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All the loves of the poets who boast

Of their loves in their rhyme, Loves won, and the sadder loves lost :

IN THE TWILIGHT FAR off ? Not far away

Lies that fair land ; Shut from the curious gaze by day,

Hidden, but close at hand : Let us seek it who may.

Lie by me and hold me, sweet,

Člasp arms and sink ; There needs no weariness of the feet,

Neither to toil nor think ; Almost the pulse may cease to beat. Eyes made dim, and breathing low,

Hand locked in hand, Goodly the visions that come and go,

Glimpses of that land Fairer than the eyes can know.

Fair, passionless creatures of thought,

Most fair, most calm ;
The joy of whose beauty has brought

To the soul its own balm ;
Not desire that cometh to naught.
The dreams that were dreamed long ago

Lie treasured there still ; For the things that the dreamers fore

know The years shall fulfil, The fleet years and slow. Dreams, memories, hopes that were

bright, And hearts that were young ; All the stars and the glories of night,

All the glories of song,
They are there, in that land of delight.
Wilt thou seek that land then, sweet?

Yea, love, with thee ;
Fleet, as thy soul's wings are fleet,

Shall our passage be :
Soft, on wings of noiseless beat.
Bid my wings with thine expand ;

So may we glide
Into the stillness of that land,

Lovingly side by side,
Hopefully hand in hand.

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And then we turn unwilling feet
And seek the world — so must it be —
We may not linger in the heat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea !

ENVOY

Master, when rain, and snow, and

sleet
And northern winds are wild, to thee
We come, we rest in thy retreat,
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea !

OF THE BOOK-HUNTER

'T is to gloat on the glaze and the mark
Of china that's ancient and blue;
Unchipp'd, all the centuries through
It has pass’d, since the chime of it rang,
And they fashion'd it, figu and hue,
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
These dragons (their tails, you remark,
Into bunches of gillyflowers grew), –
When Noah came out of the ark,
Did these lie in wait for his crew ?
They snorted, they snapp'd, and they

slew,
They were mighty of fin and of fang,
And their portraits Celestials drew
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
Here's a pot with a cot in a park,
In a park where the peach-blossoms blew,
Where the lovers eloped in the dark,
Lived, died, and were changed into two
Bright birds that eternally flew
Through the boughs of the may, as they

sang ; 'T is a tale was undoubtedly true In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

In torrid heats of late July,
In March, beneath the bitter bise,
He book-hunts while the loungers fly,
He book-hunts, though December freeze ;
In breeches baggy at the knees,
And heedless of the public jeers,
For these, for these, he hoards his

fees,
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
No dismal stall escapes

his

eye, He turns o'er tomes of low degrees, There soiled romanticists may lie, Or Restoration comedies ; Each tract that flutters in the breeze For him is charged with hopes and fears, In mouldy novels fancy sees Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.

ENVOY

Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do,
Kind critic ; your “ tongue has a tang,”
But

a sage never heeded a shrew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

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With restless

eyes Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees, In dismal nooks he loves to pry, Whose motto evermore is Spes ! But ah ! the fabled treasure flees ; Grown rarer with the fleeting years, In rich men's shelves they take their

ease, Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs !

ENVOY

Prince, all the things that tease and

please, Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and

tears, What are they but such toys as these, – Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs ?

“ 'Dead and gone,' – a sorry burden of the Ballad of Life." - DEATH'S Jest Book.

SAY, fair maids, maying
In gardens green,
In deep dells straying,
What end hath been
Two Mays between
Of the flowers that shone
And your own sweet queen ?
“ They are dead and gone !”
Say, grave priests, praying
In dule and teen,
From cells decaying
What have ye seen
Of the proud and mean,
Of Judas and John,
Of the foul and clean ? -
“ They are dead and gone ! ”

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Say, kings, arraying
Loud wars to win,
Of your manslaying
What gain ye glean?
“ They are fier

and keen,
But they fall anon,
On the sword that lean,
They are dead and gone!”

And through the silver Northern night

The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,

Stole forth among the branches gray ; About the coming of the light,

They fled like ghosts before the day ! I know not if the forest green

Still girdles round that castle gray ; I know not if the boughs between

The white deer vanish ere the day ; Above my Love the grass is green,

My heart is colder than the clay!

ENVOY

Through the mad world's scene
We are drifting on,
To this tune, I ween,
“ They are dead and gone ! ”

THE ODYSSEY

OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE

HERE I'd come when weariest !

Here the breast
Of the Windberg 's tufted over
Deep with bracken ; here his crest

Takes the west,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.

Silent here are lark and plover ;

In the cover
Deep below, the cushat best
Loves his mate, and croons above her

O'er their nest,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.
Bring me here, Life's tired-out guest,

To the blest
Bed that waits the weary rover,
Here should failure be confest;

Ends my quest,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover !

