His rod-born fount and Castaly
Let the one rock bring forth for thee,
Renewing so from either spring

The songs which both thy countries sing:
Or we shall fear lest, heavened thus long,
Thou shouldst forget thy native song,
And mar thy mortal melodies
With broken stammer of the skies.

Ah! let the sweet birds of the Lord With earth's waters make accord; Teach how the crucifix may be Carven from the laurel-tree, Fruit of the Hesperides Burnish take on Eden-trees, The Muses' sacred grove be wet With the red dew of Olivet, And Sappho lay her burning brows In white Cecilia's lap of snows!

Thy childhood must have felt the stings
Of too divine o'ershadowings;
Its odorous heart have been a blossom
That in darkness did unbosom,
Those fire-flies of God to invite,
Burning spirits, which by night
Bear upon their laden wing
To such hearts impregnating.
For flowers that night-wings fertilize
Mock down the stars' unsteady eyes,
And with a happy, sleepless glance
Gaze the moon out of countenance.
I think thy girlhood's watchers must
Have took thy folded songs on trust,
And felt them, as one feels the stir
Of still lightnings in the hair,
When conscious hush expects the cloud
To speak the golden secret loud
Which tacit air is privy to;

Flasked in the grape the wine they knew,
Ere thy poet-mouth was able
For its first young starry babble.
Keep'st thou not yet that subtle grace?
Yea, in this silent interspace,
God sets His poems in thy face!

The loom which mortal verse affords,
Out of weak and mortal words,
Wovest thou thy singing-weed in,
To a rune of thy far Eden.
Vain are all disguises! ah,
Heavenly incognita!

Thy mien bewrayeth through that wrong
The great Uranian House of Song!

LE MAUVAIS LARRON (SUGGESTED BY WILLETTE'S PICTURE)

THE moorland waste lay hushed in the dusk of the second day,

Till a shuddering wind and shrill moaned up through the twilight gray; Like a wakening wraith it rose from the grave of the buried sun,

And it whirled the sand by the tree

(there was never a tree but one —) But the tall bare bole stood fast, unswayed with the mad wind's stress,

And a strong man hung thereon in his pain and his nakedness.

His feet were nailed to the wood, and his arm strained over his head;

'T was the dusk of the second day, and yet was the man not dead.

The cold blast lifted his hair, but his limbs were set and stark,

And under their heavy brows his eyes stared into the dark:

He looked out over the waste, and his eyes were as coals of fire,

Lit up with anguish and hate, and the flame of a strong desire.

The dark blood sprang from his wounds, the cold sweat stood on his face, For over the darkening plain came a rider riding apace.

Her rags flapped loose in the wind; the last of the sunset glare

Flung dusky gold on her brow and her bosom broad and bare.

She was haggard with want and woe, on a jaded steed astride,

And still, as it staggered and strove, she smote on its heaving side,

Till she came to the limbless tree where the tortured man hung highA motionless crooked mass on a yellow streak in the sky.

"'Tis I-I am here, Antoine - I have

found thee at last," she said;

"O the hours have been long, but long! and the minutes as drops of lead. Have they trapped thee, the full-fed flock, thou wert wont to harry and spoil?

Do they laugh in their town secure o'er their measures of wine and oil? Ah God! that these hands might reach where they loll in their rich array;

Ah God, that they were but mine, all mine,

to mangle and slay! How they shuddered and shrank, erewhile, at the sound of thy very

name,

When we lived as the gray wolves live, whom torture nor want may tame : And thou but a man! and still a scourge and a terror to men,

Yet only my lover to me, my dear, in the rare days then.

O years of revel and love! ye are gone as the wind goes by,

He is snared and shorn of his strength, and the anguish of hell have I

I am here, O love, at thy feet; I have ridden far and fast

To gaze in thine eyes again, and to kiss thy lips at the last.'

She rose to her feet and stood upright on the gaunt mare's back,

And she pressed her full red lips to his that were strained and black.

"Good-night, for the last time now

good

Then the wind raise up wi' a maen,

('T was a waefu' wind, an' weet), Like a deid saul wud wi' pain,

Like a bairnie wild wi' freit ;
But the boat rade swift an' licht,
Sae we wan the land fu' sune,
An' the shore showed wan an' white
By a glint o' the waning mune.

We steppit oot owre the sand

Where an unco' tide had been,
An' Black Donald caught my hand
An' coverit up his een:

For there, in the wind an' weet,
Or ever I saw nor wist,

My Jean an' her weans lay cauld at my feet,

In the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

An' it 's O for my bonny Jean!

An' it 's O for my bairnies twa, It's O an' O for the watchet een

An' the steps that are gane awa' Awa' to the Silent Place,

Or ever I saw nor wist,

Though I wot we twa went face to face

Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist.

HEREAFTER

SHALL we not weary in the windless days
Hereafter, for the murmur of the sea,
The cool salt air across some grassy lea?
Shall we not go bewildered through a maze
Of stately streets with glittering gems
ablaze,

Forlorn amid the pearl and ivory,
Straining our eyes beyond the bourne to see
Phantoms from out Life's dear, forsaken
ways?

Give us again the crazy clay-built nest,
Summer, and soft unseasonable spring,
Our flowers to pluck, our broken songs to
sing,

Our fairy gold of evening in the West;
Still to the land we love our longings