Puslapio vaizdai
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Dear is Butheina-ah! more dear
Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!

"Dear," came the answer, quick as thought, "Dear. . and yet always to be bought."

So JAMÍL ceased. But still Life's page

Shows diverse unto YOUTH and AGE:

And-be the song of ghouls or gods-
TIME, like the Sultán, sits. . and nods.

TO A MISSAL

TO A MISSAL OF THE THIRTEENTH

CENTURY

MISSAL of the Gothic age,

Missal with the blazoned page,

Whence, O Missal, hither come,

From what dim scriptorium?

Whose the name that wrought thee thus,
Ambrose or Theophilus,

Bending, through the waning light,

O'er thy vellum scraped and white;

Weaving 'twixt thy rubric lines

Sprays and leaves and quaint designs;
Setting round thy border scrolled
Buds of purple and of gold?

Ah! a wondering brotherhood,
Doubtless, by that artist stood,
Raising o'er his careful ways
Little choruses of praise;

Glad when his deft hand would paint

Strife of Sathanas and Saint,

Or in secret coign entwist

Jest of cloister humourist.

Well the worker earned his wage,
Bending o'er the blazoned page!
Tired the hand and tired the wit
Ere the final Explicit !

Not as ours the books of old-
Things that steam can stamp and fold;
Not as ours the books of yore-
Rows of type, and nothing more.

Then a book was still a Book,
Where a wistful man might look,
Finding something through the whole,
Beating, like a human soul,

In that growth of day by day,
When to labour was to pray,
Surely something vital passed
To the patient page at last;

Something that one still perceives
Vaguely present in the leaves;
Something from the worker lent;
Something mute-but eloquent!

A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC

A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC

LD it is, and worn and battered,

OLD

As I lift it from the stall;

And the leaves are frayed and tattered, And the pendent sides are shattered, Pierced and blackened by a ball.

'Tis the tale of grief and gladness
Told by sad St. Pierre of yore,
That in front of France's madness
Hangs a strange seductive sadness,
Grown pathetic evermore.

And a perfume round it hovers,
Which the pages half reveal,

For a folded corner covers,
Interlaced, two names of lovers,—
A "Savignac" and "Lucile."

As I read I marvel whether,

In some pleasant old château, Once they read this book together, In the scented summer weather, With the shining Loire below?

Nooked-secluded from espial,

Did Love slip and snare them so, While the hours danced round the dial To the sound of flute and viol, In that pleasant old château?

Did it happen that no single

Word of mouth could either speak? Did the brown and gold hair mingle, Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle To the shock of cheek and cheek?

Did they feel with that first flushing
Some new sudden power to feel,
Some new inner spring set gushing
At the names together rushing

Of "Savignac" and "Lucile"?

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 ?

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