THG 
 
 UNIYGRS1TY Of CALIFORNIA 
 LIBRARY 
 
LOVE'S DEMESNE 
 
 A GARLAND OF CONTEMPORARY LOVE-POEMS 
 GATHERED FROM MANY SOURCES 
 
LOVE'S DEMESNE 
 
 A GARLAND OF 
 
 CONTEMPORARY LOVE-POEMS 
 
 Gathered from Many Sources 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE H. ELLWANGER 
 
 
 
 
 
LOVE'S DEMESNE 
 
 A GARLAND OF 
 
 CONTEMPORARY LOVE-POEMS 
 
 from fHang Sources 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE H. ELLWANGER 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE GARDEN'S STORY," "THE STORY OF MY HOUSE," 
 "IN GOLD AND SILVER," " IDYLL1STS OF THE 
 COUNTRY-SIDE." ETC. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. II, 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 1896 
 
Copyright, 1896, 
 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Sm'brrsttg 3re0s : 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 
 
LOVE'S DEMESNE 
 
 SEQUEL TO "MY QUEEN." 
 
 YES, but the years run circling fleeter, 
 Ever they pass me I watch, I wait 
 Ever I dream, and awake to meet her ; 
 She cometh never, or comes too late. 
 
 Should I press on ? for the day grows shorter 
 Ought I to linger ? the far end nears ; 
 
 Ever ahead have I looked, and sought her 
 On the bright sky-line of the gathering years. 
 
 Now that the shadows are eastward sloping, 
 As I screen mine eyes from the slanting sun, 
 
 Cometh a thought It is past all hoping, 
 Look not ahead, she is missed and gone. 
 
 VOL. II. I 
 
 395539 
 
', ' 
 
 Here' o> 'tfrej ridge of my upward travel 
 
 Ere the life-line dips to the darkening vales, 
 
 Sadly I turn, and would fain unravel 
 
 The entangled maze of a search that fails. 
 
 When and where have I seen and passed her? 
 
 What are the words I forgot to say? 
 Should we have met had a boat rowed faster? 
 
 Should we have loved had I stayed that day? 
 
 Was it her face that I saw, and started, 
 Gliding away in a train that crossed ? 
 
 Was it a form that I once, faint-hearted, 
 Followed awhile in a crowd, and lost? 
 
 Was it there she lived, when the train went 
 
 sweeping 
 Under the moon through the landscape 
 
 hushed ? 
 
 Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping, 
 Saw but a hamlet and on we rushed. 
 
 Listen and linger She yet fnay find me 
 In the last faint flush of the waning light 
 
 Never a step on the path behind me ; 
 I must journey alone, to the lonely night. 
 
But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder, 
 A fading figure, with eyes that wait, 
 
 Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder, 
 " He cometh never, or comes too late " ? 
 
 SIR ALFRED LYALL. 
 
 3 
 
EXPERIENTIA DOCET? 
 
 VAIN is the experience of the past 
 To guide their steps who rove, 
 By ways each different from the last, 
 The 'wildering realms of Love ! 
 
 For no new movements of the heart 
 
 Are ever like the old, 
 Nor has their tale its counterpart 
 
 In those by Memory told. 
 
 The records of the pilgrimage 
 
 Of passion are impress'd 
 Each on the renovated page 
 
 Of a blanch'd palimpsest. 
 
 To mock the faith that lovers place 
 In life's acquired love-lore, 
 
 New lessons, latest learn'd, efface 
 Old teachings taught before. 
 
 4 
 
And we ourselves within us bear, 
 
 Tho* to ourselves unknown, 
 New lives, that with new loves appear, 
 
 And new selves of their own. 
 
 Thus every love is, of its kind, 
 
 A first love and a last ; 
 And every time we love, we find 
 
 That love has had no past. 
 
 ROBERT, LORD LYTTON. 
 
IF . . . ? 
 
 SO you but love me, be it your own way, 
 In your own time, no sooner than you will, 
 No warmer than you would from day to day, 
 But love me still ! 
 
 Each day that still you love me seems to me 
 
 A little fairer than the day before ; 
 For, daily given, love's least must daily be 
 A little more. 
 
 And be my most gain'd your least given, if such 
 
 Your sweet will be ! I reckon not the cost, 
 Nor count the gain, by little or by much, 
 Or least or most. 
 
 Little or much, to me the gift I crave 
 
 Is all in all. There is not any measure 
 Of more or less can gauge the need I have 
 Of that dear treasure. 
 6 
 
So you but love me, tho' your love be cold, 
 Mine it can chill not. Tho' your love come 
 
 late, 
 
 Mine for its coming, by sweet dreams foretold, 
 Will dreaming wait. 
 
 Yet ah, if some fair chance, before I die, 
 
 One hour of waking life might let me live, 
 Rich with the dream'd-of dear reality 
 'T is yours to give ! 
 
 Your whole sweet self, with your sweet selfs 
 
 whole love ! 
 
 Those eyes of fire and dew, those lips wish- 
 haunted, 
 
 Those feet whose steps like elfin music move 
 Thro' worlds enchanted ! 
 
 Your whole sweet self ! The unutter'd thoughts 
 
 that stir 
 
 Your lonest musings with light wings unheard, 
 And feelings that find no interpreter 
 In deed or word ! 
 
 Your whole sweet self, that till by love reveal'd 
 Even to yourself still half unknown must be ! 
 For of the wealth in souls like yours conceal'd 
 Love keeps the key. 
 
 7 
 
Ah, if your whole sweet self, by all the power 
 
 Of your sweet self s whole love in some divine 
 Far distant hour made wholly yours, that hour 
 Made wholly mine, 
 
 And if in that blest hour all dreams came true, 
 All doubts dissolved, all fears were whirl'd 
 
 away 
 
 In one wild storm of tendernesses new 
 As time's first day, 
 
 What should we both be ? Hush ! I do not dare 
 Even to hear my own heart's whisper utter'd. 
 Be its sole answerer the silent air 
 This sigh has flutter'd ! 
 
 ROBERT. LORD LYTTON. 
 
 8 
 
OMENS AND ORACLES. 
 
 ALL the phantoms of the future, all the 
 spectres of the past, 
 In the wakeful night came round me, sighing, 
 
 crying, " Fool, beware ! 
 Check the feeling o'er thee stealing ! Let thy 
 
 first love be thy last ! 
 
 Or, if love again thou must, at least this fatal 
 love forbear ! ' 
 
 Marah Amara ! 
 
 Now the dark breaks. Now the lark wakes. 
 
 Now their voices fleet away. 
 And the breeze about the blossom, and the 
 
 ripple in the reed, 
 And the beams and buds and birds begin to 
 
 whisper, sing, or say, 
 
 " Love her, love her, for she loves thee ! " 
 And I know not which to heed. 
 
 Cara Amara / 
 
 ROBERT, LORD LYTTON. 
 9 
 
WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET 
 
 SKIES. 
 
 WHEN stars are in the quiet skies, 
 Then most I pine for thee ; 
 Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 
 As stars look on the sea. 
 
 For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, 
 
 Are stillest where they shine ; 
 Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light, 
 
 Beneath the heaven of thine. 
 
 There is an hour when holy dreams 
 
 Through slumber fairest glide, 
 And in that mystic hour it seems 
 
 Thou shouldst be at my side. 
 
 The thoughts of thee too sacred are 
 
 For daylight's common beam ; 
 I can but know thee as my star, 
 
 My angel and my dream. 
 
 ROBERT, LORD LYTTON. 
 10 
 
THE GARDEN OF MEMORY. 
 
 THERE is a certain garden where I know 
 That flowers flourish in a poet's spring, 
 Where aye young birds their amorous matins 
 
 sing, 
 And never ill wind comes, nor any snow. 
 
 But if you wonder where so fair a show, 
 Where such eternal pleasure may be seen, 
 I say, my memory keeps that garden green, 
 
 Wherein I loved my first love long ago. 
 
 JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY. 
 
 ii 
 
TRYST. 
 
 I PULL my cloak around my chin, 
 The hard earth answers to my tread, 
 Through the cloud-clusters overhead 
 
 The white moon answers out and in. 
 
 \ 
 
 By Jove ! I should not care to win 
 The empire of the earth ; to-night 
 I see my love, the fairest sight 
 
 Since first the world began to spin ! 
 
 JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY. 
 
 12 
 
IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU 
 WERT A NUN. 
 
 IF I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, 
 Pacing it wearily, wearily, 
 From chapel to cell till day were done 
 
 Wearily, wearily, 
 
 Oh ! how would it be with these hearts of ours, 
 That need the sunshine and smiles and flowers ? 
 
 To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call, 
 
 Morning foul or fair ; 
 Such prayer as from lifeless lips may fall 
 
 Words, but hardly prayer ; 
 Vainly trying the thoughts to raise 
 Which in the sunshine would burst in praise. 
 
 Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon, 
 
 The God revealing, 
 Turning thy face from the boundless boon, 
 
 Painfully kneeling ; 
 Or in thy chamber's still solitude, 
 Bending thy head o'er the legend rude. 
 
I, in a cool and lonely nook, 
 
 Gloomily, gloomily, 
 Poring over some musty book 
 
 Thoughtfully, thoughtfully ; 
 Or on the parchment margin unrolled, 
 Painting quaint pictures in purple and gold. 
 
 Perchance in slow procession to meet, 
 
 Wearily, wearily ; 
 In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street, 
 
 Wearily, wearily ; 
 
 Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and then 
 Heavily sinking to earth again. 
 
 Sunshine and air ! warmness and spring ! 
 
 Merrily, merrily ! 
 Back to its cell each weary thing, 
 
 Wearily, wearily ! 
 
 And the heart so withered and dry and old, 
 Most at home in the cloister cold. 
 
 Thou on thy knees at the vespers' call, 
 
 Wearily, wearily ; 
 I looking up on the darkening wall, 
 
 Wearily, wearily; 
 
 The chime so sweet to the boat at sea, 
 Listless and dead to thee and me ! 
 
 14 
 
Then to the lone couch at death of day, 
 
 Wearily, wearily ; 
 Rising at midnight again to pray 
 
 Wearily, wearily ; 
 
 And if through the dark those eyes looked in, 
 Sending them far as a thought of sin. 
 
 And then when thy spirit was passing away, 
 
 Dreamily, dreamily ; 
 The earth-born dwelling returning to clay, 
 
 Sleepily, sleepily; 
 Over thee held the crucified Best, 
 But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed. 
 
 And when my spirit was passing away, 
 
 Dreamily, dreamily; 
 The gray head lying 'mong ashes gray 
 
 Sleepily, sleepily; 
 No hovering angel-woman above 
 Waiting to clasp me in deathless love. 
 
 But now, beloved, thy hand in mine, 
 
 Peacefully, peacefully ; 
 My arm around thee, my lips on thine, 
 
 Lovingly, lovingly, 
 Oh ! is not a better thing to us given 
 Than wearily going alone to heaven? 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD 
 15 
 
A BALLADE OF COLOURS. 
 
 SHE went with morning down the wood 
 Between the green and blue ; 
 The sunlight on the grass was good, 
 And all the year was new. 
 
 There Love came o'er the flowers to her, 
 
 A goodly sight to see 
 From crowned hair to wing- feather ; 
 
 " Arise and come with me." 
 
 She walked with him in Paradise 
 
 Between the white and red, 
 With Love's own kiss between her eyes, 
 
 Love's crown upon her head. 
 
 Why two in heaven should not be thus 
 
 For ever, who may know? 
 Love spread his wings most glorious ; 
 
 " Arise," he said, " I go." 
 
 16 
 
She came and sate down silently 
 
 Between the gray and gray ; 
 The wet wind beat the leafless tree, 
 
 And Love was gone away. 
 
 The woodland breaks to flower anew, 
 The days bring back the year ; 
 
 But how am I to comfort you, 
 My dear, my dear, my dear? 
 
 J. W. MACKAIL. 
 
 VOL. II. 2 
 
FALSE DAWN. 
 
 AH, love, it was the nightingale 
 And not the lark, I know, 
 That brought to mind that ancient tale 
 
 Of one who long ago 
 Beneath unknown and sultry skies, 
 
 On glimmering pathways led 
 By glamour of her perilous eyes, 
 Pursued the moon that fled. 
 
 Alone he went from deep to deep 
 
 With aching eyes abrim ; 
 Alone she trod the heavenly steep, 
 
 And looked unstirred on him. 
 He followed, down the setting sky, 
 
 That desperate chase, till she, 
 Long after midnight, silently 
 
 Dropped down into the sea. 
 
 Then iron darkness round him grew, 
 
 And all his pulses ceased ; 
 When something, what he knew not, drew 
 
 His eyes into the east ; 
 18 
 
Where, high beyond the dells that hid 
 
 Their maiden upland snows, 
 A sudden shaft of colour slid 
 
 From lilac into rose. 
 
 As one awaking, through the night 
 
 He felt the wash of air ; 
 In great dismay, in strange delight, 
 
 He turned, he looked ; and there, 
 Through gleaming mist serene outspread, 
 
 And vapours thinly drawn, 
 Saw open, far above his head, 
 
 The golden gate of dawn. 
 
 Ah, love, it was a dream we dreamed, 
 
 And such come seldom true ; 
 Dawn needs must break the spell that seemed 
 
 To make me aught to you. 
 Our music was the nightingale 
 
 And not the lark ah, no ! 
 And not of magic is our tale, 
 
 And not of long ago. 
 
 J. W. MACKAIL. 
 
MY AMAZON. 
 
 i. 
 
 "TV /TY Love is a lady fair and free, 
 +** A lady fair from over the sea, 
 And she hath eyes that pierce my breast 
 And rob my spirit of peace and rest. 
 
 ii. 
 
 A youthful warrior, warm and young, 
 She takes me prisoner with her tongue ; 
 Aye ! and she keeps me on parole 
 Till paid the ransom of my soul. 
 
 m. 
 
 I swear the foeman, arm'd for war 
 From cap-a-pie, with many a scar, 
 More mercy finds for prostrate foe 
 Than she who deals me never a blow. 
 
 20 
 
IV. 
 
 And so 't will be, this many a day ; 
 She comes to wound, if not to slay. 
 But in my dreams in honeyed sleep 
 'T is I to smile, and she to weep ! 
 
 ERIC MACKAY. 
 
 21 
 
 
THE LADY OF THE MAY. 
 
 O STARS that fade in amber skies, 
 Because ye dread the light of day ; 
 O moon, so lonely and so wise, 
 
 Look down, and love my Love alway ; 
 Salute the Lady of the May ! 
 
 O lark that soarest in the light 
 To hail thy lord in his array, 
 
 Look down, be just, and sing aright 
 For one who claims thy song to-day, 
 To greet his Lady of the May. 
 
 " O lady ! lady ! " sings the lark, 
 " Thy lover's hest I do obey ; 
 
 For thou art splendid after dark, 
 
 And where thou smilest, there is day, 
 And thou 'rt the Lady of the May. 
 
 22 
 
" The nightingale 's a friend of mine, 
 And yesternight she flew my way. 
 
 ' Awake,' she cried, ' at morning shine, 
 And sing for me thy blithest lay, 
 To greet the Lady of the May. 
 
 " ' And tell her, tell her, gentle one, 
 While thou attun'st thy morning lay, 
 
 That I will sing at set of sun 
 Another song, for thy sweet fay, 
 Because she 's Lady of the May.' 
 
 "And lo ! I come," the lark in air, 
 Self-poised and free, did seem to say ; 
 
 " I come to greet thy lady's hair, 
 I come athwart the beams of day, 
 To laud thy Lady of the May." . 
 
 Oh, thank thee, bird that singest well, 
 For all thou say'st and still wouldst say ; 
 
 And for the thoughts which Philomel 
 Intends to trill, in roundelay, 
 To greet my Lady of the May. 
 
 2 3 
 
We two (my Love and I) are one, 
 And so shall be, for aye and aye. 
 
 Go, take my homage to the sun, 
 And bid him shine his best to-day, 
 To crown my Lady of the May ! 
 
 ERIC MACKAY. 
 
 24 
 
CHANGED LOVE. 
 
 WHEN did the change come, dearest Heart 
 of mine, 
 
 Whom Love loves so? 
 When did Love's moon less brightly seem to 
 
 shine, 
 
 While to and fro, 
 And soft and slow, 
 Chill winds began to move in its decline ? 
 
 When did the change come, thou who wast 
 mine own? 
 
 When heard the rose 
 First far-off winds begin to moan, 
 
 At sunset's close, 
 
 When sad Love goes 
 About the autumn woods to brood alone? 
 
 
 
 When did the change come in thy heart, 
 
 sweetheart, 
 Thy heart so dear to me ? 
 
 2 5 
 
In what thing did I fail to bear my part, 
 
 My part to thee, 
 
 Whose deity 
 My soul confesses, and how fair thou art? 
 
 Alas for poor changed Love ! We cannot say 
 
 What changes Love. 
 My love would not suffice to make your day 
 
 Now gladly move, 
 
 Though kisses strove 
 With answering kisses, in Love's sweetest way. 
 
 But though I know you changed, right well I 
 
 know 
 
 That should we meet, 
 Deep in your heart some love for me would 
 
 glow; 
 
 Though not that heat 
 Which made it beat 
 So fast with joy two years one year ago. 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 26 
 
V SUMMER'S RETURN. 
 
 ONCE more I walk mid summer days, as 
 one 
 
 Returning to the place where first he met 
 The face that he till death may not forget ; 
 I know the scent of roses just begun, 
 And how at evening and at morn the sun 
 Falls on the places that remember yet 
 What feet last year within their bounds were 
 
 set, 
 And what sweet things were said and dreamt 
 
 and done. 
 
 The sultry silence of the summer night 
 Recalls to me the loved voice far away ; 
 Oh, surely I shall see some early day, 
 
 In places that last year with love were bright, 
 The face of her I love, and hear the low, 
 Sweet troubled music of the voice I know. 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 27 
 
MINE. 
 
 IN that tranced hush when sound sank awed 
 to rest, 
 
 Ere from her spirit's rose-red, rose-sweet gate 
 Came forth to me her royal word of fate, 
 Did she sigh " Yes," and droop upon my breast, 
 While round our rapture, dumb, fixed, un- 
 expressed 
 
 By the seized senses, there did fluctuate 
 The plaintive surges of our mortal state, 
 Tempering the poignant ecstasy too blest. 
 
 Do I wake into a dream, or have we twain, 
 Lured by soft wiles to some unconscious crime, 
 
 Dared joys forbid to man? Oh, Light supreme, 
 Upon our brows transfiguring glory rain, 
 
 Nor let the sword of thy just angel gleam 
 
 On two who entered heaven before their time ! 
 
 WESTLAND MARSTON. 
 
 28 
 
LOVE'S WAY. 
 
 STRIVE not Love's stream tumultuous to 
 stay 
 
 With social boulders ; neither aid its force : 
 If it have volume, it will run its course, 
 Make its own bridal bed, and have its way. 
 
 W. WILSEY MARTIN. 
 
 29 
 
PAOLO E FRANCESCA. 
 
 A S molecules together whirl in fire, 
 ^^ When^ oxygen woos carbon into flame, 
 Some frail affinities, with scorch of shame, 
 Whirl down the winds of passion and desire. 
 
 W. WILSEY MARTIN. 
 
AUBADE. 
 
 WHEN fair Hyperion dons his night attire, 
 Purple and silver, and his eyes with sleep 
 Go trembling, and the lids a-kissing keep, 
 And up he wings the plains of heaven the higher 
 The starry meadows all uncurl and creep 
 With twinkling shoots that tremble out and 
 
 leap 
 From buds into a blossoming of fire. 
 
 When Spring, with primrose fillet round her 
 
 brows, 
 
 Drifts on the dawn into the hyacinth west, 
 And flings fresh handfuls hoarded in her nest 
 Of tasty flowers, to Flora making vows, 
 
 The snow leaps down the mountain-side, and, 
 
 press'd 
 
 With weight of leaves, the earth at happiest, 
 Rills into rivers thick from blossom-boughs. 
 
When Liris comes sometime at break of day 
 To take the vervain garlands from the door, 
 I Ve hung there fresh with dew an hour before, 
 And chances with soft eyes to look my way, 
 My heart brims out with love, and crowding 
 
 o'er, 
 The passion- songs and rhythms spring and 
 
 pour, 
 As storms in June, or blossom-boughs in May. 
 
 THEO. MARZIALS. 
 
THE PHIAL AND THE PHILTRE. 
 
 MY lady has a casket cut 
 In scarlet coral, crimson-red ; 
 Like Cupid's bow, to keep it shut, 
 Two pouting locks are tightened, 
 In cunning curvings chiselled. 
 
 Some mighty wizard it did make, 
 So strong that nothing can undo ; 
 
 And if you thence would treasure take, 
 You press your lips the clasping to ; 
 The magic word 's " I love but you / " 
 
 You '11 find a row of pearls within, 
 As pure as scarce come from the sea, 
 
 And set the rose and crimson in, 
 
 Twinkling with sweetest symmetry, 
 I trow most beautiful to see ! 
 
