild repeating,
Peep the Pagan and the Gaul,
Politics and love competing,

Abelard and Cato greeting,

Rousseau ramping over all.

Yet

your critic's right-you waive it,
Whirled along the fever-flood;
And its touch of truth shall save it,
And its tender rain shall lave it,
For at least you read Amavit,

Written there in tears of blood.

Did they hunt him to his hiding,
Tracking traces in the snow?
Did they tempt him out, confiding,
Shoot him ruthless down, deriding,
By the ruined old château?

Left to lie, with thin lips resting
Frozen to a smile of scorn,
Just the bitter thought's suggesting,
At this excellent new jesting
Of the rabble Devil-born.

Till some "tiger-monkey," finding
These few words the covers bear,
Some swift rush of pity blinding
Sent them in the shot-pierced binding

Fancies only! Nought the covers,
Nothing more the leaves reveal,

Yet I love it for its lovers,

For the dream that round it hovers
Of" Savignac” and “Lucile.”

A GARDEN SONG

(TO W. E. HENLEY)

HERE, in this sequestered close,

Bloom the hyacinth and rose;

Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;

Here, without a pang, one sees
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.

All the seasons run their race
In this quiet resting place;
Peach, and apricot, and fig
Here will ripen, and grow big;
Here is store and overplus,-
More had not Alcinous !

Here, in alleys cool and green,
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else—afar

Sounds of toil and turmoil are.