Puslapio vaizdai


DARBY dear, we are old and gray,
Fifty years since our wedding day,
Shadow and sun for every one
As the years roll on ;
Darby dear, when the world went wry,
Hard and sorrowful then was I-
Ah ! lad, how you cheered me then,
Things will be better, sweet wife, again !
Always the same, Darby my own,
Always the same to your old wife Joan.
Darby, dear, but my heart was wild
When we buried our baby child,
Until you whispered “Heav'n knows best !”
And my heart found rest;

Darby, dear, 't was your loving hand
Showed the way to the better land
Ah ! lad, as you kiss'd each tear,
Life grew better, and Heaven more near :
Always the same, Darby my own,
Always the same to your old wife Joan.
Hand in hand when our life was May,
Hand in hand when our hair is gray,
Shadow and sun for every one,
As the years roll on ;
Hand in hand when the long night-tide
Gently covers us side by side -
Ah! lad, though we know not when,
Love will be with us forever then :
Always the same, Darby, my own,
Always the same to your old wife Joan.

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SARCOPHAGUS What curled and scented sun-girls, al

mond-eyed, With lotos-blossoms in their hands and hair, Have made their swarthy lovers call them

fair, With these spent strings, when brutes were

deified, And Memnon in the sunrise sprang and

cried, And love-winds smote Bubastis, and the

bare Black breasts of carven Pasht received the

prayer Of suppliants bearing gifts from far and

wide ! This lute has out-sung Egypt ; all the lives Of violent passion, and the vast calm art That lasts in granite only, all lie dead ; This little bird of song alone survives, As fresh as when its fluting smote the heart Last time the brown slave wore it garlanded.

We find the little gods and loves portrayed, Through ancient forests wandering undis

mayed, And fluting hymns of pleasure unafraid.

They knew, as I do now, what een delight A strong man feels to watch the tender

flight Of little children playing in his sight;


For poor dumb lips had songs for him

And children's dreamings ran in tune, Cool, and palm-shaded from the torrid And strange old heroes, weird and dim, heat,

Walked by his side.
The young brown tenor puts his singing by, The very shadows loved him well
And sets the twin pipe to his lips to try

And danced and flickered in the moon, Some air of bulrush-glooms where lovers And left him wondrous tales to tell meet;

Men far and wide.
O swart musician, time and fame are fleet,
Brief all delight, and youth's feet fain to And now no more be smiling walks

Through greenwood alleys full of sun, Pipe on in peace ! To-morrow must we And, as he wanders, turns and talks, die ?

Though none be there ; What matter, if our life to-day be sweet ! The children watch in vain the place Soon, soon, the silver paper-reeds that sigh Where they were wont, when day was Along the Sacred River will repeat

done, The echo of the dark-stoled bearers' feet, To see their poet's sweet worn face, Who carry you, with wailing, where must

And faded hair. lie Your swarthed and withered body, by and Yet dream not such a spirit dies, by

Though all its earthly shrine decay ! In perfumed darkness with the grains of Transfigured under clearer skies, wheat.

He sings anew;

The frail soul-covering, racked with pain, HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

And scored with vigil

, fades away,

The soul set free and young again 1805-1875

Glides upward through. A BEING cleaves the moonlit air,

Weep not ; but watch the moonlit air ! With eyes of dew and plumes of fire, Perchance a glory like a star New-born, immortal, strong and fair ; May leave wbat hangs about him there, Glance ere he goes !

And flash on us !. His feet are shrouded like the dead,

Behold! the void is full of light, But in his face a wild desire

The beams pierce heaven from bar to bar, Breaks like the dawn that flushes red, And all the hollows of the night And like a rose.

Grow luminous !

The stars shine out above his path,
And music wakes through all the skies ;

What mortal such a triumph hath,
By death set free?

AMBITIOUS Nile, thy banks deplore
What earthly hands and heart are pure

Their Flavian patron's deep decay ; As this man's, whose unshrinking eyes Thy Memphian pilot laughs no more Gaze onward through the deep obscure, To see the flower-boat float away ; Nor quail to see ?

Thy winter-roses once were twined

Across the gala-streets of Rome, Ah! this was he who drank the fount And thou, like Omphale, couldst bind Of wisdom set in speechless things,

The vanquished victor in his home.
Who, patient, watched the day-star mount,
While others slept.

But if the barge that brought thy store Ah! this was he whose loving soul

Had foundered in the Lybian deep, Found heart-beats under trembling It had not slain thy glory more, wings,

Nor plunged thy rose in salter sleep ; And heard divinest music roll

Nor gods nor Cæsars wait thee now,
Where wild springs leapt.

No jealous Pæstum dreads thy spring,

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The poplars and the ancient elms

Make murmurous noises high in air ; The noon-day sunlight overwhelms

The brown cicalas basking there ; But here the shade is deep, and sweet

With new-mown grass and lentisk-shoots, And far away the shepherds meet

With noisy fifes and flutes.


Their clamor dies upon the ear ;

So now bring forth the rolls of song, Mouth the rich cadences, nor fear

Your voice may do the poet wrong ; Lift up the chalice to our lips,

Yet see, before we venture thus, A stream of red libation drips

To great Theocritus. We are in Sicily to-day ;

And, as the honeyed metre flows, Battos and Corydon, at play,

Will lose the syrinx, gain the rose ; Soft Amaryllis, too, will bind

Dark violets round her shining hair, And in the fountain laugh to find

Her sun-browned face so fair.

FROM this carved chair wherein I sit to

night, The dead man read in accents deep and

strong, Through lips that were like Chaucer's, his

great song About the Beryl and its virgin light; And still that music lives in death's despite, And though my pilgrimage on earth be

long, Time cannot do my memory so much wrong As e'er to make that gracious voice take

flight. I sit here with closed eyes; the sound

comes back, With youth, and hope, and glory on its

track, A solemn organ-music of the mind ; So, when the oracular moon brings back

the tide, After long drought, the sandy channel wide Murmurs with waves, and sings beneath

the wind.

We are in Sicily to-day ;

Ah ! foolish world, too sadly wise, Why didst thou e'er let fade away

Those ancient, innocent ecstasies ? Along the glens, in checkered flight,

Hither to-day the nymphs shall flee, And Pan forsake for our delight

The tomb of Helice.


Count the flashes in the surf,

Count the crystals in the snow,
Or the blades above the turf,
Or the dead that sleep below!

The ye count — yet not know,While I wake or while I slumber,

Where my thoughts and wishes go, What her name, and what their number.


FRESH with all airs of woodland brooks

And scents of showers,

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