 VOL. n. -3 33 
 
And eke the clasp 's so cunning wrought, 
 That as it opens, treble clear, 
 
 There comes a music, glib befraught, 
 Like silver lutes, that to the ear 
 As sweet love-ditties do appear. 
 
 And there within, as peach and rose, 
 
 And pine and plum, most savoury choice, 
 
 Elixirs sweet my Lady stows, 
 
 To make the saddest heart rejoice, 
 Or passionate the poet's voice. 
 
 A rich soul-philtre, that to sip 
 I swear must be to drain it dry, 
 
 And never take away your lip 
 
 Till time has toll'd your time to die, 
 Yet dying, love eternally. 
 
 THEO. MARZIALS. 
 
 34 
 
THE ROSE OF HER CHEEK. 
 
 THE rose of her cheek may wane and die, 
 Her hair's gold fibre dull and decay ; 
 But love has a colour not fused to fly, 
 In the fabric that never shall wear away. 
 
 THEO. MARZIALS. 
 
 35 
 
THE TULIP TO ONE BLOSSOM 
 BLOWS. 
 
 THE tulip to one blossom blows ; 
 One ritournel the merles sing ; 
 My being with one great love glows, 
 
 Whence all my fancies sprout and spring. 
 
 THEO. MARZIALS. 
 
NOT I, SWEET SOUL, NOT I. 
 
 ALL glorious as the Rainbow's birth, 
 She came in Springtide's golden hours ; 
 When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth, 
 
 And May was crowned with buds and flowers. 
 The mounting devil at my heart 
 
 Clomb faintlier, as my life did win 
 The charmed heaven she wrought apart, 
 
 To wake its better Angel in. 
 With radiant mien she trode serene, 
 
 And passed me smiling by ! 
 Oh ! who that looked could help but love ? 
 
 Not I, sweet soul, not I. 
 
 The dewy eyelids of the Dawn 
 
 Ne'er oped such heaven as hers did show : 
 It seemed her dear eyes might have shone 
 
 As jewels in some starry brow. 
 Her face flashed glory like a shrine 
 
 Of lily-bell with sunburst bright, 
 Where came and went love-thoughts divine, 
 
 As low winds walk the leaves in light : 
 
 37 
 
She wore her beauty with the grace 
 
 Of Summer's star-clad sky ; 
 Oh ! who that looked could help but love ? 
 
 Not I, sweet soul, not I. 
 
 Her budding breasts like fragrant fruit 
 
 Of love were ripening to be pressed : 
 Her voice, that shook my heart's red root, 
 
 Might not have broken a Babe's rest, 
 More liquid than the running brooks, 
 
 More vernal than the voice of Spring, 
 When Nightingales are in their nooks, 
 
 And all the leafy thickets ring. 
 The love she coyly hid at heart 
 
 Was shyly conscious in her eye ; 
 Oh ! who that looked could help but love ? 
 
 Not I, sweet soul, not I. 
 
 GERALD MASSEY. 
 
AT DINNER SHE IS HOSTESS. 
 
 AT dinner she is hostess, I am host. 
 Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She 
 
 keeps 
 
 The topic over intellectual deeps 
 In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost. 
 With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball. 
 It is in truth a most contagious game : 
 HIDING THE SKELETON shall be its name. 
 Such play as this the devils might appall ! 
 But here 's the greater wonder ; in that we, 
 Enamoured of our acting and our wits, 
 Admire each other like true hypocrites. 
 Warm lighted glances, Love's Ephemerae, 
 Shoot gaily o'er the dishes and the wine. 
 We waken envy of our happy lot. 
 Fast, sweet, and golden, shows our marriage- 
 knot. 
 
 Dear guests, you now have seen Love's corpse- 
 light shine ! 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH. 
 
 39 
 
LOVE WITHIN THE LOVER'S 
 BREAST. 
 
 LOVE within the lover's breast 
 Burns like Hesper in the West, 
 O'er the ashes of the sun, 
 Till the day and night are done ; 
 Then, when dawn drives up his car 
 Lo ! it is the morning star. 
 
 Love ! thy love pours down on mine, 
 
 As the sunlight on the vine, 
 
 As the snow rill on the vale, 
 
 As the salt breeze on the sail ; 
 
 As the song unto the bird 
 
 On my lips thy name is heard. 
 
 As a dewdrop on the rose 
 In thy heart my passion glows ; 
 As a skylark to the sky, 
 Up into thy breast I fly ; 
 As a sea-shell of the sea 
 Ever shall I sing of thee. 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH. 
 40 
 
A DEAD MARCH. 
 
 PLAY me a march low-toned and slow, a 
 march for a silent tread, 
 Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams 
 
 of the silent dead, 
 
 Lonely, between the bones below and the souls 
 that are overhead. 
 
 Here for a while they smiled and sang, alive in 
 
 the interspace, 
 Here with the grass beneath the foot, and the 
 
 stars above the face, 
 Now are their feet beneath the grass, and 
 
 whither has flown their grace? 
 
 Who shall assure us whence they come or tell us 
 
 the way they go? 
 Verily, life with them was joy, and now they 
 
 have left us, woe. 
 Once they were not, and now they are not, and 
 
 this is the sum we know. 
 
Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly roll 
 
 the stars. 
 How shall we deem the soldier brave who frets 
 
 of his wounds and scars ? 
 Are we as senseless brutes that we should dash 
 
 at the well-seen bars? 
 
 No, we are here with feet unfixed, but ever as 
 
 if with lead 
 Drawn from the orbs which shine above to the 
 
 orb on which we tread, 
 Down to the dust from which we came and with 
 
 which we shall mingle dead. 
 
 No, we are here to wait and work, and strain 
 
 our banished eyes, 
 Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry and 
 
 fain for skies 
 Far from the reach of wingless men and not to 
 
 be scaled with cries. 
 
 Why do we mourn the days that go, for the 
 
 same sun shines each day, 
 Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever a May 
 
 her may, 
 Sweet as the rose that died last year, is the rose 
 
 that is born to-day. 
 
 42 
 
 
Do we not too return, we men, as ever the 
 
 round earth whirls? 
 Never a head is dimmed with gray but another 
 
 is sunned with curls. 
 She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet there 
 
 are boys and girls. 
 
 Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that never 
 
 but one face wore ! 
 Ah, for the voice that has flown away like a bird 
 
 to an unseen shore ! 
 Ah, for the face the flower of flowers that 
 
 blossoms on earth no more ! 
 
 COSMO MONKHOUSE. 
 
 43 
 
THE SECRET. 
 
 SHE passes in her beauty bright 
 Amongst the mean, amongst the gay, 
 And all are brighter for the sight, 
 And bless her as she goes her way. 
 
 And now a beam of pity pours, 
 And now a spark of spirit flies, 
 
 Uncounted, from the unlocked stores 
 Of her rich lips and precious eyes. 
 
 And all men look, and all men smile, 
 But no man looks on her as I : 
 
 They mark her for a little while, 
 But I will watch her till I die. 
 
 And if I wonder now and then 
 
 Why this so strange a thing should be 
 That she be seen by wiser men 
 
 And only duly loved by me ; 
 
 44 
 
I only wait a little longer, 
 
 And watch her radiance in the room ; 
 Here making light a little stronger, 
 
 And there obliterating gloom 
 
 (Like one who in a tangled way 
 Watches the broken sun fall through, 
 
 Turning to gold the faded spray 
 And making diamonds of dew), 
 
 Until at last, as my heart burns, 
 She gathers all her scattered light, 
 
 And undivided radiance turns 
 Upon me like a sea of light. 
 
 And then I know they see in part 
 
 That which God lets me worship whole : 
 
 He gives them glances of her heart, 
 But me, the sunshine of her soul. 
 
 ' COSMO MONKHOUSE. 
 
 45 
 
FAIR STAR THAT ON THE SHOULDER 
 OF YON HILL. 
 
 r*AIR star that on the shoulder of yon hill 
 
 Peepest, a little eye of tranquil night, 
 Come forth. Nor sun nor moon there is to kill 
 
 Thy ray with broader light. 
 Shine, star of eve that art so bright and clear ; 
 Shine, little star, and bring my lover here. 
 
 My lover ! oh, fair word for maid to hear ! 
 
 My lover who was yesterday my friend ! 
 Oh, strange we did not know before how near 
 
 Our stream of life smoothed to its fated end ! 
 Shine, star of eve, as Love's self bright and clear ; 
 Shine, little star, and bring my lover here. 
 
 He comes ! I hear the echo of his feet. 
 
 He comes ! I fear to stay, I cannot go. 
 O Love, that thou art shame-fast, bitter-sweet ; 
 
 Mingled with pain, and conversant with woe ! 
 Shine, star of eve, more bright as night draws 
 
 near; 
 Shine, little star, and bring my lover here. 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 46 
 
OH, VERMEIL ROSE AND SWEET. 
 
 OH, vermeil rose and sweet, 
 Rose with the golden heart of hidden 
 
 fire, 
 
 Bear thou my yearning soul to him I love, 
 Bear thou my longing and desire. 
 
 Glide safe, O sweet, sweet rosej 
 
 By fairy-fall and cliff and mimic strand, 
 
 To where he muses by the sleeping stream, 
 Then eddy to his hand. 
 
 Drown not, O vermeil rose, 
 
 But from thy dewy petals let a tear 
 
 Fall soft for joy when thou shalt know the touch 
 And presence of my dear. 
 
 Tell him, O sweet, sweet rose, 
 
 That I grow fixed no more, nor flourish now 
 In the sweet maiden garden-ground of old, 
 
 But severed even as thou. 
 
 47 
 
Say from thy golden heart, 
 
 From virgin folded leaf and odorous breath, 
 That I am his to wear or cast away, 
 
 His own in life or death. 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 
 48 
 
THY SHADOW, O TARDY NIGHT, 
 
 r I ""HY shadow, O tardy night, 
 
 Creeps onward by valley and hill, 
 And scarce to my streaming sight 
 
 Show the white road-reaches still. 
 O night, stay now a little, little space, 
 And let me see the light of my beloved's face ! 
 
 My love is late, O night, 
 
 And what has kept him away? 
 For I know that he takes not delight 
 
 In the garish joys of day. 
 Haste, night, dear night, that bring'st my love 
 
 to me ! 
 What if his footsteps halt and tarry but for thee ! 
 
 Nay, what if his footsteps slide 
 
 By the swaying bridge of pine, 
 And whirled seaward by the tide 
 
 Is the loved form I counted mine ! 
 O night, dear night, that comest yet dost not 
 
 come, 
 How shall I wait the hour that brings my darling 
 
 home? 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 VOL. IL 4 49 
 
SONG: TO PSYCHE. 
 
 O PENSIVE, tender maid, downcast and shy, 
 Who turnest pale e'en at the name of 
 
 love, 
 
 And with flush'd face must pass the elm-tree by, 
 Asham'd to hear the passionate gray dove 
 Moan to his mate, thee too the god shall move, 
 Thee too the maidens shall ungird one day, 
 And with thy girdle put thy shame away. 
 
 What then, and shall white winter ne'er be 
 
 done 
 
 Because the glittering frosty morn is fair? 
 Because against the early setting sun 
 Bright show the gilded boughs, though waste and 
 
 bare? 
 
 Because the robin singe th free from care ? 
 Ah! these are memories of a better day 
 When on earth's face the lips of summer lay. 
 
 5 
 
Come then, beloved one, for such as thee 
 Love loveth, and their hearts he knoweth well, 
 Who hoard their moments of felicity, 
 As misers hoard the medals that they tell, 
 Lest on the earth but paupers they should dwell : 
 " We hide our love to bless another day ; 
 The world is hard, youth passes quick," they say. 
 
 Ah, little ones, but if ye could forget 
 Amidst your outpour'd love that you must die, 
 Then ye, my servants, were death's conquerors 
 
 yet, 
 
 And love to you should be eternity 
 How quick soever might the days go by : 
 Yes, ye are made immortal on the day 
 Ye cease the dusty grains of time to weigh. 
 
 Thou hearkenest, love? Oh, make no sem- 
 blance then 
 
 Thou art beloved, but as thy wont is 
 Turn thy gray eyes away from eyes of men 
 With hands down-dropp'd, that tremble with 
 
 thy bliss, 
 
 With hidden eyes, take thy first lover's kiss ; 
 Call this eternity which is to-day, 
 Nor dream that this our love can pass away. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
THE FIRST LYRIC. 
 
 LOVE is enough : though the World be a 
 waning 
 And the woods have no voice but the voice 
 
 of complaining, 
 Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to 
 
 discover 
 
 The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming there- 
 under, 
 Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea 
 
 a dark wonder, 
 And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed 
 
 over, 
 Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall 
 
 not falter ; 
 
 The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter 
 These lips and these eyes of the loved and the 
 lover. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
THE CONCLUDING LYRIC. 
 
 LOVE is enough : ho, ye who seek saving, 
 Go no further ; come hither ; there have 
 
 been who have found it, 
 And these know the House of Fulfilment of 
 
 Craving ; 
 
 These know the Cup with the roses around it ; 
 These know the World's wound and the balm 
 
 that hath bound it : 
 Cry out, the World heedeth not, " Love, lead 
 us home ! " 
 
 He leadeth, he hearkeneth, he cometh to you- 
 
 ward; 
 
 Set your faces as steel to the fears that assemble 
 Round his goad for the faint, and his scourge 
 
 for the froward : 
 Lo, his lips, how with tales of last kisses they 
 
 tremble ! 
 
 53 
 
Lo, his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble ! 
 Cry out, for he heedeth, "O Love, lead us 
 home." 
 
 Oh, hearken the words of his voice of compassion : 
 " Come cling round about me, ye faithful who 
 
 sicken 
 Of the weary unrest and the world's passing 
 
 fashion ! 
 As the rain in mid- morning your troubles shall 
 
 thicken, 
 But surely within you some Godhead doth 
 
 quicken, 
 As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home. 
 
 " Come pain ye shall have, and be blind to 
 the ending ! 
 
 Come fear ye shall have, mid the sky's over- 
 casting ! 
 
 Come change ye shall have, for far are ye 
 wending ! 
 
 Come no crown ye shall have for your thirst 
 and your fasting 
 
 But the kissed lips of Love and fair life ever- 
 lasting ! 
 
 Cry out, for one heedeth who leadeth you 
 home ! " 
 
 54 
 
Is he gone ? was he with us ? ho, ye who seek 
 
 saving, 
 Go no further ; come hither ; for have we not 
 
 found it? 
 
 Here is the House of Fulfilment of Craving, 
 Here is the Cup with the roses around it ; 
 The World's wound well healed, and the balm 
 
 that hath bound it : 
 Cry out ! for he heedeth, fair Love that led 
 
 home. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 55 
 
BESIDE A BIER. 
 
 T HAD never kissed her her whole life long, 
 * Now I stand by her bier, does she feel 
 How with love that the waiting years made strong, 
 I set on her lips my seal? 
 
 Will she wear my kiss in the grave's long night, 
 And wake sometimes with a thrill, 
 
 From dreams of the old life's missed delight, 
 To feel that the grave is chill? 
 
 " It was warm," will she say, " in that world 
 
 above ; 
 
 It was warm, but I did not know 
 How he loved me there, with his whole life's 
 
 love, 
 It is cold down here below.*' 
 
 LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
FOR ME ALONE. 
 
 BECAUSE your eyes are blue, your lips are 
 red, 
 
 And the soft hair is golden on your head, 
 And your sweet smiling can make glad the day, 
 And on your cheeks pink roses have their way, 
 Should I adore you? 
 
 Some other maids have shining golden hair, 
 And other cheeks the June's pink roses wear, 
 And other eyes can set the day alight, 
 And other lips can smile with youth's delight, 
 Why bow before you? 
 
 But if the eyes are blue for me alone, 
 And if for only me the rose has blown, 
 And but for me the lips their sweet smile wear, 
 Then shall you mesh me in your golden hair, 
 I will adore you. 
 
 57 
 
And as my saint, my soul's one shining star, 
 That lights my darkness from its throne afar, 
 As lights the summer moon the waiting sea, 
 With all I am, and all I strive to be, 
 I '11 bow before you. 
 
 LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
HEREAFTER. 
 
 IN after years a twilight ghost shall fill 
 With shadowy presence all thy waiting room : 
 From lips of air thou canst not kiss the bloom ; 
 Yet at old kisses will thy pulses thrill, 
 And the old longing that thou couldst not kill, 
 Feeling her presence in the gathering gloom, 
 Will mock thee with the hopelessness of doom, 
 While she stands there and smiles, serene and 
 still. 
 
 Thou canst not vex her, then, with passion's pain : 
 Call, and the silence will thy call repeat ; 
 But she will smile there, with cold lips and 
 
 sweet, 
 
 Forgetful of old tortures, and the chain 
 That once she wore, the tears she wept in vain, 
 At passing from her threshold of thy feet. 
 
 LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 59 
 
THE SHADOW DANCE. 
 
 SHE sees her image in the glass, 
 How fair a thing to gaze upon ! 
 She lingers, while the moments run, 
 
 With happy thoughts that come and pass, 
 
 Like winds across the meadow grass 
 When the young June fs just begun : 
 
 She sees her image in the glass, 
 How fair a thing to gaze upon ! 
 
 What wealth of gold the skies amass ! 
 
 How glad are all things 'neath the sun ! 
 
 How true the love her love hath won ! 
 She recks not that this hour will pass ; 
 She sees her image in the glass. 
 
 LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 60 
 
FORTUNIO'S SONG. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF ALFRED DE MUSSET. 
 
 COMRADES ! in vain ye seek to learn 
 For whom I burn ; 
 Not for a kingdom would I dare 
 Her name declare. 
 
 But we will chant in chorus still, 
 
 If so you will, 
 That she I love is blonde and sweet, 
 
 As blades of wheat. 
 
 Whate'er her wayward fancies ask 
 
 Becomes my task ; 
 Should she my very life demand, 
 
 'T is in her hand. 
 
 The pain of passion unrevealed 
 Can scarce be healed : 
 
 Such pain within my heart I bear, 
 To my despair : 
 
 61 
 
Nathless I love her all too well 
 
 Her name to tell ; 
 And I would sooner die than e'er 
 
 Her name declare. 
 
 GEORGE MURRAY. 
 
 62 
 
HAVE OTHER LOVERS? 
 
 " T TAVE other lovers say, my love 
 
 - -* Loved thus before to-day? " 
 " They may have ; yes ! they may, my love ; 
 Not long ago they may." 
 
 " But though they worshipped thee, my love, 
 
 Thy maiden heart was free? " 
 " Don't ask too much of me, my love ; 
 
 Don't ask too much of me ! " 
 
 " Yet now 't is you and I, my love, 
 Love's wings no more will fly? " 
 
 " If Love could never die, my love, 
 Our love should never die." 
 
 " For shame ! and is this so, my love, 
 
 And Love and I must go ? " 
 " Indeed, I do not know, my love ; 
 
 My life, I do not know." 
 
 63 
 
" You will, you must be true, my love, 
 
 Nor look and love anew ! " 
 " I '11 see what I can do, my love ; 
 
 I '11 see what I can do." 
 
 FREDERIC W. H. MYERS. 
 
SONG. 
 
 MY sweet, my sweet, 
 She is complete, 
 
 From dainty head to darling feet ; 
 So warm and white, 
 So brown and bright, 
 So made for love and love's delight. 
 
 God could but spare 
 
 One flower so fair; 
 There is none like her anywhere. 
 
 Beneath wide skies 
 
 The whole earth lies, 
 But not two other such brown eyes. 
 
 The world we 're in, 
 If one might win ? 
 Not worth that dimple in her chin ! 
 A heaven to know? 
 I '11 let that go 
 
 But once to see her lids droop low 
 VOL. ii. 5 
 
Over her eyes, 
 
 By love made wise : 
 To see her bosom fall and rise 
 
 Is more than worth 
 
 The angels' mirth, 
 And all the heaven- joys of earth. 
 
 This is the hour 
 
 Which gives me power 
 To win and wear earth's whitest flower. 
 
 O Love, give grace, 
 
 Through all life's ways, 
 Keep pure this heart, her dwelling-place ! 
 
 E. NESBIT. 
 
 66 
 
SPLENDIDE MENDAX. 
 
 WHEN God some day shall call my name 
 And scorch me with a blaze of shame, 
 Bringing to light my inmost thought 
 And all the evil I have wrought, 
 
 Tearing away the veils I wove 
 To hide my foulness from my love, 
 And leaving my transgressions bare 
 To the whole heaven's clear, cold air 
 
 When all the angels weep to see 
 The branded outcast soul of me, 
 One saint at least will hide her face, 
 She will not look at my disgrace. 
 
 " At least, O God, O God Most High, 
 He loved me truly ! " she will cry, 
 And God will pause before He send 
 My soul to find its fitting end. 
 