As one that for a weary space has lain
Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine
In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where that Ææan isle forgets the main,
And only the low lutes of love complain,
And only shadows of wan lovers pine,
As such an one were glad to know the brine
Salt on his lips, and the large air again,
So gladly, from the songs of modern speech
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the

free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy

flowers, And, through the music of the languid

hours, They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

SAN TERENZO

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MID April seemed like some November

day, When through the glassy waters, dull as

lead, Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear

the dead, Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian

bay, Rounded a point, — and San Terenzo lay Before us, that gay village, yellow and red, The roof that covered Shelley's homeless

head, His house, a place deserted, bleak and gray. The waves broke on the doorstep; fisher

ROMANCE

My Love dwelt in a Northern land.

A gray tower in a forest green Was hers, and far on either hand

The long wash of the waves was seen, And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,

The woven forest boughs between !

men

Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast

again.

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(THE PLACE OF THE LITTLE HAND)

DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,

Dead, with the foe at their feet ; Under the sky laid low

Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the

Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.

Dead, for they chose to die

When that wild race was run ; Dead, for they would not fly,

Deeming their work undone, Nor cared to look on the face of the sky,

Nor loved the light of the sun.

TEARS for my lady dead,

Heliodore !
Salt tears and ill to shed

Over and o'er.
Tears for my lady dead,

Sighs do we send,
Long love remembered,

Mistress and friend.
Sad are the songs we sing,

Tears that we shed,
Empty the gifts we bring,

Gifts to the dead.
Go tears, and go lament !

Fare from her tomb, Wend where my lady went,

Down through the gloom. Ah, for my flower, my love,

Hades hath taken ! Ah for the dust above,

Scattered and shaken! Mother of all things born,

Earth, in thy breast Lull her that all men mourn,

Gently to rest !

Honor we give them and tears,

And the flag they died to save, Rent from the raid of the spears,

Wet from the war and the wave, Shall waft men's thoughts through the dust

of the years, Back to their lonely grave !

A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC To have fallen, fighting in vain,

For thy father, thy faith, and thy DARK Lily without blame,

crown ! Not upon us the shame,

More than thy marble pile, Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance With its women weeping for thee, true ;

Were to dream in thine ancient isle, They, by the Maiden's side,

To the endless dirge of the sea ! Victorious fought and died ;

But the Fates deemed otherwise ; One stood by thee that fiery torment Far thou sleepest from home, through,

From the tears of the Northern skies, Till the White Dove from thy pure lips In the secular dust of Rome. had passed,

A city of death and the dead, And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine But thither a pilgrim came, at the last.

Wearing on weary head

The crowns of years and fame : Once only didst thou see,

Little the Lucrine lake In artist's imagery,

Or Tivoli said to him, Thine own face painted, and that precious Scarce did the memories wake thing

Of the far-off years and dim, Was in an Archer's hand

For he stood by Avernus' shore. From the leal Northern land.

But he dreamed of a Northern glen, And he murmured, over and o'er,

« For Charlie and his men : THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE And his feet, to death that went, CHARLES

Crept forth to St. Peter's shrine,

And the latest Minstrel bent
1731

O'er the last of the Stuart line.
BEAUTIFUL face of a child,
Lighted with laughter and glee,

ÆSOP
Mirthful, and tender, and wild,
My heart is heavy for thee !

He sat among the woods ; he heard

The sylvan merriment; he saw 1744

The pranks of butterfly and bird,
Beautiful face of a youth,

The humors of the ape, the daw.
As an eagle poised to fly forth
To the old land loyal of truth,

And in the lion or the frog,
To the hills and the sounds of the In all the life of moor and fen, -
North :

In ass and peacock, stork and dog,
Fair face, daring and proud,

He read similitudes of men.
Lo! the shadow of doom, even now,
The fate of thy line, like a cloud,

“Of these, from those," he cried, Rests on the grace of thy brow !

come,

Our hearts, our brains descend from 1773

these." Cruel and angry face,

And, lo ! the Beasts no more were dumb, Hateful and heavy with wine,

But answered out of brakes and trees : Where are the gladness, the grace, The beauty, the mirth that were thine ? “ Not ours,” they cried ; “ Degenerate,

If ours at all,” they cried again, Ah, my Prince, it were well,

“ Ye fools, who war with God and Fate, Hadst thou to the gods been dear, – Who strive and toil ; strange race of To have fallen where Keppoch fell,

With the war-pipe loud in thine ear! To have died with never a stain

“ For we are neither bond nor free, On the fair White Rose of Renown, For we have neither slaves nor kings ;

we

men.

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