 67 
 
Then, lest heaven's light should leave her face 
 To think one loved her and was base, 
 I will speak out at judgment day, 
 " I never loved her ! ' I will say. 
 
 E. NESBIT. 
 
 68 
 
THE KISS. 
 
 THE snow is white on wood and wold, 
 The wind is in the firs, 
 So dead my heart is with the cold, 
 
 No pulse within it stirs, 
 Even to see your face, my dear, 
 
 Your face that was my sun ; 
 There is no spring this bitter year, 
 And summer's dreams are done. 
 
 The snakes that lie about my heart 
 
 Are in their wintry sleep ; 
 Their fangs no more deal sting and smart, 
 
 No more they curl and creep. 
 Love with the summer ceased to be ; 
 
 The frost is firm and fast. 
 God keep the summer far from me, 
 
 And let the snakes' sleep last ! 
 
 Touch of your hand could not suffice 
 
 To waken them once more ; 
 Nor could the sunshine of your eyes 
 
 A ruined spring restore. 
 
 69 
 
But ah your lips ! You know the rest : 
 
 The snows are summer rain, 
 My eyes are wet, and in my breast 
 
 The snakes' fangs meet again. 
 
 E. NESBIT. 
 
 70 
 
 
THE MILL. 
 
 I ~^HE wheel goes round, the wheel goes round 
 
 With drip and whir and plash, 
 It keeps all green the grassy ground, 
 
 The alder, beech, and ash. 
 The ferns creep out mid mosses cool, 
 
 Forget-me-nots are found 
 Blue in the shadow by the pool 
 
 And still the wheel goes round. 
 
 Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel, 
 
 The foam is white like cream, 
 The merry waters dance and reel 
 
 Along the stony stream. 
 The little garden of the mill, 
 
 It is enchanted ground, 
 I smell its stocks and wall- flowers still, 
 
 And still the wheel goes round. 
 
 The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round, 
 
 And life's wheel too must go, 
 But all their clamour has not drowned 
 
 A voice I used to know. 
 
Her window 's blank. The garden 's bare 
 
 As her chill new-made mound, 
 But still my heart's delight is there, 
 
 And still the wheel goes round. 
 
 E. NESBIT. 
 
 72 
 
A PASTORAL. 
 
 MY love and I among the mountains strayed, 
 When heaven and earth in summer heat 
 
 were still, 
 Aware anon that at our feet were laid, 
 
 Within a sunny hollow of the hill, 
 A long-haired shepherd lover and a maid. 
 
 They saw nor heard us, who a space above, 
 With hands clasped close as hers were clasped 
 
 in his, 
 Marked how the gentle golden sunlight strove 
 
 To play about their leaf-crowned curls, and kiss 
 Their burnished slender limbs, half-bared to his 
 love. 
 
 But grave or pensive seemed the boy to grow, 
 For while upon the grass unfmgered lay 
 
 The slim twin-pipes, he ever watched with slow 
 Dream-laden looks the ridge that far away 
 
 Surmounts the sleeping midsummer with snow. 
 
 73 
 
These things we saw ; moreover we could hear 
 The girl's soft voice of laughter, grown more 
 
 bold 
 
 With the utter noonday silence, sweet and clear : 
 " Why dost thou think ? By thinking one grows 
 
 old. 
 Wouldst thou for all the world be old, my dear? " 
 
 Here my love turned to me, but her eyes told 
 Her thought with smiles before she spoke a 
 
 word ; 
 And being quick their meaning to behold, 
 
 I could not chuse but echo what we heard : 
 " Sweetheart, wouldst thou for all the world be 
 old?" 
 
 J. B. B. NICHOLS. 
 
 74 
 
\ SECUNDUM ALTITUDINEM C&LI 
 
 A TERRA. 
 
 OLOVE, O love, I cannot dare to love you, 
 I will not try to love ; 
 As soon might heaven's flowers, the stars above 
 
 you, 
 Fall from above, 
 
 And be transformed to buds of mortal blossom, 
 
 Stars which can fade and die, 
 For you to pluck and fill your hands and bosom 
 
 As you passed by. 
 
 As soon I hope could night be turned to morning, 
 And morning changed to night, 
 
 As your sweet soul be touched with aught but 
 
 scorning 
 At my soul's sight. 
 
 Oh, pray to God (I think that God will hear you, 
 
 If any God there be) 
 That I bring never my dishonour near you 
 
 For you to see. 
 
 75 
 
Oh, pray to God (if God is good, he loves you), 
 
 Pray to him earnestly, 
 If ever to aught of love my presence moves you, 
 
 That I may die. 
 
 Child, I were more than glad to die to-morrow, 
 
 Truly to die were gain, 
 If I could spare you thus one pulse of sorrow, 
 
 One sigh of pain. 
 
 Love, if my soul, cut off in grief and sinning, 
 
 Could get your Paradise, 
 Think you salvation would be worth the winning, 
 
 Or heaven a prize ? 
 
 Lo, if in lifting up mine eyes distressed, 
 
 This bliss I yet might win, 
 To see far off the gardens of the blessed, 
 
 You crowned therein ; 
 
 Lo ! if mine ears all other comfort wanting, 
 Deafened and drowned in hell, 
 
 Could catch one faintest echo of your chanting, 
 Were it not well? 
 
 76 
 
See you now : dreams and words ! as weak and 
 aimless 
 
 As leaves whirled on a stream ; 
 But my poor love that seeks but to be blameless, 
 
 That is no dream. 
 
 J. B. B. NICHOLS. 
 
 77 
 
V VIGILATE ITAQUE. 
 
 'T^HE restless years that come and go, 
 The cruel years so swift and slow, 
 Once in our lives perchance will show 
 What they can give that we may know ; 
 
 Too soon perchance, or else too late ; 
 We may look back or we may wait ; 
 The years are incompassionate, 
 And who shall touch the robe of fate ? 
 
 Once only ; haply if we keep 
 Watch with our lamps and do not sleep, 
 Our eyes shall, when the night is deep, 
 Behold the bridegroom's face, and weep. 
 
 Alas ! for better far it were 
 That Love were heedless of our prayer 
 Than that his glory he should bare 
 And show himself to our despair. 
 
 78 
 
Better to wander till we die 
 And never come the door anigh, 
 Than weeping sore without to lie 
 And get no answer to our cry. 
 
 O child ! the night is cold and blind, 
 The way is rough with rain and wind, 
 Narrow and steep and hard to find ; 
 But I have found thee love, be kind. 
 
 J. B. B. NICHOLS. 
 
 79 
 
THE HORIZON. 
 
 OH, would, oh, would that thou and I, 
 Now this brief day of love is past, 
 Could toward the sunset straightway fly, 
 
 And fold our wearied wings at last 
 There, where the sea-line meets the sky. 
 
 A sweet thing and a strange 'twould be 
 Thus, thus to break our prison bars, 
 
 And know that we at last were free 
 As voiceful waves and silent stars, 
 
 There, where the sky-line meets the sea. 
 
 But vain the longing ! thou and I, 
 
 As we have been must ever be, 
 Yet thither, wind, oh, waft my sigh, 
 
 There where the sky-line meets the sea, 
 There where the sea-line meets the sky. 
 
 JAMES ASHCROFT NOBLE. 
 
 80 
 
SHADOWS. 
 
 AZURE of sky and silver of cloud 
 In the deep dark water show, 
 Amber of field and emerald of wood 
 That were pictured long ago. 
 
 Here, as of old, the beauty above, 
 And its shadow there below ; 
 
 Why was their message jubilant then, 
 And their meaning now but woe ? 
 
 Nay, not the same, O fool, as of yore ! 
 
 These be other leaves that grow, 
 Other the harvests, other the waves ; 
 
 Other the breezes that blow. 
 
 Sameness in sooth, but difference too ; 
 
 And a simple change I know, 
 Within beholder, without in scene, 
 
 It may alter meaning so ! 
 VOL n. 6 8 1 
 
Shadow of her who looked down with me, 
 
 In the depths so long ago 
 Were all your archness glimmering there, 
 
 Would the picture breathe but woe ? 
 
 JOSEPH O'CONNOR. 
 
 82 
 
 
A DREAM. 
 
 A DREAM took hold of the heart of a man, 
 To hold it more than a mere dream can ; 
 For the dream was wonderful, glorious, bright, 
 A splendour by day and a love by night, 
 In an earth all heaven, in a heaven all light 
 For the dream was a woman, womanly, white. 
 
 And the dream became such a part of the man, 
 That it did for him more than a mere dream can ; 
 For soothing sorrows, transforming tears, 
 It lifted him higher than hopes and fears ; 
 It dwelt with him days and months and years, 
 Made love and religion, and faith and prayers. 
 
 And who need be told how the dream began 
 To fail and to fade from the heart of the man ; 
 Nay, it vanished, it broke, as the fitfullest gleam 
 Of the sun that fades on the fitfullest stream ; 
 And there went with it love and religion, I deem 
 And faith and glory and hope, it would seem ; 
 For that dream was a woman, that woman a 
 
 dream. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 33 
 
A FAREWELL. 
 
 T TATH any loved you well down there, 
 -* * Summer or winter through? 
 Down there, have you found any fair 
 
 Laid in the grave with you ? 
 Is death's long kiss a richer kiss 
 
 Than mine was wont to be? 
 Or have you gone to some far bliss, 
 
 And quite forgotten me ? 
 
 What soft enamouring of sleep 
 
 Hath you in some soft way? 
 What charmed death holdeth you with deep 
 
 Strange lure by night and day ? 
 A little space below the grass, 
 
 Out of the sun and shade ; 
 But worlds away from me, alas ! 
 
 Down there where you are laid ! 
 
 84 
 
My bright hair's waved and wasted gold, 
 
 What is it now to thee 
 Whether the rose-red life I hold 
 
 Or white death holdeth me ? 
 Down there you love the grave's own green, 
 
 And evermore you rave 
 Of some sweet seraph you have seen 
 
 Or dreamed of in the grave. 
 
 There you shall lie as you have lain, 
 
 Though in the world above 
 Another live your life again, 
 
 Loving again' your love ; 
 Is it not sweet beneath the palm? 
 
 Is not the warm day rife 
 With some long mystic golden calm 
 
 Better than love and life ? 
 
 The broad quaint odorous leaves, like hands 
 
 Weaving the fair day through, 
 Weave sleep no burnished bird withstands, 
 
 While death weaves sleep for you ; 
 And many a strange rich breathing sound 
 
 Ravishes morn and noon ; 
 And in that place you must have found 
 
 Death a delicious swoon. 
 
 85 
 
Hold me no longer for a word 
 
 I used to say or sing ; 
 Ah ! long ago you must have heard 
 
 So many a sweeter thing : 
 For rich earth must have reached your heart, 
 
 And turned the faith to flowers ; 
 And warm wind stolen, part by part, 
 
 Your soul through faithless hours. 
 
 And many a soft seed must have won 
 
 Soil of some yielding thought, 
 To bring a bloom up to the sun 
 
 That else had ne'er been brought ; 
 And doubtless many a passionate hue 
 
 Hath made that place more fair, 
 Making some passionate part of you 
 
 Faithless to me down there. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 86 
 
 
SONG. 
 
 HAS summer come without the rose, 
 Or left the bird behind? 
 Is the blue changed above thee, 
 
 O world ! or am I blind ? 
 Will you change every flower that grows, 
 
 Or only change this spot, 
 Where she who said, I love thee, 
 Now says, I love thee not? 
 
 The skies seemed true above thee, 
 
 The rose true on the tree ; 
 The bird seemed true the summer through, 
 
 But all proved false to me. 
 World, is there one good thing in you, 
 
 Life, love, or death or what ? 
 Since lips that sang, I love thee, 
 
 Have said, I love thee not? 
 
J think the sun's kiss will scarce fall 
 
 Into one flower's gold cup ; 
 I think the bird will miss me, 
 
 And give the summer up. 
 O sweet place ! desolate in tall 
 
 Wild grass, have you forgot 
 How her lips loved to kiss me 
 
 Now that they kiss me not? 
 
 Be false or fair above me, 
 
 Come back with any face, 
 Summer ! do I care what you do? 
 
 You cannot change one place 
 The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, 
 
 The grave I make this spot 
 Here, where she used to love me, 
 
 Here, where she loves me not. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 88 
 
 
SUPREME SUMMER. 
 
 O HE ART full of song in the sweet song- 
 weather, 
 A voice fills each bower, a wing shakes each 
 
 tree, 
 Come forth, O winged singer, on song's fairest 
 
 feather, 
 And make a sweet fame of my love and of me. 
 
 The blithe world shall ever have fair loving 
 
 leisure, 
 
 And long is the summer for bird and for bee ; 
 But too short the summer and too keen the 
 
 pleasure 
 Of me kissing her and of her kissing me. 
 
 Songs shall not cease of the hills and the heather ; 
 
 Songs shall not fail of the land and the sea : 
 But, O heart, if you sing not while we are 
 together, 
 
 What man shall remember my love or me? 
 
Some million of summers hath been and not 
 
 known her, 
 Hath known and forgotten loves less fair than 
 
 she ; 
 But one summer knew her, and grew glad to 
 
 own her, 
 And made her its flower, and gave her to me. 
 
 And she and I loving, on earth seem to sever 
 Some part of the great blue from heaven each 
 
 day : 
 I know that the heaven and the earth are for 
 
 ever, 
 
 But that which we take shall with us pass away. 
 
 And that which she gives me shall be for no lover 
 In any new love-time, the world's lasting while ; 
 
 The world, when it looses, shall never recover 
 The gold of her hair nor the sun of her smile. 
 
 A tree grows in heaven, where no season blanches 
 Or stays the new fruit through the long golden 
 
 clime ; 
 
 My love reaches up, takes a fruit from its branches, 
 And gives it to me to be mine for all time. 
 
 90 
 
What care I for other fruits, fed with new fire, 
 Plucked down by new lovers in fair future line ? 
 
 The fruit that I have is the thing I desire, 
 To live of and die of, the sweet she makes 
 mine. 
 
 And she and I loving, are king of one summer 
 And queen of one summer to gather and glean : 
 
 The world is for us what no fair future comer 
 Shall find it or dream it could ever have been. 
 
 The earth, as we lie on its bosom, seems pressing 
 
 A heart up to bear us and mix with our heart ; 
 
 The blue, as we wonder, drops down a great 
 
 blessing 
 
 That soothes us and fills us and makes the 
 tears start. 
 
 The summer is full of strange hundredth-year 
 
 flowers, 
 That breathe all their lives the warm air of 
 
 our love, 
 
 And never shall know a love other than ours 
 Till once more some phoenix- star flowers 
 above. 
 
The silver cloud passing is friend of our loving ; 
 The sea, never knowing this year from last 
 
 year, 
 Is thick with fair words, between roaring and 
 
 soughing, 
 For her and me only to gather and hear. 
 
 Yea, the life that we lead now is better and 
 sweeter, 
 
 I think, than shall be in the world by and bye ; 
 For those days, be they longer or fewer or fleeter, 
 
 I will not exchange on the day that I die. 
 
 I shall die when the rose-tree about and above me 
 Her red kissing mouth seems hath kissed 
 
 summer through : 
 I shall die on the day that she ceases to love 
 
 me 
 But that will not be till the day she dies too. 
 
 Then, fall on us, dead leaves of our dear roses, 
 And ruins of summer fall on us erelong, 
 
 And hide us away where our dead year reposes ; 
 Let all that we leave in the world be a song. 
 
 92 
 
And, O song that I sing now while we are 
 together, 
 
 Go, sirjg to some new year of women and men, 
 How I and she loved in the long loving weather, 
 
 And ask if they love on as we two loved then. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 93 
 
AS ONE WOULD STAND WHO SAW A 
 SUDDEN LIGHT. 
 
 AS one would stand who saw a sudden light 
 Flood down the world, and so encom- 
 pass him, 
 
 And in that world illumined Seraphim 
 Brooded above and gladdened to his sight ; 
 So stand I in the flame of one great thought, 
 That broadens to my soul from where she waits, 
 Who, yesterday, drew wide the inner gates 
 Of all my being to the hopes I sought. 
 Her words come to me like a summer-song, 
 Blown from the throat of some sweet nightin- 
 gale ; 
 
 I stand within her light the whole day long, 
 And think upon her till the white stars fail : 
 I lift my head towards all that makes life wise, 
 And see no farther than my lady's eyes. 
 
 GILBERT PARKER. 
 
 94 
 
IF DEATH SHOULD COME TO ME 
 TO-NIGHT, AND SAY. 
 
 IF Death should come to me to-night, and say : 
 " I weigh thy destiny ; behold, I give 
 One little day with this thy love to live, 
 Then, my embrace ; or, leave her for alway, 
 And thou shalt walk a full array of years ; 
 Upon thee shall the world's large honours fall, 
 And praises clamorous shall make for all 
 Thy strivings rich amends." If in my ears 
 Thou saidst, " I love thee ! " I would straightway 
 
 cry, 
 
 " A thousand years upon this barren earth 
 Is death without her : for that day I die, 
 And count my life for it of poorest worth." 
 Love's reckoning is too noble to be told 
 By Time's slow ringers on its sands of gold. 
 
 GILBERT PARKER. 
 
 95 
 
DEPARTURE. 
 
 IT was not like your great and gracious 
 ways ! 
 
 Do you, that have nought other to lament, 
 Never, my Love, repent 
 Of how, that July afternoon, 
 You went, 
 
 With sudden, unintelligible phrase, 
 And frighten'd eye, 
 Upon your journey of so many days, 
 Without a single kiss, or a good-bye ? 
 I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon ; 
 And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, 
 You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, 
 Your harrowing praise. 
 Well, it was well, 
 To hear you such things speak, 
 And I could tell 
 
 What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, 
 As a warm south-wind sombres a March grove. 
 
 96 
 
And it was like your great and gracious ways 
 
 To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, 
 
 Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash 
 
 To let the laughter flash, 
 
 Whilst I drew near, 
 
 Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely 
 
 hear. 
 
 But all at once to leave me at the last, 
 More at the wonder than the loss aghast, 
 With huddled, unintelligible phrase, 
 And frighten'd eye, 
 And go your journey of all days 
 With not one kiss, or a good-bye, 
 And the only loveless look the look with which 
 
 you passed : 
 'T was all unlike your great and gracious ways. 
 
 COVENTRY PATMORE. 
 
 VOL. n. 7 
 
 97 
 
CADENCES. 
 
 MINOR. 
 i. 
 
 THE ancient memories buried lie, 
 And the olden fancies pass ; 
 The old sweet flower- thoughts wither and fly, 
 And die as the April cowslips die 
 That scatter the bloomy grass. 
 
 ii. 
 
 All dead, my dear ! And the Mowers are dead, 
 
 And the happy blossoming spring ; 
 The winter comes with its iron tread, 
 The fields with the dying sun are red, 
 And the birds have ceased to sing. 
 
 in. 
 
 I trace the steps on the wasted strand 
 
 Of the vanished springtime's feet : 
 Withered and dead is our Fairyland, 
 For Love and Death go hand in hand 
 Go hand in hand, my sweet ! 
 
 98 
 
MAJOR. 
 i. 
 
 Oh, what shall be the burden of our rhyme, 
 And what shall be our ditty when the blossom 's 
 
 on the lime? 
 Our lips have fed on winter and on weariness 
 
 too long : 
 
 We will hail the royal summer with a golden- 
 footed song. 
 
 n. 
 
 O lady of my summer and my spring, 
 We shall hear the blackbird whistle and the 
 
 brown sweet throstle sing, 
 And the low clear noise of waters running softly 
 
 by our feet, 
 When the sights and sounds of summer in the 
 
 green clear fields are sweet. 
 
 m. 
 
 We shall see the roses blowing in the green, 
 The pink-lipped roses kissing in the golden 
 
 summer sheen ; 
 We shall see the fields flower thick with stars 
 
 and bells of summer gold, 
 And the poppies burn out red and sweet across 
 
 the corn-crowned wold. 
 
 99 
 
rv. 
 
 The time shall be for pleasure, not for pain ; 
 There shall come no ghost of grieving for the 
 
 past betwixt us twain ; 
 But in the time of roses our lives shall grow 
 
 together, 
 And our love be as the love of gods in the blue 
 
 Olympian weather. 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 
 100 
 
1 V I 
 
 CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 i. 
 
 MOST fair God, O Love both new and old, 
 That wast before the flowers of morning 
 
 blew, 
 Before the glad sun in his mail of gold 
 
 Leapt into light across the first day's dew ; 
 That art the first and last of our delight, 
 That in the blue day and the purple night 
 Holdest the hearts of servant and of king, 
 Lord of Hesse, sovran of sorrowing, 
 That in thy hand hast heaven's golden key 
 
 And hell beneath the shadow of thy wing, 
 Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! 
 
 n. 
 
 What thing rejects thy mastery? Who so bold 
 But at thine altars in the dusk they sue ? 
 
 101 
 
Even the straight pale goddess, silver- stoled, 
 That kissed Ehdymion when the spring was 
 
 new, 
 
 To thee did homage in her own despite, 
 
 When in the shadow of her wings of white 
 She slid down trembling from her mooned ring 
 To where the Latmian boy lay slumbering, 
 
 And in that kiss put off cold chastity. 
 
 Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and 
 string, 
 
 " Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! ' 
 
 in. 
 
 Master of men and gods, in every fold 
 
 Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew 
 The labouring earth, tranced with the winter's 
 
 cold, 
 
 Lie hid the quintessential charms that woo 
 The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might 
 Of the dead year, and draw them to the light. 
 Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling ; 
 Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands 
 
 fling 
 Their spells of healing over land and sea, 
 
 One shout of homage makes the welkin ring, 
 " Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! ' 
 
 102 
 
IV. 
 
 I see thee throned aloft ; thy fair hands hold 
 
 Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue : 
 Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled, 
 
 And in thine eyes the royal heaven's hue : 
 But in thy lips' clear colour, ruddy bright, 
 The heart's blood shines of many a hapless wight. 
 
 Thou art not only fair and sweet as spring ; 
 
 Terror and beauty, fear and wondering 
 Meet on thy brow, amazing all that see : 
 
 All men do praise thee, ay, and everything ; 
 Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! 
 
 v. 
 
 fear thee, though I love. Who can behold 
 The sheer sun burning in the orbed blue, 
 
 What while the noontide over hill and wold 
 Flames like a fire, except his mazed view 
 
 Wither and tremble ? So thy splendid sight 
 
 Fills me with mingled gladness and affright. 
 Thy visage haunts me in the wavering 
 Of dreams, and in the dawn awakening, 
 
 I feel thy radiance streaming full on me. 
 Both fear and joy unto thy feet I bring ; 
 
 Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! 
 
 103 
 
ENVOY. 
 
 God above Gods, High and Eternal King, 
 To whom the spheral symphonies do sing, 
 
 I find no whither from thy power to flee, 
 Save in thy pinions vast o'ershadowing. 
 
 Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 
 104 
 
FALSE SPRING. 
 
 BIRDS, 't was not well done of you ! 
 
 O flowers and breeze, right well ye knew 
 The weary glamour that the spring 
 Had laid for me on every thing. 
 'T was but to bring me back again 
 The memory of the olden pain, 
 
 You lured me out with songs of birds, 
 With violet breath and fair false words ! 
 
 For lo ! my feet had hardly passed 
 
 The woven band of flowerage, cast 
 Betwixt the meadows and the trees, 
 When, in the bird-songs and the breeze, 
 
 Another strain was taken up ; 
 
 And out of every blue-bell's cup 
 The mocking voices sang again 
 The olden songs of love and pain. 
 
 I0 5 
 
The flowers did mimic the old grace ; 
 The wan white windflowers wore her face ; 
 
 And in the stream I heard her words ; 
 
 Her voice came rippling from the birds. 
 Dead love, I saw thy form anew 
 Bend down among the violets blue, 
 
 And, like a mist, the memory 
 
 Of all the past came back to me. 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 
 106 
 
T 
 
 MADRIGAL GAL 
 
 HE summer sunshine comes and goes ; 
 
 The bee hums in the heart of the rose. 
 Heart of my hope, the year is sweet ; 
 The lilies brighten about my feet. 
 
 A new light glitters on land and sea ; 
 The turtles couple on every tree. 
 Light of my life, the fields are fair ; 
 Gossamers tangle thy golden hair. 
 
 The air with kisses is blithe and gay ; 
 Love is so sweet in the middle of May. 
 Sweet of my soul, the brook is blue ; 
 Thine eyes with heaven have pierced it through. 
 
 Now is the time for kisses, now 
 
 When bird-songs babble from every bough ! 
 Sweetest, my soul is a bird that sips 
 Honey of heaven from out of thy lips. 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 107 
 
IN JUNE. 
 
 SO sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing, 
 So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see ; 
 So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-going 
 From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes, 
 The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere ; 
 
 So sweet the water's song through reeds and 
 
 rushes, 
 The plover's piping note, now here, now there. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of clover 
 The west wind blowing, blowing up the hill ; 
 
 So sweet, so sweet with news of some one's lover, 
 Fleet footsteps, singing nearer, nearer still. 
 
 So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes ; 
 
 Now, plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear ; 
 And, water, hush your song through reeds and 
 
 rushes, 
 
 That I may know whose lover cometh near. 
 
 108 
 
So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling, 
 Plover or blackbird never heeding me ; 
 
 So loud the millstream too kept fretting, falling, 
 O'er bar and bank in brawling, boisterous glee. 
 
 So loud, so loud j yet blackbird, thrush nor plover, 
 Nor noisy millstream, in its fret and fall, 
 
 Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover, 
 My lover calling through the thrushes' call. 
 
 " Come down, come down ! " he called, and 
 
 straight the thrushes 
 From mate to mate sang all at once, " Come 
 
 down ! " 
 And while the water laughed through reeds and 
 
 rushes, 
 
 The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, 
 " Come down ! " 
 
 Then down and off, and through the fields of 
 
 clover, 
 
 I followed, followed at my lover's call ; 
 Listening no more to blackbird, thrush or plover, 
 The water's laugh, the millstream's fret and 
 fall. 
 
 NORA PERRY. 
 
 109 
 
A SONG OF WINTER. 
 
 BARB'D blossom of the guarded gorse, 
 I love thee where I see thee shine : 
 Thou sweetener of our common ways, 
 And brightener of our wintry days. 
 
 Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead, 
 
 Thou art undying, oh, be mine ! 
 Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest 
 Close on a heart that asks not rest. 
 
 I pluck thee, and thy stigma set 
 
 Upon my breast and on my brow ; 
 Blow, buds, and 'plenish so my wreath 
 That none may know the wounds beneath. 
 
 O crown of thorn that seem'st of gold, 
 
 No festal coronal art thou ; 
 Thy honey'd blossoms are but hives 
 That guard the growth of winged lives. 
 
 no 
 
I saw thee in the time of flowers 
 
 jr 
 
 As sunshine spill'd upon the land, 
 Or burning bushes all ablaze 
 With sacred fire ; but went my ways. 
 
 I went my ways, and as I went 
 
 Pluck'd kindlier blooms on either hand ; 
 Now of those blooms so passing sweet 
 None lives to stay my passing feet. 
 
 And still thy lamp upon the hill 
 
 Feeds on the autumn's dying sigh, 
 And from thy midst comes murmuring 
 A music sweeter than in spring. 
 
 Barb'd blossoms of the guarded gorse, 
 
 Be mine to wear until I die, 
 And mine the wounds of love which still 
 Bear witness to his human will. 
 
 EMILY PFEIFFER. 
 
 IIT 
 
A WIND FROM OFF THE SEA. 
 
 THE blue above, the sheep-shorn grass 
 beneath, 
 
 Over the shoulder of the Down we sped, 
 And saw the picture of the world outspread 
 Where Solent winds beyond the purple heath. 
 And sudden, waked as by the salt sea breath, 
 I felt the earth forlorn, because the tread 
 Of one who taught my earliest steps had fled, 
 And he in cold attainder lay of death. 
 
 Then with my tears a kindling triumph strove, 
 It was such joy to this poor heart of mine 
 
 To be so shrewdly stung of long lost love ; 
 To know it living by a bleeding sign, 
 
 And in the hungry, shaping tooth thereof, 
 Feel it at work to make my soul divine. 
 
 EMILY PFEIFFER 
 
 112 
 
TO A LOST LOVE. 
 
 I CANNOT look upon thy grave, 
 Though there the rose is sweet : 
 Better to hear the long wave wash 
 These wastes about my feet ! 
 
 Shall I take comfort ? Dost thou live 
 
 A spirit, though afar, 
 With a deep hush about thee, like 
 
 The stillness round a star? 
 
 Oh, thou art cold ! In that high sphere 
 
 Thou art a thing apart, 
 Losing in saner happiness 
 
 This madness of the heart. 
 
 And yet, at times, thou still shalt feel 
 
 A passing breath, a pain ; 
 Disturb'd, as though a door in heaven 
 
 Had sped and closed again. 
 
 VOL. II. 8 
 
And thou shalt shiver, while the hymns, 
 The solemn hymns, shall cease ; 
 
 A moment half remember me : 
 Then turn away in peace. 
 
 But oh ! forevermore thy look, 
 Thy laugh, thy charm, thy tone, 
 
 Thy sweet and wayward loveliness, 
 Dear trivial things are gone ! 
 
 Therefore I look not on thy grave, 
 Though there the rose is sweet ; 
 
 But rather hear the loud wave wash 
 These wastes about my feet. 
 
 STEPHEN PHILLIPS. 
 
 114 
 
PRINCE OF PAINTERS, COME, I PRAY. 
 
 PRINCE of painters, come, I pray, 
 Paint my love, for, though away, 
 King of craftsmen, you can well 
 Paint what I to thee can tell. 
 First her hair you must indite 
 Dark, but soft as summer night ; 
 Hast thou no contrivance whence 
 To make it breathe its frankincense? 
 Rising from her rounded cheek 
 Let thy pencil duly speak, 
 How below that purpling night 
 Glows her forehead ivory-white. 
 Mind you neither part nor join 
 Those sweet eyebrows' easy line ; 
 They must merge, you know, to be 
 In separated unity. 
 Painter draw, as lover bids, 
 Now the dark line of the lids ; 
 Painter, now 't is my desire, 
 Make her glance from very fire, 
 
 TI 5 
 
Make it as Athene's blue, 
 
 Like Cythera's liquid too ; 
 
 Now to give her cheeks and nose, 
 
 Milk must mingle with the rose ; 
 
 Her lips be like persuasion's made, 
 
 To call for kisses they persuade ; 
 
 And for her delicious chin, 
 
 O'er and under and within, 
 
 And round her soft neck's Parian wall, 
 
 Bid fly the graces, one and all. 
 
 For the rest, enrobe my pet 
 
 In her faint clear violet ; 
 
 But a little truth must show 
 
 There is more that lies below, 
 
 Hold ! thou hast her that is she. 
 
 Hush ! she 's going to speak to me. 
 
 WILLIAM PHILPOT. 
 
 116 
 
N 
 
 A LAGOON MESSAGE. 
 
 OT now, but later, when the road 
 We tread together breaks apart, 
 When thou, my dearest, distant art, 
 And tedious days have swelled the load 
 Upon my heart. 
 
 Or haply after that, when I 
 
 Am sealed within an earthy bed, 
 Resting and unremembered, 
 This scene will speak and easily 
 The whole be said. 
 
 Some eve, when from his burning chair 
 The sun below Fusina slips, 
 And all the sable poplar tips 
 Wave in the warm vermilion air, 
 The wind, the lips 
 
 Of the soft breeze with wayward touch 
 Shall tell thee all I longed to own ; 
 And thou, on lurid lakes alone, 
 Wilt say : " Poor soul, he loved me much ; 
 
 And he is gone." 
 
 PERCY C. PINKERTON. 
 117 
 
A CONQUEST. 
 
 I FOUND him openly wearing her token ; 
 I knew that her troth could never be 
 
 broken ; 
 
 I laid my hand on the hilt of my sword, 
 He did the same, and he spoke no word ; 
 He faced me with his villainy ; 
 He laughed and said, " She gave it me." 
 We searched for seconds, they soon were found ; 
 They measured our swords ; they measured the 
 
 ground : 
 
 They held to the deadly work too fast ; 
 They thought to gain our place at last. 
 We fought in the sheen of a wintry wood, 
 The fair white snow was red with his blood ; 
 But his was the victory, for, as he died, 
 He swore by the rood that he had not lied. 
 
 WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK. 
 
 118 
 
THE DEVOUT LOVER. 
 
 IT is not mine to sing the stately grace, 
 The great soul beaming in my lady's face ; 
 To write no sounding odes to me is given 
 Wherein her eyes outshine the stars in heaven. 
 
 Not mine in flowing melodies to tell 
 The thousand beauties that I know so well ; 
 Not mine to serenade her ev'ry tress, 
 And sit and sigh my love in idleness. 
 
 But mine it is to follow in her train, 
 Do her behests in pleasure or in pain, 
 Burn at her altar love's sweet frankincense, 
 And worship her in distant reverence. 
 
 WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK. 
 
 119 
 
BALLADE OF LOVERS. 
 
 FOR the man was she made by the Eden tree, 
 To be decked in soft raiment and worn 
 
 on his sleeve, 
 
 To be fondled so long as they both agree, 
 A thing to take, or a thing to leave. 
 But for her, let her live through one long 
 
 summer eve 
 Just the stars, and the moon, and the man, and 
 
 she 
 
 And her soul will escape her beyond reprieve, 
 And, alas ! the whole of her world is he. 
 
 To-morrow brings plenty as lovesome, maybe ; 
 
 If she break when he handles her, why should 
 
 he grieve? 
 She is only one pearl in a pearl-crowded sea, 
 
 A thing to take, or a thing to leave. 
 
 But she, though she knows he has kissed to 
 
 deceive, 
 
 120 
 
And forsakes her, still only clings on at his 
 
 knee 
 When life has gone, what further loss can 
 
 bereave ? 
 And, alas ! the whole of her world is he. 
 
 For the man was she made upon Eden lea, 
 
 To be helpmeet what time there is burden to 
 
 heave, 
 White-footed, to follow where he walks free, 
 
 A thing to take, or a thing to leave ; 
 
 White-fingered, to weave and to interweave 
 Her woof with his warp, and a tear two or three, 
 
 Till clear his way out through her web he 
 
 cleave, 
 And, alas ! the whole of her world is he. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 Did he own her no more when he called her Eve, 
 Than a thing to take, or a thing to leave? 
 
 A flower-filled plot that unlocks to his key 
 But, alas ! the whole of her world is he. 
 
 MAY PROBYN. 
 
 121 
 
SONG. 
 
 COME what will, you are mine to-day, 
 While the wood-birds sing, and the world 
 
 is gay ! 
 
 You are mine for a moment, come what may ; 
 But how will it be when the sun 's away ? 
 
 Where shall we go when the swallows fly? 
 What shall we do when the roses die ? 
 You are mine to-day, or you smile, or you sigh ; 
 But how will it be in the by-and-by ? 
 
 You are mine to-day in your grace full-grown, 
 To clasp, and to kiss, and to call my own ; 
 But how will it be when the rain comes down, 
 When the birds are mute, and the woods turn 
 brown ? 
 
 You are mine to-day with your secret told, 
 The flower whose leaves I have watched unfold, 
 But how will it be when the wind is cold ? 
 What shall we do when we both grow old ? 
 
 122 
 
You are mine to-day, while our hearts beat high, 
 Though the sun be setting, I care not, I ! 
 There are other lands where the swallows fly ; 
 There is still next year, when the roses die. 
 
 MAY PROBYN. 
 
 123 
 
MY SWEETHEART. 
 
 MY sweetheart lays her hand in mine 
 When she would have me glad ; 
 She sings and sings, she never knows 
 What music makes me sad. 
 
 My sweetheart holds my heart to hers 
 
 When she would have me rest ; 
 She never hears the heavy sigh 
 
 Which breaks within my breast. 
 
 Her sweet lips press my tired lids 
 When she would have me sleep : 
 
 Alas ! they have no power to stay 
 The burning tears I weep. 
 
 DOLLIE RADFORD. 
 
 124 
 
A CHOICE OF LIKENESSES. 
 
 'AY," said the husband ; "give him this," 
 
 In manifest alarm. 
 " This is her very likeness ; that 
 Has but a sudden charm. 
 
 " The look that flashes into light, 
 
 And quickly dies away, 
 May blind some passer ; as for me, 
 
 I love the looks that stay." 
 
 And I but said, (what could I say, 
 
 Not dreaming any harm?) 
 " They 're yours, old friend, her looks that stay. 
 Spare then to me she surely may 
 
 This glance of sudden charm." 
 
 ERNEST RADFORD. 
 
 125 
 
IN A GARDEN. 
 
 "^HE cowslip glowed, the tulip burned, 
 *- The grass was green as green could be j 
 There, as in sweet content we turned, 
 
 Beneath the budding linden-tree, 
 We saw the westering sunbeams shake 
 Large glory o'er the mountain lake. 
 
 The cushat cooed, the blackbird's cry 
 
 About the terrace garden rang ; 
 Still as we wooed, my love and I, 
 
 The throstle still enraptured sang, 
 And still the waters danced with glee, 
 Beneath the budding linden-tree. 
 
 The tulips trembled still with flame, 
 The cowslips gleamed along the walk, 
 
 Yet, dear one, when the last word came, 
 And silence only seemed to talk, 
 
 We looked and found the lake was gone, 
 
 Flowers dim, birds hushed, and one star shone. 
 
 126 
 
Beloved ! by many an up and down, 
 
 O'er level lawns, nn level ways, 
 Through weeds and flowers, when birds had flown 
 
 And when birds sang, have passed the days 
 Since our new dawn forbade the night ; 
 But lo ! o'erhead Love's star is bright. 
 
 HARDWICK DRUMMOND RAWNSLEY. 
 
 127 
 
A SONG FOR CANDLEMAS. 
 
 THERE 's never a rose upon the bush, 
 And never a bud on any tree ; 
 In wood and field nor hint nor sign 
 Of one green thing for you or me. 
 Come in, come in, sweet love of mine, 
 And let the bitter weather be. 
 
 Coated with ice the garden wall, 
 The river reeds are stark and still ; 
 
 The wind goes plunging to the sea, 
 And last week's flakes the hollows fill. 
 
 Come in, come in, sweet love, to me, 
 And let the year blow as it will. 
 
 LlZETTE WOODWORTH REESE. 
 
 128 
 
A DREAM OF DIANA. 
 
 IN dream I saw Diana pass, Diana as of old, 
 Across the green wood radiantly, attired in 
 
 green and gold ; 
 With spear alert, with eyes afire, as they had 
 
 seen the sun, 
 And gave its glances back again, with brightness 
 
 of their own. 
 No human maid is she, I thought, who there so 
 
 lightly fares 
 Upon her sylvan empery, afar from our pale cares. 
 
 She passed, and left me to that thought, who 
 
 felt the sadder then 
 That only once, and not again, she might be 
 
 seen of men ; 
 Though constantly, by lawn and wood, and 
 
 hanging mountain-side, 
 My restless eye might dare to hunt the huntress 
 
 in her pride. 
 VOL. ii. 9 129 
 
Without her all was lonely grown; I had no 
 
 liking left 
 For fern or foxglove bloom, of her bright grace 
 
 bereft. 
 
 And in that taking, in a bed of softest fern I lay, 
 
 And found no joy of woodcraft left, the live- 
 long summer day ; 
 
 When lo ! at eve, a silvery horn, a questing 
 hound, a cry, 
 
 And swift, Diana came again, and sat her down 
 thereby ; 
 
 And then I saw those radiant eyes were full of 
 perfect rest, 
 
 And found beneath the goddess there the 
 woman 7 s softer breast. 
 
 ERNEST RHYS. 
 
 130 
 
T 
 
 THREE DAYS. 
 
 I HE sweet fleet hours refuse to stay 
 I saw my true love yesterday. 
 
 The slow sad minutes crawl away 
 I cannot see my love to-day. 
 
 But soon new joy will banish sorrow 
 For I shall see my love to-morrow. 
 
 CHARLES F. RICHARDSON. 
 
THE RIPEST PEACH. 
 
 THE ripest peach is highest on the tree ; 
 And so her love, beyond the reach of me, 
 Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes, bow 
 Her heart down to me where I worship now ! 
 
 She looms aloft where every eye may see 
 The ripest peach is highest on the tree. 
 Such fruitage as her love I know, alas ! 
 I may not reach here from the orchard grass. 
 
 I drink the sunshine showered past her lips, 
 As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips. 
 The ripest peach is highest on the tree, 
 And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly. 
 
 Why why do I not turn away in wrath, 
 
 And pluck some heart here hanging in my path ? 
 
 Love's lower boughs bend with them but, ah 
 
 me ! 
 The ripest peach is highest on the tree. 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 
 132 
 
WHEN SHE COMES HOME. 
 
 WHEN she comes home again ! A thousand 
 ways 
 
 I fashion, to myself, the tenderness 
 
 Of my glad welcome. I shall tremble yes ; 
 And touch her, as when first in the old days 
 I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise 
 
 Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet 
 distress. 
 
 Then silence, and the perfume of her dress : 
 The room will sway a little, and a haze 
 
 Cloy eyesight soul-sight, even for a space : 
 And tears yes ; and the ache here in the throat, 
 
 To know that I so ill deserve the place 
 Her arms make for me ; and the sobbing note 
 
 I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face 
 
 Again is hidden in the old embrace. 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 
 
POPLAR LEAVES. 
 
 'TPHE wind blows down the dusty street ; 
 
 And through my soul that grieves 
 It brings a sudden odour sweet, 
 A smell of poplar leaves. 
 
 O leaves that herald in the spring, 
 
 O freshness young and pure, 
 Into my weary soul you bring 
 
 The vigour to endure. 
 
 The wood is near but out of sight, 
 
 Where all the poplars grow ; 
 Straight up and tall and silver white, 
 
 They quiver in a row. 
 
 My love is out of sight, but near ; 
 
 And through my soul that grieves 
 A sudden memory wafts her here 
 
 As fresh as poplar leaves. 
 
 A. MARY F. ROBINSON. 
 
STORNELLI AND STRAMBOTTI. 
 
 i. 
 
 FLOWER of the vine ! 
 I scarcely knew or saw how love began, 
 So mean a flower brings forth the sweetest wine ! 
 
 
 O mandolins that thrill the moonlit street, 
 
 O lemon flowers so faint and freshly blown, 
 O seas that lap a solemn music sweet 
 
 Through all the pallid night against the stone, 
 O lovers tramping past with happy feet, 
 
 O heart that hast a memory of thine own 
 For mercy's sake no more, no more repeat 
 
 The word it is so hard to hear alone ! 
 
 * 
 
 Flowers in the hay ! 
 
 My heart and all the fields are full of flowers ; 
 So tall they grow before the mowing day. 
 
n. 
 
 Rose in the rain ! 
 
 We part ; I dare not look upon your tears : 
 So frail, so white, they shatter and they stain. 
 
 * 
 
 Love is a bird that breaks its voice with singing, 
 
 Love is a rose blown open till it fall, 
 Love is a bee that dies of its own stinging, 
 
 And Love the tinsel cross upon a pall. 
 Love is the Siren, towards a quicksand bringing 
 
 Enchanted fishermen that hear her call. 
 Love is a broken heart, Farewell, the 
 wringing 
 
 Of dying hands. Ah, do not love at all ! 
 
 A. MARY F. ROBINSON. 
 
 136 
 
AFTER DEATH. 
 
 . 
 
 ' 
 
 curtains were half drawn, the floor was 
 swept 
 
 And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may 
 Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, 
 Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. 
 He leaned above me, thinking that I slept 
 And could not hear him ; but I heard him say, 
 " Poor child, poor child ! " and as he turned 
 
 away 
 
 Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. 
 He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold 
 That hid my face, or take my hand in his, 
 Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head : 
 He did not love me living ; but once dead 
 He pitied me ; and very sweet it is 
 To know he still is warm, though I am cold. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 137 
 
AUTUMN VIOLETS. 
 
 KEEP love for youth and violets for the 
 spring : 
 Or if these bloom when worn-out autumn 
 
 grieves, 
 
 Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves, 
 Their own, and others dropped down withering ; 
 
 *- * 
 
 For violets suit when home birds build and sing, 
 Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves, 
 Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves, 
 But when the green world buds to blossoming. 
 Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth, 
 Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and 
 
 hope; 
 
 Or if a later sadder love be born, 
 Let this not look for grace beyond its scope, 
 But give itself, nor plead for answering truth 
 A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 138 
 
SOMEWHERE OR OTHER. 
 
 SOMEWHERE or other there must surely be 
 The face not seen, the voice not heard, 
 The heart that not yet never yet ah me ! 
 Made answer to my word. 
 
 Somewhere or other, may be near or far ; 
 
 Past land and sea, clean out of sight ; 
 Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star 
 
 That tracks her night by night. 
 
 Somewhere or other, may be far or near ; 
 
 With just a wall, a hedge between ; 
 With just the last leaves of the dying year 
 
 Fallen on a turf grown green. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 139 
 
A NEW YEAR'S BURDEN. 
 
 ALONG the grass sweet airs are blown 
 Our way this day in spring. 
 Of all the songs that we have known 
 Now which one shall we sing? 
 Not that, my love, ah no ! 
 Not this, my love ? why, so ! 
 Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go. 
 
 The grove is all a pale frail mist, 
 
 The new year sucks the sun. 
 Of all the kisses that we kissed, 
 Now which shall be the one ? 
 
 Not that, my love, ah no ! 
 Not this, my love ? heigh-ho 
 For all the sweets that all the winds can blow ! 
 
 140 
 
The branches cross above our eyes, 
 
 The skies are in a net : 
 And what 's the thing beneath the skies 
 We two would most forget? 
 
 Not birth, my love, no, no, 
 
 Not death, my love, no, no, 
 
 The love once ours, but ours long hours ago. 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
 141 
 
FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED. 
 
 I JEACE in her chamber, wheresoe'er 
 
 It be, a holy place : 
 
 The thought still brings my soul such grace 
 As morning meadows wear. 
 
 Whether it still be small and light, 
 
 A maid's who dreams alone, 
 As from her orchard-gate the moon 
 
 Its ceiling showed at night : 
 
 Or whether, in a shadow dense 
 
 As nuptial hymns invoke, 
 Innocent maidenhood awoke 
 
 To married innocence : 
 
 Then still the thanks unheard await 
 The unconscious gift bequeathed ; 
 
 For there my soul this hour has breathed 
 An air inviolate. 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
 142 
 
LOVE ENTHRONED. 
 
 I MARKED all kindred Powers the heart finds 
 fair : 
 Truth, with awed lips ; and Hope, with eyes 
 
 upcast ; 
 And Fame, whose loud wings fan the ashen 
 
 Past 
 
 To signal-fires, Oblivion's flight to scare ; 
 And Youth, with still some single golden hair 
 Unto his shoulder clinging, since the last 
 Embrace wherein two sweet arms held him 
 
 fast ; 
 
 And Life, still wreathing flowers for Death to 
 wear. 
 
 Love's throne was not with these ; but far above 
 All passionate wind of welcome and farewell 
 
 He sat in breathless bowers they dream not of; 
 Though Truth foreknow Love's heart, and 
 Hope foretell, 
 
 And Fame be for Love's sake desirable, 
 
 And Youth be dear, and Life be sweet to Love. 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
SUDDEN LIGHT. 
 
 I HAVE been here before, 
 But when or how I cannot tell : 
 I know the grass beyond the door, 
 
 The sweet keen smell, 
 The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. 
 
 You have been mine before, 
 
 How long ago I may not know : 
 But just when at that swallow's soar 
 
 Your neck turned so, 
 Some veil did fall, I knew it all of yore. 
 
 Has this been thus before ? 
 
 And shall not thus time's eddying flight 
 Still with our lives our loves restore 
 
 In death's despite, 
 And day and night yield one delight once more ? 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
 144 
 
s 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 WEETHEART, we in the world to-day 
 Know what God and the angels say. 
 
 This I send to the Thrice-Divine, 
 Holding both your hands in mine, 
 And looking in those pools of blue : 
 How good of God to give me you ! 
 
 CHARLES SAYLE. 
 
 VOL. II. 10 
 
 145 
 
A PERFECT DAY. 
 
 BLAND air and leagues of immemorial blue ; 
 No subtlest hint of whitening rime or cold ; 
 A revel of rich colours, hue on hue, 
 
 From radiant crimson to soft shades of gold. 
 
 A vagueness in the undulant hill line, 
 
 The flutter of a bird's south-soaring wing ; 
 
 .^Eolian harmonies in groves of pine, 
 
 And glad brook laughter like the mirth of 
 spring. 
 
 A sense of gracious calm afar and near, 
 
 And yet a something wanting, one fine ray 
 
 For consummation. Love, were you but here, 
 Then were the day indeed a perfect day. 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD. 
 
 146 
 
HER EYES. 
 
 T TER eyes are like unfathomable lakes, 
 * -* When brightly o'er them morning radi- 
 ance breaks ; 
 
 And yet the mariner had best beware, 
 For many valiant hearts lie shipwrecked there ! 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD. 
 
 147 
 
IN APRIL-TIDE. 
 
 "DE ye in love with April-tide? 
 
 -* * I' faith, in love am I ! 
 For now 't is sun, and now 't is shower, 
 And now 't is frost, and now 't is flower, 
 
 And now 't is Laura laughing-eyed, 
 And now 't is Laura shy. 
 
 Ye doubtful days, oh, slower glide ! 
 
 Still frown and smile, O sky ! 
 Some beauty unforeseen I trace 
 In every change of Laura's face. 
 Be ye in love with April-tide ; 
 I' faith, in love am I ! 
 
 CLINTON SCOLLARD. 
 
 148 
 
RUS IN URBE. 
 
 POETS are singing, the whole world over, 
 Of May in melody, joys for June ; 
 Dusting their feet in the careless clover, 
 
 And filling their hearts with the blackbird's 
 
 tune. 
 The "brown bright nightingale' strikes with 
 
 pity 
 
 The sensitive heart of a count or clown ; 
 But where is the song for our leafy city, 
 And where the rhymes for our lovely town ? 
 
 " Oh for the Thames and its rippling reaches, 
 
 Where almond rushes and breezes sport ! 
 Take me a walk under Burnham Beeches ; 
 
 Give me a dinner at Hampton Court ! " 
 Poets, be still, though your hearts I harden ; 
 
 We Ve flowers by day, and have scents at 
 
 dark; 
 The limes are in leaf in the cockney garden, 
 
 And lilacs blossom in Regent's Park. 
 
 149 
 
"Come for a blow," says a reckless fellow, 
 
 Burn'd red and brown by passionate sun ; 
 " Come to the downs, where the gorse is yellow 
 
 The season of kisses has just begun ! 
 Come to the fields where bluebells shiver, 
 
 Hear cuckoo's carol, or plaint of dove : 
 Come for a row on the silent river ; 
 
 Come to the meadows and learn to love ! " 
 
 Yes, I will come when this wealth is over 
 Of softened colour and perfect tone : 
 
 The lilac 's better than fields of clover ; 
 
 . I '11 come when blossoming May has flown. 
 
 When dust and dirt of a trampled city 
 Have dragged the yellow laburnum down, 
 
 I '11 take my holiday, more 's the pity, 
 And turn my back upon London town. 
 
 Margaret ! am I so wrong to love it, 
 
 This misty town that your face shines through ? 
 A crown of blossom is waved above it ; 
 
 But heart and life of the whirl V M you / 
 Margaret ! pearl ! I have sought and found you ; 
 
 And though the paths of the wind are free, 
 I '11 follow the ways of the world around you, 
 
 And build my nest on the nearest tree. 
 
 CLEMENT SCOTT. 
 15 
 
SONG. 
 
 LOVE in my heart ! oh, heart of me, heart 
 of me ! 
 
 Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme. 
 What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me ! 
 Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream ! 
 
 What if he changeth, oh, heart of me, heart of 
 me ! 
 
 Oh, can the waters be void of the wind ? 
 What if he wendeth afar and apart from me, 
 
 What if he leave me to perish behind ? 
 
 What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me ! 
 
 A flame i' the dusk, a breath of Desire ? 
 Nay, my sweet Love is the heart and the soul 
 of me, 
 
 And I am the innermost heart of his fire ! 
 
 Love in my heart ! oh, heart of me, heart of me ! 
 
 Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme. 
 What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me ! 
 
 Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream ! 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP. 
 
THE COMING OF LOVE. 
 
 IN and out the osier beds, all along the shallows, 
 Lifts and laughs the soft south wind, or 
 
 swoons among the grasses. 
 But, ah ! whose following feet are these that 
 
 bend the tall marsh-mallows? 
 Who laughs so low and sweet? Who sighs 
 and passes? 
 
 Flower of my heart, my darling, why sc slowly 
 Lift'st thou thine eyes to mine, sweet wells 
 
 of gladness ? 
 Too deep this new-found joy, and this new pain 
 
 too holy; 
 
 Or is there dread in thine heart of this 
 divinest madness? 
 
 Who sighs with longing there ? who laughs alow 
 
 and passes ? 
 
 Whose following feet are these that bend the 
 tall marsh- mallows? 
 
Who comes upon the wind that stirs the heavy 
 
 seeding grasses 
 
 In and out the osier beds, and hither through 
 the shallows? 
 
 Flower of my heart, my Dream, who whispers 
 
 near so gladly ? 
 Whose is the golden sunshine-net o'erspread 
 
 for capture? 
 Lift, lift thine eyes to mine, who love so wildly, 
 
 madly 
 
 Those eyes of brave desire, deep wells o'er- 
 brimmed with rapture. 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP. 
 
 153 
 
UPON CHLOE: HER EYES. 
 
 TWO sloes do not an autumn make, 't is said : 
 This I can well believe, knowing the while 
 How two dark sloes immutably are wed 
 To the unending summer of her smile. 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP. 
 
UPON JULIA BLUSHING. 
 
 THIS rose-flushed Opal from the Orient 
 came, 
 
 This Ruby from a lonely Asian peak ; 
 But one is dull beside this living flame, 
 
 And wan the other by this peach-bloom cheek. 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP. 
 
 155 
 
TO A ROSE. 
 
 GO, Rose, and in her golden hair 
 You shall forget the garden soon ; 
 The sunshine is a captive there, 
 
 And crowns her with a constant noon. 
 
 And when your spicy odour goes, 
 And fades the beauty of your bloom, 
 
 Think what a lovely hand, O Rose, 
 Shall place your body in the tomb. 
 
 FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. 
 
 156 
 
RECALL. 
 
 " T OVE me, or I am slain ! " I cried, and 
 
 L 
 
 meant 
 Bitterly true each word. Nights, morns, slipped 
 
 by, 
 
 Moons, circling suns, yet still alive am I ; 
 But shame to me, if my best time be spent 
 
 On this perverse, blind passion ! Are we sent 
 Upon a planet just to mate and die, 
 A man no more than some pale butterfly 
 That yields his day to nature's sole intent? 
 
 Or is my life but Marguerite's ox-eyed flower, 
 
 That I should stand and pluck and fling away, 
 
 One after one, the petal of each hour, 
 
 Like a love- dreamy girl, and only say, 
 
 " Loves me," and " loves me not," and " loves 
 
 me"? Nay! 
 Let the man's mind awake to manhood's power. 
 
 EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. 
 
 157 
 
THE THRUSH. 
 
 THE thrush sings high on the topmost 
 bough, 
 
 Low, louder, low again ; and now 
 He has changed his tree, you know not how, 
 For you saw no flitting wing. 
 
 All the notes of the forest throng, 
 Flute, reed, and string, are in his song ; 
 Never a fear knows he, nor wrong, 
 Nor a doubt of anything. 
 
 Small room for care in that soft breast ; 
 All weather that comes is to him the best, 
 While he sees his mate close on her nest, 
 And the woods are full of spring. 
 
 He has lost his last year's love, I know, 
 He, too, but 't is little he keeps of woe ; 
 For a bird forgets in a year, and so 
 No wonder the thrush can sing. 
 
 EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. 
 
 158 
 
FANTASIA. 
 
 WE 're all alone, we 're all alone ! 
 The moon and stars are dead and gone ; 
 The night 's at deep, the wind asleep, 
 And thou and I are all alone ! 
 
 What care have we though life there be? 
 Tumult and life are not for me ! 
 Silence and sleep about us creep ; 
 Tumult and life are not for thee ! 
 
 How late it is since such as this 
 Had topped the height of breathing bliss ! 
 And now we keep an iron sleep, 
 In that grave thou, and I in this ! 
 
 HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 
 
 T 59 
 
ONLY A LEAF. 
 
 WHEN the late leaves lit all the place, 
 He left her with her ashen face ; 
 " We shall not meet ! " he lightly cried ; 
 " Good-bye, sweetheart, the world is wide." 
 
 Though bright the sunshine on that day, 
 Though the bare boughs around her lay, 
 She thought in blackened shadow stood 
 The melancholy autumn wood. 
 
 She bent, and lifted from the sod 
 A leaf whereon his foot had trod, 
 An idle leaf, but dead and sere, 
 It held the heart's blood of a year ! 
 
 HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 
 
 160 
 
SONG FROM A DRAMA. 
 
 I KNOW not if moonlight or starlight 
 Be soft on the land or the sea, 
 I catch but the near light, the far light, 
 
 Of eyes that are burning for me ; 
 The scent of the night, of the roses, 
 
 May burden the air for thee, sweet, 
 'T is only the breath of thy sighing 
 I know, as I lie at thy feet. 
 
 The winds may be sobbing or singing, 
 
 Their touch may be fervent or cold, 
 The night-bells may toll or be ringing. 
 
 I care not, while thee I enfold ! 
 The feast may go on, and the music 
 
 Be scattered in ecstasy round, 
 Thy whisper, " I love thee ! I love thee ! : 
 
 Hath flooded my soul with its sound. 
 
 VOL. II. II i6l 
 
I think not of time that is flying, 
 
 How short is the hour I have won, 
 How near is this living to dying, 
 
 How the shadow still follows the sun ; 
 There is naught upon earth, no desire, 
 
 Worth a thought, though 't were had by a sign ! 
 I love thee ! I love thee ! bring nigher 
 
 Thy spirit, thy kisses to mine. 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
 162 
 
TOUJOURS AMOUR. 
 
 PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin, 
 At what age does Love begin ? 
 Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
 Summers three, my fairy queen, 
 But a miracle of sweets, 
 Soft approaches, sly retreats, 
 Show the little archer there, 
 Hidden in your pretty hair ; 
 When didst learn a heart to win? 
 Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 
 
 " Oh ! " the rosy lips reply, 
 " I can't tell you if I try. 
 'T is so long I can't remember : 
 Ask some younger lass than I ! " 
 
 Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled- Face, 
 Do your heart and head keep pace? 
 When does hoary Love expire, 
 When do frosts put out the fire? 
 Can its embers burn below 
 All that chill December snow? 
 
 163 
 
Care you still soft hands to press, 
 Bonny heads to smooth and bless? 
 When does Love give up the chase ? 
 Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face ! 
 
 (C 
 
 Ah ! " the wise old lips reply, 
 " Youth may pass and strength may die, 
 But of Love I can't foretoken : 
 Ask some older sage than I ! " 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
 164 
 
 
IN THE SEASON. 
 
 IT is the season now to go 
 About the country high and low, 
 Among the lilacs hand in hand, 
 And two by two in fairy land. 
 
 The brooding boy, the sighing maid, 
 Wholly fain and half afraid, 
 Now meet along the hazelled brook 
 To pass and linger, pause and look. 
 
 A year ago, and blithely paired, 
 Their rough and tumble play they shared ; 
 They kissed and quarrelled, laughed and cried, 
 A year ago at Eastertide. 
 
 With bursting heart, with fiery face, 
 She strove against him in the race ; 
 He unabashed her garter saw, 
 That now would touch her skirts with awe. 
 
 165 
 
Now by the stile ablaze she stops, 
 And his demurer eyes he drops ; 
 Now they exchange averted sighs 
 Or stand and marry silent eyes. 
 
 And he to her a lover is, 
 And sweeter she than primroses ; 
 Their common silence dearer far 
 Than nightingale and mavis are. 
 
 Now when they sever wedded hands, 
 Joy trembles in their bosom strands, 
 And lovely laughter leaps and falls 
 Upon their lips in madrigals. 
 
 ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. 
 
 166 
 
A NEST OF LOVE. 
 
 FROM THE PERSIAN OF HAKIM SANAYI. 
 
 w 
 
 'HAT sweetness is there in the honey- 
 comb 
 That is not tasted, sweetest, in thy kiss? 
 
 What beauty is there in the pheasant's walk 
 That is not seen, beloved, in thy step? 
 
 What heart in all the city is not thine ? 
 The heart that is not thine no longer beats. 
 
 The bird that flies not to thy nest of love 
 Deserves to fly no more : why has he wings ? 
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 167 
 
A MOMENT. 
 
 T TOW long would you love me ? A lifetime ? 
 * * Ah, that is too long, let us say 
 A moment. Life's best 's but a moment, and 
 life itself scarcely a day. 
 
 Perhaps you might love me that moment ; per- 
 haps, while you quaffed 
 
 From life's brimming cup, with your sweet face 
 turned up, love's exquisite draught ; 
 
 All the spirit insatiate thirsting its sweetness to 
 
 drain, 
 And a hurry of rapture swift rushing through 
 
 heart and through brain ; 
 
 All being condensed to a drop, all the soul, all 
 the sense, 
 
 Interfused as by fire, intermingled and throb- 
 bing with passion intense ; 
 
 168 
 
Just one moment of Life's culmination, its waves' 
 utmost height, 
 
 While it lifts its green cavern of opal all sun- 
 fringed, in quivering light ; 
 
 Its foam-rose that topples and spreads at the 
 crest of the Fountain's full stress, 
 
 That the impulse that lifts cannot hold, that dies 
 of its very excess ; 
 
 Just one rapturous moment, while love you 
 inhaled like the soul of a flower, 
 
 For a breath space, an indrawing breath space, 
 that words have no power 
 
 At their best to express, so divine, so enchanting, 
 
 its soul-piercing scent, 
 Thrilling through all the nerves, but at last in a 
 
 sigh to be breathed out and spent ; 
 
 Just one moment, no longer ; and then, all the 
 
 strength and desire 
 Faded out, all the passion exhausted, nought 
 
 left of the fire 
 
 But the sullen, gray, desolate ashes, oh, then, 
 
 would you cling to me ? Say, 
 Would you love me, or hate me, or scorn me, 
 
 and ruthlessly fling me away? 
 
 169 
 
Who knows? Love and hate are so near, joy 
 and pain, ice and fire, hope and fear, 
 
 That I doubt, the next moment, this moment 
 so tender, so perfect, so dear. 
 
 This maddening moment I know, let the next 
 
 what it chooses reveal ; 
 'T is enough that you love me this moment, let 
 
 Fate, as she will, spin her wheel, 
 
 Weave her web, cast her net, unto grief or de- 
 spair make us prey ; 
 
 This is mine, this is ours, and, once given, can 
 never be taken away. 
 
 What though, from our dream when we wake, 
 our love a mere folly may seem ? 
 
 What is life at best but a sleep, what is love 
 but a dream? 
 
 W. W. STORY. 
 
 170 
 
THE VIOLET. 
 
 OH ! faint delicious spring-time violet, 
 Thine odour, like a key, 
 Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 
 A thought of sorrow free. 
 
 The breath of distant fields upon my brow 
 
 Blows through that open door 
 The sound of wind-borne bells more sweet and 
 low 
 
 And sadder than of yore. 
 
 It comes afar from that beloved place, 
 
 And that beloved hour, 
 When Life hung ripening in Love's golden grace, 
 
 Like grapes above a bower. 
 
 A spring goes singing through its reedy grass, 
 
 The lark sings o'er my head 
 Drowned in the sky oh, pass, ye visions, pass ! 
 
 I would that I were dead. 
 
 171 
 
Why hast thou opened that forbidden door 
 
 From which I ever flee ? 
 O vanished Joy ! O Love that art no more, 
 
 Let my vexed spirit be ! 
 
 O violet ! thy odour through my brain 
 Hath searched, and stung to grief 
 
 This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 
 Thy velvet leaf. 
 
 W. W. STORY. 
 
 172 
 
TO MY LADY. 
 
 FROM out the past she comes to me, 
 My Lady whom I loved long syne : 
 Her face is very fair to see, 
 
 Her gray eyes still with love-light shine, 
 I needs must think she still is mine. 
 
 Once in those old years long ago 
 I waited at the hour of dawn. 
 
 And, with the first faint Eastern glow 
 Before the sun his sword had drawn 
 And flushed its light the world upon, 
 
 My Lady's true love did I know ! 
 
 But now at eve she comes I stand 
 Alone. Among the autumn trees 
 Her white robe glimmers, and the breeze 
 
 Wafts me a ghostly fragrance rare. 
 
 Ah me ! No rose doth she now bear 
 But crimson poppies in her hand. 
 
 EDWARD FAIRBROTHER STRANGE. 
 
 173 
 
AT PARTING. 
 
 FOR a day and night, Love sang to us, played 
 with us, 
 
 Folded us round from the dark and the light ; 
 And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he 
 
 made with us, 
 Made with our hearts and our lips while he 
 
 stayed with us, 
 
 Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight 
 For a day and a night. 
 
 From his foes that kept watch with his wings 
 
 had he hidden us, 
 Covered us close from the eyes that would 
 
 smite, 
 From the feet that had tracked and the tongues 
 
 that had chidden us, 
 
 Sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us, 
 Spirit and flesh growing one with delight 
 For a day and a night. 
 
 174 
 
But his wings will not rest, and his feet will not 
 
 stay for us : 
 
 Morning is here in the joy of its might ; 
 With his breath has he sweetened a night and a 
 
 day for us : 
 Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way 
 
 for us ; 
 
 Love can but last in us here at his height 
 For a day and a night. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 175 
 
AUGUST. 
 
 THERE were four apples on the bough, 
 Half gold, half red, that one might know 
 The blood was ripe inside the core ; 
 The colour of the leaves was more 
 Like stems of yellow corn that grow 
 Through all the gold June meadow's floor. 
 
 The warm smell of the fruit was good 
 To feed on, and the split green wood, 
 With all its bearded lips and stains 
 Of mosses in the clover veins, 
 Most pleasant, if one lay or stood 
 In sunshine or in happy rains. 
 
 There were four apples on the tree, 
 Red-stained through gold, that all might see 
 The sun went warm from core to rind ; 
 The green leaves made the summer blind 
 In that soft place they kept for me 
 With golden apples shut behind. 
 
 176 
 
 
The leaves caught gold across the sun, 
 And where the bluest air begun, 
 Thirsted for song to help the heat ; 
 As I to feel my lady's feet 
 Draw close before the day were done : 
 Both lips grew dry with dreams of it. 
 
 In the mute August afternoon 
 
 They trembled to some undertune 
 
 Of music in the silver air : 
 
 Great pleasure was it to be there 
 
 Till green turned duskier, and the moon 
 
 Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair. 
 
 That August time it was delight 
 
 To watch the red moon's wane to white 
 
 'Twixt gray-seamed stems of apple-trees : 
 
 A sense of heavy harmonies 
 
 Grew on the growth of patient night, 
 
 More sweet than shapen music is. 
 
 But some three hours before the moon 
 The air, still eager from the noon, 
 Flagged after heat, not wholly dead ; 
 Against the stem I leant my head ; 
 The colour soothed me like a tune, 
 Green leaves all round the gold and red. 
 
 VOL. II. 12 177 
 
I lay there till the warm smell grew 
 More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew 
 Between the round ripe leaves had blurred 
 The rind with stain and wet ; I heard 
 A wind that blew and breathed and blew, 
 Too weak to alter its one word. 
 
 The wet leaves next the gentle fruit 
 Felt smoother, and the brown tree root 
 Felt the mould warmer : I, too, felt 
 (As water feels the slow gold melt 
 Right through it when the day burns mute) 
 The peace of time wherein love dwelt. 
 
 There were four apples on the tree, 
 Gold stained on red that all might see 
 The sweet blood rilled them to the core : 
 The colour of her hair is more 
 Like stems of fair faint gold, that be 
 Mown from the harvest's middle floor. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 178 
 
BETWEEN THE SUNSET AND THE 
 
 SEA. 
 
 BETWEEN the sunset and the sea 
 My love laid hands and lips on me. 
 Of sweet came sour, of day came night, 
 Of long desire came brief delight : 
 Ah, love, and what thing came of thee 
 Between the sea-downs and the sea? 
 
 Between the sea-mark and the sea 
 
 Joy grew to grief, grief grew to me ; 
 
 Love turned to tears, and tears to fire, 
 
 And dead delight to new desire ; 
 
 Love's talk, love's touch there seemed to be 
 
 Between the sea-sand and the sea. 
 
 Between the sundown and the sea 
 Love watched one hour of love with me ; 
 Then down the all-golden water-ways 
 His feet flew after yesterdays ; 
 I saw them come and saw them flee 
 Between the sea- foam and the sea. 
 
 179 
 
Between the sea-strand and the sea 
 Love fell on sleep, sleep fell on me ; 
 The first star saw twain turn to one 
 Between the moonrise and the sun ; 
 The next, that saw not love, saw me 
 Between the sea-banks and the sea. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 1 80 
 
THE OBLATION. 
 
 ASK nothing more of me, sweet : 
 All I can give you I give. 
 Heart of my heart, were it more, 
 More would be laid at your feet ; 
 Love that should help you to live, 
 Song that should spur you to soar. 
 
 All things were nothing to give, 
 Once to have sense of you more, 
 
 Touch you and taste of you, sweet, 
 Think you and breathe you, and live, 
 Swept of your wings as they soar, 
 Trodden by chance of your feet. 
 
 I that have love and no more 
 Give you but love of .you, sweet ; 
 
 He that hath more let him give ; 
 He that hath wings, let him soar ; 
 Mine is the heart at your feet 
 Here, that must love you to live. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 181 
 
IN AUTUMN. 
 
 FRAIL autumn lights upon the leaves 
 Beacon the ending of the year. 
 The windy rains are here, 
 Wet nights and blowing winds about the eaves. 
 
 Here in the valley mists begin 
 
 To breathe about the river side 
 The breath of autumn-tide. 
 
 The dark fields wait to take the harvest in. 
 
 And you, and you are far away. 
 
 Ah, this it is, and not the rain 
 
 Now loud against the pane, 
 That takes the light and colour from the day ! 
 
 ARTHUR SYMONS. 
 
 182 
 
ON JUDGE'S WALK. 
 
 THAT night on Judge's Walk the wind 
 Was as the voice of doom ; 
 The heath, a lake of darkness, lay 
 As silent as the tomb. 
 
 The vast night brooded, white with stars, 
 
 Above the world's unrest ; 
 The awfulness of silence ached 
 
 Like a strong heart repressed. 
 
 That night we walked beneath the trees, 
 
 Alone, beneath the trees ; 
 There was some word we could not say 
 
 Half uttered in the breeze. 
 
 That night on Judge's Walk we said 
 No word of all we had to say ; 
 
 And now no word shall e'er be said 
 Before the Judgment Day. 
 
 ARTHUR SYMONS. 
 183 
 
ICH HOR' ES SOGAR IM TRAUM. 
 
 ING on, sing on : half dreaming still 
 
 I hear you singing down the hill, 
 Through the green wood, beside the rill. 
 
 Each to the other sing, sweet birds ; 
 Make music sweeter far than words ; 
 Drown my still soul with song, sweet birds. 
 
 Under each starbeam there was sleep ; 
 Far down the river wandered deep ; 
 The woods closed round it still and steep. 
 
 One watch- dog from the lone farm bayed ; 
 
 The waterfowl beneath the shade 
 
 Of sedge and flowering reed were laid. 
 
 The birds sang on, and slumber shed 
 Like silver clouds upon my head ; 
 I slept, nor stirred me in my bed. 
 
 184 
 
Into my room he seemed to glide ; 
 
 The moonbeams through the window wide 
 
 Snowed in upon my white bedside. 
 
 He kissed my lips, he kissed my cheek ; 
 I could not kiss him back nor speak : 
 I feared the blissful sleep to break. 
 
 Sing louder, nightingales of May ! 
 Sing, dash my golden dream away ! 
 Sing anthems to the orient day ! 
 
 The moonlight pales ; the gray cock crows ; 
 A murmur in the tree top goes ; 
 Sleep sheds her petals like a rose. 
 
 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 
 
 185 
 
IN THE SMALL CANALS. 
 
 LOVE felt from far, long sought, scarce found, 
 On thee I call ; 
 
 Here where with silvery silent sound 
 The smooth oars fall ; 
 
 Here where the glimmering water-ways 
 
 Above yon stair, 
 Mirror one trembling lamp that plays 
 
 In twilight air ! 
 
 What sights, what sounds, O poignant Love, 
 
 Ere thou wert flown, 
 Quivered these darksome waves above, 
 
 In darkness known ! 
 
 h 
 
 I dare not dream thereof; the sting 
 
 Of those dead eyes 
 Is too acute and close a thing 
 
 For one who dies. 
 
 186 
 
Only I feel through glare and gloom, 
 
 Where yon lamp falls, 
 Dim spectres hurrying to their doom, 
 
 And Love's voice calls : 
 
 T was better thus toward death to glide, 
 
 Soul-full of bliss, 
 Than with long life unsatisfied 
 
 Life's crown to miss. 
 
 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 
 
 187 
 
I SAW A VISION OF DEEP EYES. 
 
 I. 
 
 I SAW a vision of deep eyes 
 In morning sleep when dreams are true 
 Wide humid eyes of hazy blue, 
 Like seas that kiss the horizon skies. 
 
 Then as I gazed, I felt the rain 
 Of soft warm curls around my cheek, 
 And heard a whisper low and meek : 
 " I love, and canst thou love again ? " 
 
 A gentle youth beside me bent ; 
 His cool moist lips to mine were pressed, 
 That throbbed and burned with love's unrest 
 When, lo, the powers of sleep were spent ; 
 
 And noiseless on the airy wings 
 That follow after night's dim way, 
 The beauteous boy was gone for aye, 
 A theme of vague imaginings. 
 
 188 
 
Yet I can never rest again : 
 The flocks of morning dreams are true ; 
 And till I find those eyes of blue 
 And golden curls, I walk in pain. 
 
 II. 
 
 Spring comes again : the blushing earth 
 Will deck herself with bridal flowers : 
 The birds among the leafy bowers 
 Will wake dumb winter's woods with mirth. 
 
 But I shall never find him, never : 
 Though winter's snow dissolve in dew, 
 And hyacinth's star-spangled blue 
 'Neath vernal breezes bend and shiver. 
 
 The field shall throb with marriage hymn, 
 And summer's wealth shall deck the grove, 
 Wherethrough my feet must lonely rove, 
 Disconsolately seeking him. 
 
 Seek on, seek on, till autumn dies 
 Like sunset in drear winter's night ; 
 Seek on, seek on, for thy delight, 
 A mirage dream, before thee flies. 
 
 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 
 189 
 
OH, WHEN WILL IT BE? 
 
 OH, when will it be, oh, when will it be, oh, 
 when 
 That she shall be here, and the flute be here, 
 
 and the wine be here? oh, then 
 Her lips shall kiss the lips of the flute, and my 
 
 lips shall kiss the wine, 
 
 And I shall drink music from her sweet lips, and 
 she shall drink madness from mine. 
 
 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 
 
 190 
 
TO MIDIA. 
 
 FN that dear country which men call 
 A With sober phrase " your pretty face," 
 There is no spring, there is no fall, 
 And biting winter finds no place ; 
 One light, one warmth, one tender air, 
 One endless summer harbours there. 
 
 In that dear country side by side 
 There be two placid lakes that sleep ; 
 'Twere worth a kingdom to divide 
 Each gray, unfathomable deep, 
 And, daring all things, to possess 
 The secrets of your soul's recess. 
 
 In other lands, 't is passing sweet 
 To watch the whispering western wind 
 Go ruffling all the whitened wheat, 
 Nor leave the tiniest track behind ; 
 To see the wanton wavelets rear 
 Their crests along the grassy mere. 
 
 191 
 
So does the zephyr of your smile 
 Lead on its fairy-footed dance 
 From end to end of that dear isle, 
 And dimples all the fair expanse ; 
 And stops its course, and floats and flies 
 In ripples o'er your laughing eyes. 
 
 FRANK TAYLOR. 
 
 192 
 
BALLADE OF THE LADYES OF LONG 
 
 SYNE. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF FRANOIS VILLON. 
 
 TELL me wher, in what contree, is 
 Flora, the beautifulle Romaine ? 
 Thais and Archipiadis, 
 
 Wher are they now, those cosins twaine ? 
 And Echo, gretyng her love agein 
 By banke of river and marge of mere, 
 
 Whos beaute was fre fro mortall stayne ? 
 Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year ? 
 
 Wher is the lerned Helowis, 
 
 For whom undon in celle did plaine 
 
 Pierre Abelard at Saint Denys? 
 
 For love's reward he had this peine 
 Where is the quene who did ordeine 
 
 That Buridan shulde drift in fere 
 Sowed in a sacke adoun the Saine ? 
 
 Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year? 
 
 VOL 11. 13 193 
 
Quene Blanche, fayre as the floure-de-lys, 
 Who sang as swete as the meremaid strayne, 
 
 Alys too, Bertha, Bietris, 
 
 And Hermengarde, who halt the Mayne, 
 And Joan, the good may of Lorraine, 
 
 At Rouen brent by Englyshe fere, 
 Wher are they, Virgine soveraine? 
 
 Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year? 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Prince, for this sevennyght be not fain, 
 Nor this tvvelfmonthe to question wher 
 
 They be, withouten this refraine, 
 
 Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year? 
 
 STEPHEN TEMPLE. 
 
 J94 
 
FATIMA. 
 
 OLOVE, Love, Love ! O withering might ! 
 O sun, that from thy noonday height 
 Shudderest when I strain my sight, 
 Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 
 Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
 Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, 
 I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 
 
 Last night I wasted hateful hours 
 
 Below the city's eastern towers : 
 
 I thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
 
 I roll'd among the tender flowers : 
 
 I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth : 
 I looked athwart the burning drought 
 Of that long desert to the south. 
 
 Last night, when some one spoke his name, 
 
 From my swift blood that went and came 
 
 A thousand little shafts of flame 
 
 Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 
 O Love, O fire \ once he drew 
 With one long kiss my whole soul thro' 
 My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 
 
 195 
 
Before he mounts the hill, I know 
 
 He cometh quickly : from below 
 
 Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow 
 
 Before him, striking on my brow. 
 In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
 Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, 
 Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 
 
 The wind sounds like a silver wire, 
 And from beyond the noon a fire 
 Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
 The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
 And, isled in sudden seas of light, 
 My heart, pierc'd thro' with fierce delight, 
 Bursts into blossom in his sight. 
 
 My whole soul waiting silently, 
 
 All naked in a sultry sky, 
 
 Droops blinded with his shining eye : 
 
 I will possess him or will die. 
 
 I will grow round him in his place, 
 Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
 Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. 
 
 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 196 
 
NOW SLEEPS THE CRIMSON PETAL. 
 
 NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the 
 white ; 
 
 Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; 
 Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font : 
 The firefly wakens : waken thou with me. 
 
 Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a 
 
 ghost, 
 And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 
 
 Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, 
 And all thy heart lies open unto me. 
 
 Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
 A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 
 
 Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
 And slips into the bosom of the lake ; 
 So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
 Into my bosom and be lost in me. 
 
 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. 
 197 
 
THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF 
 THE WRENS. 
 
 AT THE WINDOW. 
 
 VINE, vine and eglantine, 
 Clasp her window, trail and twine ! 
 Rose, rose and clematis, 
 Trail and twine and clasp and kiss, 
 Kiss, kiss ; and make her a bower 
 All of flowers, and drop me a flower, 
 Drop me a flower. 
 
 Vine, vine and eglantine, 
 Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine ? 
 Rose, rose and clematis, 
 Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss, 
 Kiss, kiss and out of her bower 
 All of flowers, a flower, a flower 
 Dropt, a flower. 
 
 198 
 
GONE. 
 
 GONE ! 
 
 Gone till the end of the year, 
 Gone, and the light gone with her and left me 
 
 in shadow here ! 
 Gone flitted away, 
 Taken the stars from the night and the sun from 
 
 the day ! 
 Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a storm in 
 
 the air ! 
 Flown to the east or the west, flitted I know not 
 
 where ! 
 
 Down in the south is a flash and a groan : she 
 is there ! she is there ! 
 
 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 199 
 
BECAUSE OF THEE. 
 
 MY life has grown so dear to me 
 Because of thee ! 
 
 My maiden with the eyes demure, 
 And quiet mouth, and forehead pure. 
 Joy makes a summer in my heart, 
 Because thou art ! 
 
 The very winds melodious be 
 
 Because of thee I 
 The rose is sweeter for thy sake, 
 The waves in softer music break, 
 On brighter wings the swallows dart, 
 
 Because thou art ! 
 
 My sky is swept of shadows free 
 
 Because of thee ! 
 
 Sorrow and care have lost their sting, 
 The blossoms glow, the linnets sing 
 All things in my delight have part, 
 Because thou art ! 
 
 CELIA THAXTER. 
 200 
 
THE PASSING OF THE LETTERS. 
 
 THE mail from the east and the mail from 
 the west 
 
 A thunder of wheels a rushing blast ! 
 The drowsy travellers never guessed 
 
 What voices arose as the two trains passed. 
 
 " Tell him you met me ; tell him I fly ! " 
 
 " That will I ! Tell her I stay not nor rest ! " 
 
 Thus greeted Love's messengers speeding by, 
 One from the east and one from the west. 
 
 EDITH M. THOMAS. 
 
 201 
 
VALENTINE. 
 
 TF thou canst make the frost be gone, 
 -*- And fleet away the snow 
 
 (And that thou canst, I trow) ; 
 If thou canst make the spring to dawn, 
 Hawthorn to put her brav'ry on, 
 Willow, her weeds of fine green lawn, 
 Say why thou dost not so 
 Aye, aye ! 
 Say why 
 Thou dost not so ! 
 
 If thou canst chase the stormy rack, 
 And bid the soft winds blow 
 (And that thou canst, I trow) ; 
 If thou canst call the thrushes back 
 To give the groves the songs they lack, 
 And wake the violet in thy track, 
 Say why thou dost not so 
 Aye, aye ! 
 Say why 
 
 Thou dost not so ! 
 202 
 
If thou canst make my winter spring, 
 With one word breathed low 
 (A.nd that thou canst, I know) '; 
 If in the closure of a ring 
 Thou canst to me such treasure bring, 
 My state shall be above a king, 
 Say why thou dost not so 
 Aye, aye ! 
 Say why 
 Thou dost not so ! 
 
 EDITH M. THOMAS. 
 
 203 
 
DREAM TRYST. 
 
 THE breaths of kissing night and day 
 Were mingled in the eastern heaven ; 
 Throbbing with unheard melody 
 
 Shook Lyra all its star- chord seven : 
 When dusk shrunk cold, and light trod shy, 
 
 And dawn's gray eyes were troubled gray ; 
 And souls went palely up the sky, 
 And mine to Lucide". 
 
 There was no change in her sweet eyes 
 
 Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine ; 
 There was no change in her deep heart 
 
 Since last that deep heart knocked at mine. 
 Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope's, 
 
 Wherein did ever come and go 
 The sparkle of the fountain-drops 
 
 From her sweet soul below. 
 
 204 
 
The chambers in the house of dreams 
 
 Are fed with so divine an air, 
 That Time's hoar wings grow young therein, 
 
 And they who walk there are most fair. 
 I joyed for me, I joyed for her, 
 
 Who with the Past meet girt about, 
 Where our last kiss still warms the air, 
 
 Nor can her eyes go out. 
 
 FRANCIS THOMPSON. 
 
 205 
 
ATALANTA. 
 
 "1 T 7HEN spring grows old, and sleepy winds 
 * * Set from the south with odours sweet, 
 
 I see ray love, in green, cool groves, 
 Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet. 
 
 She throws a kiss and bids me run, 
 In whispers sweet as roses' breath ; 
 
 I know I cannot win the race, 
 And at the end, I know, is death. 
 
 But joyfully I bare my limbs, 
 
 Anoint me with the tropic breeze, 
 
 And feel through every sinew thrill 
 The vigour of Hippomenes. 
 
 A race of love ! We all have run 
 
 Thy happy course through groves of spring, 
 And cared not, when at last we lost, 
 
 For life, or death, or anything ! 
 
 MAURICE THOMPSON. 
 
 206 
 
A SONG OF THANKSGIVING. 
 
 MY love is the flaming sword, to fight through 
 the world ; 
 
 Thy love is the shield to ward, 
 And the armour of the Lord, 
 
 And the banner of Heav'n unfurl'd. 
 
 Let my voice ring out, and over the earth, 
 
 Through all the grief and strife, 
 With a golden joy in a silver mirth, 
 
 Thank God for Life ! 
 
 Let my voice swell out through the great abyss, 
 
 To the azure dome above, 
 With a chord of faith in the harp of bliss 
 
 Thank God for Love ! 
 
 Let my voice thrill out, beneath and above, 
 
 The whole world through, 
 O my Love and Life, O my Life and Love, 
 
 Thank God for you ! 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 207 
 
DAY AFTER DAY OF THIS AZURE 
 
 MAY. 
 
 after day of this azure May, 
 The blood of the spring has swelled in 
 
 my veins ; 
 
 Night after night of broad moonlight, 
 A mystical dream has dazzled my brains. 
 
 A seething might, a fierce delight, 
 
 The blood of the spring is the wine of the world ; 
 My veins run fire and thrill desire, 
 
 Every leaf of my heart's red rose uncurled. 
 
 A sad, sweet calm, a tearful balm, 
 
 The light of the moon is the trance of the world ; 
 My brain is fraught with yearning thought, 
 
 And the rose is pale, and its leaves are furled. 
 
 Oh, speed the day then, dear, dear May, 
 
 And hasten the night, I charge thee, O June ! 
 
 When the trance divine shall burn with the wine, 
 And the red rose unfurl all its fire to the moon. 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 208 
 
THE MINNESINGER'S WIFE. 
 
 i. 
 
 NOT only in my lady's eyes 
 Do I her beauty find, 
 But all the lore that poets prize 
 Is garnered in her mind. 
 
 n. 
 
 She is the soul of all I sing, 
 
 For though to me belong 
 The pipe, the shell, the chorded string, 
 
 She is herself the song. 
 
 in. 
 
 There is no wisdom in my word, 
 
 Nor music in my lay, 
 Save what I have more sweetly heard 
 
 My lady sing or say. 
 VOL. ii. 14 209 
 
IV. 
 
 She gazeth at the flower and star, 
 And readeth in their looks 
 
 A mystic meaning deeper far 
 Than any writ in books. 
 
 v. 
 
 I often to my love have read 
 The bards of olden times, 
 
 And then some happy word she said 
 Outrivalled all their rhymes. 
 
 VI. 
 
 She is so fair, she is so wise, 
 She is so pure in thought ; 
 
 She seems an angel of the skies, 
 Whom I have snared and caught. 
 
 vn. 
 
 She loves me with a love so true 
 
 It never can be told, 
 A love like love when love was new, 
 
 Before the earth grew old. 
 
 2IO 
 
VIII. 
 
 Oh, never yet such lovers were, 
 And nevermore shall be j 
 
 For I am all the world to her, 
 She all the world to me. 
 
 THEODORE TILTON. 
 
 211 
 
THE SONG OF TRISTRAM. 
 
 THE star of love is trembling in the west, 
 Night hears the desolate sea with moan 
 
 on moan 
 
 Sigh for the storm, who on his mountain lone 
 Smites his wild harp, and dreams of her wild 
 
 breast. 
 I am thy storm, Isolt, and thou my sea ! 
 
 Isolt ! 
 My passionate sea I 
 
 The storm to her wild breast, the passionate sea 
 To his fierce arms : we to the rapturous leap 
 Of mated spirits mingling in love's deep, 
 Flame to flame, I to thee and thou to me ! 
 Thou to mine arms, Isolt, I to thy breast ! 
 
 Isolt ! 
 I to thy breast ! 
 
 JOHN TODHUNTER. 
 
 21 2 
 
AUBADE. 
 
 '"T'^HE lights are out in the street, and a cool 
 * wind swings 
 
 Loose poplar plumes on the sky ; 
 Deep in the gloom of the garden the first bird 
 
 sings : 
 
 Curt, hurried steps go by, 
 Loud in the hush of the* dawn past the linden 
 
 screen, 
 Lost in a jar and a rattle of wheels unseen, 
 
 Beyond on the wide highway : 
 Night lingers dusky and dim in the pear-tree 
 
 boughs, 
 Hangs in the hollows of leaves, though the 
 
 thrushes rouse, 
 And the glimmering lawn grows gray. 
 
 Yours, my heart knoweth, yours only the jew- 
 elled gloom, 
 
 Splendours of opal and amber, the scent, the 
 bloom, 
 
 213 
 
Yours all, and your own demesne 
 Scent of the dark, of the dawning, of leaves 
 
 and dew; 
 Nothing that was but hath changed 't is a 
 
 world made new 
 A lost world risen again. 
 
 The lamps are out in the street, and the air 
 
 grows bright; 
 Come, lest the miracle fade in the broad, bare 
 
 lignt, 
 
 The new world wither away : 
 Clear is your voice in my heart, and you call 
 
 me whence ? 
 Come for I listen, I wait, bid me rise, go 
 
 hence, 
 Or ever the dawn turn day. 
 
 GRAHAM R. TOMSON. 
 
 214 
 
LOVE, THE GUEST. 
 
 I DID not dream that Love would stay, 
 I deemed him but a passing guest, 
 Yet here he lingers many a day. 
 
 I said, " Young Love will flee with May, 
 
 And leave forlorn the hearth he blest ;" 
 I did not dream that Love would stay. 
 
 My envious neighbour mocks me, " Nay, 
 
 Love lies not long in any nest ; ' 
 Yet here he lingers many a day. 
 
 And though I did his will alway, 
 
 And gave him even of my best, 
 I did not dream that Love would stay. 
 
 I have no skill to bid him stay, 
 
 Of tripping tongue or cunning jest, 
 Yet here he lingers many a day. 
 
 215 
 
Beneath his ivory feet I lay 
 
 Pale plumage of the ringdove's breast ; 
 I did not dream that Love would stay. 
 
 Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say, 
 
 Home turning for the noonday rest ; 
 Yet here he lingers many a day. 
 
 His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay, 
 
 His eyes through tears smile loveliest ; 
 I did not dream that Love would stay. 
 
 He sometimes sighs, when far away 
 
 The low red sun makes fair the west, 
 Yet here he lingers many a day. 
 
 Thrice blest of all men am I ! yea, 
 
 Although of all unworthiest ; 
 I did not dream that Love would stay, 
 Yet here he lingers many a day. 
 
 GRAHAM R. TOMSON. 
 
 216 
 
A BLUSH AT FAREWELL. 
 
 HER tears are all thine own ! how blest thou 
 art! 
 
 Thine, too, the blush which no reserve can bind ; 
 Thy farewell voice was as the stirring wind 
 That floats the rose-bloom ; thou hast won her 
 
 heart ; 
 
 Dear are the hopes it ushers to thy breast ; 
 She speaks not but she gives her silent bond ; 
 And thou mayst trust it, asking nought beyond 
 The promise, which as yet no words attest ; 
 Deep in her bosom sinks the conscious glow, 
 And deep in thine ! and I can well foresee, 
 If thou shalt feel a lover's jealousy 
 For her brief absence, what a ruling power 
 A bygone blush shall prove ! until the hour 
 Of meeting, when thy next love-rose shall blow. 
 
 CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER. 
 
 217 
 
THE KISS OF BETROTHAL. 
 
 WHEN lovers' lips from kissing disunite 
 With sound as soft as mellow fruitage 
 
 breaking, 
 
 They loathe to leave what was so sweet in taking, 
 So fraught with breathless magical delight ; 
 The scent of flowers is long before it fade, 
 Long dwells upon the gale the Vesper-tone, 
 Far floats the wake the lightest skiff has made, 
 The closest kiss when once imprest, is gone ; 
 What marvel, then, that each so closely kisseth ? 
 Sweet is the fourfold touch the living seal 
 What marvel then, with sorrow each dismisseth 
 This thrilling pledge of all they hope and feel ? 
 While on their lingering steps the shadows steal, 
 And each true heart beats as the other wisheth. 
 
 CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER. 
 
 218 
 
THE PARTING-GATE. 
 
 IN that old beech-walk, now bestrewn with 
 mast, 
 
 And roaring loud they linger'd long and late ; 
 Harsh was the clang of the last homeward gate 
 That latch'd itself behind them, as they pass'd 
 Then.kiss'd and parted. Soon her funeral knell 
 Toll'd from a foreign clime ; he did not talk 
 Nor weep, but shudder'd at that stern farewell ; 
 'Twas the last gate in all their lovers'-walk 
 Without the kiss beyond it ! Was it good 
 To leave him thus, alone with his sad mood 
 In that dear footpath, haunted by her smile ? 
 Where they had laugh'd and loiter'd, sat and 
 
 stood ? 
 
 Alone in life ! alone in Moreham wood ! 
 Through all that sweet, forsaken, forest mile ! 
 
 CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER. 
 
 219 
 
IRISH LOVE SONG. 
 
 "\1C7OULD God I were the tender apple- 
 * blossom, 
 
 Floating and falling from the twisted bough, 
 To lie and faint within your silken bosom, 
 As that does now ! 
 
 Or would I were a little burnished apple 
 
 For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold, 
 While sun and shade your robe of lawn will 
 
 dapple, 
 Your hair's spun gold. 
 
 Yea, would to God I were among the roses 
 
 That lean to kiss you as you float between ! 
 While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses 
 To touch you, Queen ! 
 
 Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing 
 
 A happy daisy in the garden path ; 
 That so your silver foot might press me going, 
 Even unto death ! 
 
 KATHERINE TYNAN. 
 
 220 
 
GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 > 
 
 IT is over now, she is gone to rest ; 
 I have clasped the hands on the quiet breast 
 Draw back the curtain, let in the light, 
 She will never shrink if it be too bright. 
 
 We were two in here but an hour gone by, 
 No streak was then in the midnight sky ; 
 Now I am one to watch the day 
 Come glimmering up from the far-away. 
 
 What will he say when he comes in, 
 Waked by the city's morning din, 
 Hoping to find and fearing to know 
 The sorrow he left but an hour ago ? 
 
 What will he say who has watched so long, 
 When he shall find who has come and gone? 
 Come a watcher that will not bide 
 Love's morning or noon or eventide. 
 
 221 
 
He thought to kiss her by morning gray, 
 But God has thought to take her away. 
 What will he say ? God knows, not I ; 
 "Good- night," he said, but never "good-bye." 
 
 C. C. FRASER TYTLER. 
 
 222 
 
I KNOW 'TIS LATE, BUT LET ME 
 
 STAY. 
 
 I KNOW 't is late, but let me stay, 
 For night is tenderer than day ; 
 Sweet love, dear love, I cannot go ; 
 Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so. 
 The birds are in the grove asleep, 
 The katydids shrill concert keep, 
 The woodbine breathes a fragrance rare 
 To please the dewy, languid air, 
 The fireflies twinkle in the vale, 
 The river shines in moonlight pale : 
 See yon bright star ! choose it for thine, 
 And call its near companion mine ; 
 Yon air- spun lace above the moon, 
 'T will veil her radiant beauty soon ; 
 And look ! a meteor's dreamy light 
 Streams mystic through the solemn night. 
 Ah, life glides swift, like that still fire 
 How soon our gleams of joy expire ! 
 Who can be sure the present kiss 
 Is not his last ? Make all of this. 
 
 223 
 
I know 't is late, dear love, I know, 
 Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so. 
 
 It cannot be the stealthy day 
 
 That turns the orient darkness gray ; 
 
 Heardst thou ? I thought or feared I heard 
 
 Vague twitters of some wakeful bird. 
 
 Nay, 't was but summer in her sleep 
 
 Low murmuring from the leafy deep. 
 
 Fantastic mist obscurely fills 
 
 The hollows of Kentucky hills. 
 
 The wings of night are swift indeed ! 
 
 Why makes the jealous morn such speed? 
 
 This rose thou wear'st may I not take 
 
 For passionate remembrance' sake ? 
 
 Press with thy lips its crimson heart. 
 
 Yes, blushing rose, we must depart. 
 
 A rose cannot return a kiss 
 
 I pay its due with this, and this. 
 
 The stars grow faint, they soon will die, 
 
 But love fades not nor fails. Good-bye ! 
 
 Unhappy joy delicious pain 
 
 We part in love, we meet again. 
 
 Good-bye ! the morning dawns I go ; 
 
 Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so. 
 
 WILLIAM H. VENABLE. 
 224 
 
THE COQUETTE. 
 
 THIS pirate bold upon Love's sea 
 Will let no passing heart go free ; 
 No barque, by those bright eyes espied 
 May sail away o'er life's blue tide 
 Till all its treasure counted be. 
 
 Her craft, the Conquest^ waits for thee 
 Where her swift rapine none may see ; 
 From shadowing coves on thee will glide 
 This pirate bold. 
 
 Yet thou, if thou her power wouldst flee, 
 
 Go, feign thyself love's refugee 
 
 And crave sweet shelter ; she '11 deride 
 Thy piteous suit with scornful pride ; 
 
 And thou, thou shalt escape in glee 
 This pirate bold. 
 
 SAMUEL WADDINGTON. 
 
 VOL. ii. 15 225 
 
BELOVED OF THE FLAXEN TRESSES. 
 
 A T Ballinahinch, my dear 
 ** Abides this long, long year, 
 
 Than the summer sun more brightly shining ; 
 Where'er her footsteps go, 
 Fair honey-flowers will grow 
 
 Even though 't were winter's dark declining. 
 If to my net she sped, 
 'T would ease my heart and head, 
 
 Where cruel love his burning brand impresses. 
 From all that living be, 
 I '11 choose no mate but thee, 
 
 Beloved of the flaxen tresses ! 
 
 At the bridge of the Avonmore 
 I saw my bosom's store, 
 
 The maiden of the ringlets yellow ; 
 More sweet her kisses be 
 Than honey from the tree, 
 
 Or festive wine of flavour mellow. 
 
 226 
 
Her bosom, globes of white, 
 Sweet, fragrant, perfect, bright, 
 
 Like drifted snow the mountain's heart that 
 
 presses. 
 
 The cuckoo's notes resound 
 In winter where thou 'rt found, 
 
 Beloved of the flaxen tresses ! 
 
 Oh, if the boon were mine, 
 From beauty's ranks divine, 
 
 To choose for aye the fairest maiden, 
 'Twere her to whom sweet lays 
 Consign the palm of praise, 
 
 For whom a thousand hearts with love are 
 
 laden. 
 
 Such maid did once inspire 
 The Hebrew monarch's lyre. 
 
 But oh, thine eye more dignity expresses ! 
 Believe my woe, I crave ; 
 Oh, snatch me from the grave, 
 
 Beloved of the flaxen tresses ! 
 
 EDWARD WALSH. 
 
 227 
 
CASHEL OF MUNSTER. 
 
 I WOULD wed you, dear, without gold or 
 gear, or counted kine ; 
 My wealth you '11 be, would your friends agree, 
 
 and you be mine. 
 My grief, my gloom ! that you do not come, my 
 
 heart's dear hoard ! 
 
 To Cashel fair, though our couch were there but 
 a soft deal board. 
 
 Oh, come, my bride, o'er the wild hill-side to the 
 valley low ! 
 
 A downy bed for my love I '11 spread where 
 waters flow, 
 
 And we shall stray where streamlets play, the 
 groves among, 
 
 Where echo tells to the listening dells the black- 
 bird's song. 
 
 Love tender, true, I gave to you, and secret sighs, 
 In hope to see upon you and me one hour arise, 
 
 228 
 

 When the priest's blest voice would bind my 
 
 choice and the ring's strict tie, 
 If wife you be, love, to one but me, love, in 
 
 grief I '11 die ! 
 
 A neck of white has my heart's delight, and breast 
 
 like snow, 
 And flowing hair whose ringlets fair to the green 
 
 grass flow, 
 
 Alas ! that I did not early die, before the day 
 That saw me here, from my bosom's dear, far, 
 
 far away ! 
 
 EDWARD WALSH. 
 
 229 
 
KITTY BHAN. 
 
 BEFORE the sun rose at yester-dawn 
 I met a fair maid adown the lawn ; 
 The berry and snow to her cheek gave its glow, 
 And her bosom was fair as the sailing swan. 
 Then, pulse of my heart ! what gloom is thine ? 
 
 Her beautiful voice more hearts hath won 
 Than Orpheus' lyre of old hath done ; 
 Her ripe eyes of blue were crystals of dew, 
 On the grass of the lawn before the sun. 
 And, pulse of my heart ! what gloom is thine ? 
 
 EDWARD WALSH. 
 
 230 
 
AURORA. 
 
 BY the primrose bank and meadow, 
 Rippling curls, rare feet in shadow, 
 Whither, sweet, away? 
 Listen, rise and follow lightly, 
 Wind the fluttering fingers tightly ; 
 Greet thee, love, to-day. 
 
 Young and lonely keep no measure. 
 Mint of youth is current treasure, 
 
 Age but dross and scorn. 
 Many sweet mouths are not tasted, 
 Sweetest kisses won and wasted, 
 
 Hour and year forsworn. 
 
 When the ripe hour whispers " reap," 
 Turning towards that loveless sleep 
 
 Who would sourly say, 
 Fresh cheeks wear not weeping stain. 
 Love is spoil, and wedded pain 
 
 Taint their rose away ! 
 231 
 
Answer, love, " though love's best sweet, 
 Like an angel's glorious feet, 
 
 Flash and pass no more," 
 Answer, sweet, " love may not last, 
 But the perfume of its past 
 
 Lives in riper store." 
 
 Wavering sets the longest noon : 
 Winter crowns the fiercest June, 
 
 Summer melts the snow. 
 Eyes can answer, hands as well, 
 Rusting years unlearn their spell : 
 
 Answer, dearest, so 
 
 Fortune pays not twice the giver : 
 Leave it once and lose it ever. 
 
 As we speak, 't is flown. 
 Grasp it with no palsied hand, 
 Bend the years at thy command, 
 
 Now and thrice thine own. 
 
 JOHN LEICESTER WARREN. 
 
 232 
 
DAFFODILS. 
 
 I QUESTION with the amber daffodils, 
 Sheeting the floors of April, how she fares ; 
 Where king-cup buds gleam out between the 
 
 rills, 
 And celandine in wide gold beadlets glares. 
 
 By pastured brows and swelling hedgerow 
 
 bowers, 
 
 From crumpled leaves the primrose bunches slip, 
 My hot face roll'd in their faint-scented flowers, 
 I dream her rich cheek rests against my lip. 
 
 All weird sensations of the fervent prime 
 Are like great harmonies, whose touch can move 
 The glow of gracious impulse : thought and time 
 Renew my love with life, my life with love. 
 
 When this old world new-born puts glories on, 
 I cannot think she never will be won. 
 
 JOHN LEICESTER WARREN. 
 
 233 
 
THE PILGRIM CRANES. 
 
 I ~^HE pilgrim cranes are moving to their south, 
 * The clouds are herded pale and rolling 
 
 slow. 
 
 One flower is withered in the warm wind's mouth, 
 Whereby the gentle waters always flow. 
 
 The cloud-fire wanes beyond the lighted trees, 
 The sudden glory leaves the mountain dome. 
 
 Sleep into night, old anguish mine, and cease 
 To listen for a step that will not come. 
 
 JOHN LEICESTER WARREN. 
 
 234 
 
AVE ATQUE VALE. 
 
 FAREWELL my Youth ! for now we needs 
 must part, 
 
 For here the paths divide ; 
 Here hand from hand must sever, heart from 
 
 heart, 
 Divergence deep and wide. 
 
 You '11 wear no withered roses for my sake, 
 Though I go mourning for you all day long, 
 Finding no magic more in bower and brake, 
 No melody in song. 
 
 Gray Eld must travel in my company 
 To seal this severance more fast and sure. 
 A joyless fellowship, i' faith, 't will be, 
 Yet must we fare together, I and he, 
 Till I shall tread the footpath way no more. 
 
 But when a blackbird pipes among the boughs, 
 On some dim iridescent day in spring, 
 Then I may dream you are remembering 
 Our ancient vows. 
 
 235 
 
Or when some joy foregone, some fate forsworn 
 Looks through the dark eyes of the violet, 
 I may recross the set, forbidden bourne, 
 
 I may forget 
 
 Our long, long parting for a little while, 
 Dream of the golden splendours of your smile, 
 Dream you remember yet. 
 
 ROSAMUND HARRIOT WATSON. 
 
 236 
 
EPITAPH. 
 
 NOW lay thee down to sleep, and dream of 
 me ; 
 
 Though thou art dead and I am living yet, 
 Though cool thy couch and sweet thy slumbers 
 
 be, 
 Dream do not quite forget. 
 
 Sleep all the autumn, all the winter long, 
 With never a painted shadow from the past 
 
 To haunt thee ; only, when the blackbird's song 
 Wakens the woods at last, 
 
 When the young shoots grow lusty overhead, 
 Here, where the spring sun smiles, the spring 
 wind grieves, 
 
 When budding violets close above thee spread 
 Their small heart-shapen leaves, 
 
 2 37 
 
Pass, O Beloved, to dreams from slumber deep ; 
 Recount the store that mellowing time en- 
 dears, 
 Tread, through the measureless mazes of thy 
 
 sleep, 
 Our old unchangeful years. 
 
 Lie still and listen while thy sheltering tree 
 Whispers of suns that rose, of suns that set 
 
 For far-off echoes of the spring and me. 
 Dream do not quite forget. 
 
 ROSAMUND HARRIOT WATSON. 
 
 238 
 
A GOLDEN HOUR. 
 
 A BECKONING spirit of gladness seemed 
 afloat, 
 
 That lightly danced in laughing air before us : 
 The earth was all in tune, and you a note 
 Of Nature's happy chorus. 
 
 'T was like a vernal morn, yet overhead 
 The leafless boughs across the lane were knitting : 
 The ghost of some forgotten spring, we said, 
 O'er winter's world comes flitting. 
 
 Or was it spring herself, that, gone astray, 
 Beyond the alien frontier chose to tarry? 
 Or but some bold outrider of the May, 
 Some April emissary? 
 
 The apparition faded on the air, 
 
 Capricious and incalculable comer. 
 
 Wilt thou too pass, and leave my chill days bare, 
 
 And falPn my phantom summer ? 
 
 WILLIAM WATSON. 
 
 2 39 
 
AND THESE ARE THESE INDEED 
 THE END? 
 
 AND these are these indeed the end, 
 This grinning skull, this heavy loam ? 
 Do all green ways whereby we wend 
 Lead but to yon ignoble home ? 
 
 Ah, well ! Thine eyes invite to bliss ; 
 
 Thy lips are hives of summer still. 
 I ask not other worlds while this 
 
 Proffers me all the sweets I will. 
 
 WILLIAM WATSON. 
 
 240 
 
BEAUTY'S METEMPSYCHOSIS. 
 
 THAT beauty such as thine 
 Can die indeed, 
 
 Were ordinance too wantonly malign : 
 No wit may reconcile so cold a creed 
 With beauty such as thine. 
 
 From wave and star and flower 
 
 Some effluence rare 
 
 Was lent thee, a divine but transient dower : 
 Thou yield 'st it back from eyes and lips and hair 
 
 To wave and star and flower. 
 
 Shouldst thou to-morrow die, 
 
 Thou still shalt be 
 
 Found in the rose and met in all the sky : 
 And from the ocean's heart shalt sing to me, 
 
 Shouldst thou to-morrow die. 
 
 WILLIAM WATSON. 
 
 VOL. ii. 16 241 
 
LOVE, LIKE A BIRD. 
 
 LOVE, like a bird, hath perched upon a spray 
 For thee and me to hearken what he sings. 
 Contented, he forgets to fly away ; 
 
 But hush ! . . . remind not Eros of his wings. 
 
 WILLIAM WATSON. 
 
 242 
 
A DREAM. 
 
 BENEATH the loveliest dream there coils 
 a fear : 
 Last night came she whose eyes are memories 
 
 now, 
 
 Her far-off gaze seemed all-forgetful how 
 Love dimmed them once, so calm they shone, 
 
 and clear. 
 
 " Sorrow (I said) hath made me old, my dear ; 
 'T is I, indeed, but grief doth change the brow ; 
 A love like mine a seraph's neck might bow, 
 Vigils like mine would blanch an angel's hair." 
 
 Ah ! then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move ! 
 
 I saw the love- mists thickening in her eyes ; 
 I heard wild wordless melodies of love, 
 
 Like murmur of dreaming brooks in Paradise ; 
 And when upon my neck she fell, my dove, 
 I knew her hair, though heavy of amaranth- 
 spice. 
 
 THEODORE WATTS. 
 
 243 
 
THE FIRST KISS. 
 
 IF only in dreams may man be fully blest, 
 Is heav'n a dream? Is she I claspt a 
 
 dream ? 
 Or stood she here even now where dewdrops 
 
 gleam, 
 
 And miles of furze shine golden down the West ? 
 I seem to clasp her still, still on my breast 
 Her bosom beats ; I see the blue eyes beam : 
 I think she kissed these lips, for now they 
 
 seem 
 Scarce mine, so hallow'd of the lips they press'd ! 
 
 Yon thicket's breath can that be eglantine ? 
 Those birds can they be morning's chor- 
 isters ? 
 Can this be earth ? Can these be banks of 
 
 furze ? 
 
 Like burning bushes fired of God they shine ! 
 I seem to know them, though this body of mine 
 Pass'd into spirit at the touch of hers. 
 
 THEODORE WATTS. 
 244 
 
SUFFICIENCY. 
 
 A LITTLE love, of Heaven a little share, 
 And then we go what matters it, since 
 
 where, 
 
 Or when, or how, none may aforetime know, 
 Nor if Death cometh soon, or lingering slow, 
 Send on ahead his herald of Despair. 
 
 On this gray life Love lights with golden glow 
 Refracted from The Source, his bright wings 
 
 throw 
 
 Its glory on us, if Fate grant our prayer, 
 
 A little love ! 
 
 A little ; 't is as much as we can bear, 
 For Love is compassed with such magic air 
 Who breathes it fully dies ; and knowing so, 
 The Gods all wisely but a taste bestow 
 For little lives"; a little while they spare 
 
 A little love. 
 
 GLEESON WHITE. 
 245 
 
 V 
 
 * 
 
BENEDICITE. 
 
 GOD'S love and peace be with thee, where 
 Soe'er this soft autumnal air 
 Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! 
 
 Whether through city casements comes 
 Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, 
 Or, out among the woodland blooms, 
 
 It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, 
 Imparting, in its glad embrace, 
 Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! 
 
 Fair Nature's book together read, 
 The old wood-paths that knew our tread, 
 The maple shadows overhead, 
 
 The hills we climbed, the river seen 
 By gleams along its deep ravine, 
 All keep thy memory fresh and green. 
 
 246 
 
Where'er I look, where'er I stray, 
 Thy thought goes with me on my way, 
 And hence the prayer I breathe to-day; 
 
 O'er lapse of time and change of scene, 
 The weary waste which lies between 
 Thyself and me, my heart I lean. 
 
 Thou lack'st not Friendship's spell-word, nor 
 The half-unconscious power to draw 
 All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. 
 
 With these good gifts of God is cast 
 Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast 
 To hold the blessed angels fast. 
 
 If, then, a fervent wish for thee 
 
 The gracious heavens will heed from me, 
 
 What should, dear heart, its burden be ? 
 
 The sighing of a shaken reed, 
 What can I more than meekly plead 
 The greatness of our common need ? 
 
 247 
 
God's love, unchanging, pure, and true, - 
 The Paraclete white-shining through 
 His peace, the fall of Hermon's dew ! 
 
 With such a prayer, on this sweet day, 
 As thou mayst hear and I may say, 
 I greet thee, dearest, far away ! 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 248 
 
LOVE'S QUEEN. 
 
 HE loves not well whose love is bold : 
 I would not have thee come too nigh. 
 The sun's gold would not seem pure gold 
 
 Unless the sun were in the sky : 
 To take him thence and chain him near 
 Would make his beauty disappear. 
 
 He keeps his state : do thou keep thine, 
 
 And shine upon me from afar ! 
 So shall I bask in light divine 
 
 That falls from Love's own guiding star : 
 So shall thy eminence be high, 
 And so my passion shall not die. 
 
 But all my life shall reach its hands 
 Of lofty longing tow'rd thy face, 
 
 And be as one who speechless stands 
 In rapture at some perfect grace : 
 
 My love, my hope, my all shall be 
 To look to heaven and look to thee. 
 
 249 
 
Thine eyes shall be the heavenly lights ; 
 
 Thy voice shall be the summer breeze, 
 What time it sways, on moonlit nights, 
 
 The murmuring tops of leafy trees ; 
 And I will touch thy beauteous form 
 
 In June's red roses rich and warm. 
 
 But thou thyself shalt not come down 
 From that pure region far above ; 
 
 But keep thy throne and wear thy crown, 
 Queen of my heart and queen of love : 
 
 A monarch in thy realm complete, 
 And I a monarch at thy feet ! 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 250 
 
MY VIOLET. 
 
 WHEN violets blue begin to blow 
 Among the mosses fresh and green, 
 That grow the woodbine roots between, 
 I take my Violet out,, and, oh ! 
 Those cunning violets seem to know 
 A sweeter than themselves is nigh ; 
 They greet her with a beaming eye, 
 And brighten where her footsteps go. 
 
 When summer glories light the glade 
 With gloss of green and gleam of gold, 
 And sunny sheens in wood and wold, 
 
 She loves to linger in the shade ; 
 
 And such sweet light surrounds the maid, 
 That, somehow, it is fairer far 
 Where she and those dim shadows are, 
 
 Than where the sunbeams are displayed. 
 
 When every tree relinquisheth 
 
 Its garb of green for sombre brown, 
 And all the leaves are falling down, 
 
While breezes blow with angry breath, 
 With gentle pitying voice she saith, 
 
 " Poor leaves ! I wish you would not die ; " 
 And at the sound they peaceful lie, 
 And wear a pleasant calm in death. 
 
 When winter frosts hold land and sea, 
 And barren want and bleaker wind 
 Leave every thought of good behind, 
 
 I look upon my love, and she 
 
 From thrall of winter sets me free ; 
 And with a sense of perfect rest 
 I lay my head upon her breast, 
 
 And twenty summers shine for me. 
 
 J. T. BURTON WOLLASTON. 
 
 252 
 
WILD ROSE. 
 
 TO call My Lady where she stood 
 "A Wild-rose blossom of the wood," 
 Makes but a poor similitude. 
 
 For who by such a sleight would reach 
 
 An aim, consumes the worth in speech, 
 And sets a crimson rose to bleach. 
 
 My Love, whose store of household sense 
 
 Gives duty golden recompense, 
 And arms her goodness with defence : 
 
 The sweet reliance of whose gaze 
 
 Originates in gracious ways, 
 And wins the trust that trust repays : 
 
 Whose stately figure's varying grace 
 
 Is never seen unless her face 
 Turn beaming toward another place ; 
 
 For such a halo round it glows 
 
 Surprised attention only knows 
 A lively wonder in repose. 
 
 253 
 
Can flowers that breathe one little day 
 
 In odorous sweetness life away, 
 And wavering to the earth decay, 
 
 Have any claim to rank with her, 
 
 Warmed in whose soul impulses stir, 
 Then bloom to goodness ; and aver 
 
 Her worth through spheral joys shall move 
 
 When suns and systems cease above, 
 And nothing lives but perfect Love ? 
 
 THOMAS WOOLNER. 
 
 254 
 

 A MEMORY. 
 
 OUT of the crowd of women I 
 Have loved and long have let go by, 
 It is alone your memory 
 That comes in hours of grief to me. 
 
 When eyes are blind and lips are dumb, 
 Your sweet and sad soul seems to come 
 Across the vague and distant years, 
 To touch my brow, to stay my tears. 
 
 THEODORE WRATISLAW. 
 
 2 55 
 
ASLEEP. 
 
 LIDS closed and pale, with parted lips she lay ; 
 Black on white pillows spread her hair 
 
 unbound. 
 
 Awake, I watched her sleeping face, and found 
 Its beauty perfect in the breaking day. 
 
 Ah, then I knew that Love had passed away ; 
 
 Alas ! though with the entering sun that 
 crowned 
 
 With light the beauty that mine arras enwound, 
 Came too the morning music of the bay. 
 
 I wept that Love had been and was no more, 
 That never shower nor sunlight should restore 
 The love that gave her life and heart to me ; 
 
 While radiant in the outburst of the dawn, 
 Fresh as the wind that swept the mountain lawn, 
 Green April wantoned on the noisy sea. 
 
 THEODORE WRATISLAW. 
 
 256 
 
SONG IN SPRING. 
 
 APRIL has whispered to the rose, 
 O flower, thy heart is deep and red ; 
 Till evening let me lean my head 
 Between thy petals that unclose. 
 
 I murmured to my soul's delight, 
 
 Sweet love, thy heart is red and deep ; 
 Oh, take me in thine arms, to sleep 
 
 Within thy bosom all the night ! 
 
 THEODORE WRATISLAW. 
 
 VOL. IL T 7 257 
 
SWIMMING SONG. 
 
 THE broad green rollers lift and glide 
 Beneath our hearts as, side by side, 
 We breast them blithely, blithely swim 
 Toward the far horizon's rim. 
 
 The murmur of the land recedes, 
 
 The land of grief that aches and needs ; 
 
 We only as we fall and rise 
 
 Drink deep the splendour of the skies. 
 
 O far blue heaven above our head, 
 O near green sea about us spread, 
 What joy so full, since time began, 
 Could earth, our mother, give to man? 
 
 Your bright face through the water peers 
 And laughs. " What need have men for tears ? ' 
 We say. The land is far and dim, 
 The world is summer's, and we swim. 
 
 258 
 
Your bright face peers and laughs. The sweet 
 Same joy fulfils us, hands and feet : 
 The same sea's salt wet lips kiss ours : 
 We feel the same enraptured hours. 
 
 Out yonder ! where our distant home 
 Beckons us from the crests of foam ! 
 Out yonder through the roller's mirth ! 
 What part was ever ours with earth ? 
 
 Your white limbs flash, your red lips gleam : 
 Love seems life's best and holiest dream ; 
 Nought comes between us here, and I 
 Could wish not otherwise to die. 
 
 With sea beneath us, heaven above, 
 Life holds but laughter, joy, and love ; 
 No trammels bind us now, and we 
 Are freer than the birds are free. 
 
 Your face seems sweeter here ; your hair, 
 Wet from the sea's salt lips, more fair ; 
 Your limbs that move and gleam and shine, 
 Hellenic, pagan, half divine. 
 
 If I should catch you now, make fast 
 Your hands with mine, about you cast 
 My limbs, and through the untroubled waves 
 Draw you down to the sea's deep graves ! * 
 
 2 59 
 
Ah, sweet ! God's gift is good enough, 
 God's gift of freedom, life, and love 
 Though but for this brief hour are we 
 Alone upon the eternal sea. 
 
 THEODORE WRATISLAW. 
 
 260 
 
THE PEACE OF THE ROSE. 
 
 IF Michael, leader of God's host, 
 When Heaven and Hell are met, 
 Looked down on you from Heaven's door-post, 
 He would his deeds forget. 
 
 Brooding no more upon God's wars 
 
 In his Divine homestead, 
 He would go weave out of the stars 
 
 A chaplet for your head ; 
 
 And all folk seeing him bow down, 
 
 And white stars tell your praise, 
 Would come at last to God's great town, 
 
 Led on by gentle ways ; 
 
 And God would bid his warfare cease, 
 
 Saying all things were well, 
 And softly make a rosy peace, 
 
 A peace of Heaven and Hell. 
 
 W. B. YEATS. 
 
 261 
 
THE BRIDAL PAIR. 
 
 HE. 
 
 THOUGH the roving bee as lightly 
 Sip the sweets of thyme and clover, 
 Though the moon of May as whitely 
 Silver all the greensward over, 
 Yet, beneath the trysting tree, 
 That hath been which shall not be ! 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Drip the vials ne'er so sweetly 
 
 With the honey-dew of pleasure, 
 Trip the dancers ne'er so featly 
 
 Through the old remembered measure, 
 Yet, the lighted lanthorn round, 
 What is lost shall not be found ! 
 
 WILLIAM YOUNG. 
 
 262 
 
THE TRIFLERS. 
 
 HE. 
 
 B 
 
 ECAUSE thou wast cold and proud, 
 _ ' And as one alone in the crowd, 
 And because of thy wilful and wayward look, 
 I thought, as I saw thee above my book, 
 I will prove if her heart be flesh or stone ; ' 
 And in seeking thine, I have found my own. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Because thou wast proud and cold, 
 
 And because of the story told 
 
 That never had woman a smile from thee, 
 
 I thought as I glanc'd, If he frown on me, 
 
 Why, be it so ! but his peace shall atone ; ' 
 
 And 'in troubling thine, I have lost my own. 
 
 WILLIAM YOUNG. 
 
 263 
 
AT THY GRAVE. 
 
 WAVES the soft grass at my feet ; 
 Dost thou feel me near thee, sweet? 
 Though the earth upon thy face 
 Holds thee close from my embrace, 
 Yet my spirit thine can reach, 
 Needs betwixt us twain no speech, 
 For the same soul lives in each. 
 
 Now I meet no tender eyes 
 
 Seeking mine in soft surmise 
 
 At some broken utterance faint, 
 
 Smile quick brightening, sigh half spent ; 
 
 Yet in some sweet hours gone by, 
 
 No responding eye to eye 
 
 Needed we for sympathy. 
 
 Love, I seem to see thee stand 
 Silent in a shadowy land, 
 ' With a look upon thy face 
 As if even in that dull place 
 
 264 
 
Distant voices smote thine ears, 
 Memories of vanished years, 
 Or faint echoes of those tears. 
 
 Yet I would not have it thus ; 
 
 Then would be most piteous 
 
 Our divided lives, if thou 
 
 An imperfect bliss should know ; 
 Sweet my suffering, if to thee 
 Death has brought the faculty 
 Of entire felicity. 
 
 Rather would I weep in vain, 
 That thou canst not share my pain, 
 Deem that Lethean waters roll 
 Softly o'er thy separate soul, 
 Know that a divided bliss 
 Makes thee careless of my kiss, 
 Than that thou shouldst feel distress. 
 
 Hush ! I hear a low, sweet sound 
 
 As of music stealing round ; 
 
 Forms thy hand the thrilling chords 
 
 Into more than spoken words? 
 Ah ! 't is but the gathering breeze 
 Whispering to the budding trees, 
 Or the song of early bees. 
 
 265 
 
Love ! where art thou ? Canst thou not 
 Hear me, or is all forgot? 
 Seest thou not these burning tears? 
 Can my words not reach thine ears? 
 
 Or betwixt my soul and thine 
 
 Has some mystery divine 
 
 Sealed a separating line ? 
 
 Is it thus, then, after death 
 
 Old things none remembereth? 
 
 Is the spirit henceforth clear 
 
 Of the life it gathered here ? 
 Will our noblest longings seem 
 Like some disremembered dream 
 In the after world's full beam ? 
 
 Hark ! the rainy wind blows loud, 
 
 Scuds above the hurrying cloud ; 
 
 Hushed is all the song of bees ; 
 
 Angry murmurs of the trees 
 Herald tempests. Silent yet 
 Sleepest thou nor fear nor fret 
 Troubles thee. Can I forget? 
 
 266 
 
BE TRUE TO ME AS I TO THEE. 
 
 BE true, ah, twin soul of my soul, be true ! 
 Be true to me, as I must be to thee, 
 So that I, tossing on the storm-swept sea, 
 Still one sure star may view. 
 
 Be true, dear heart, for mine is bruised and sore, 
 Weary of all save only thy sweet love ; 
 Only to thee my bitter longings move 
 Ever and evermore. 
 
 Would I might lean my head against thy breast, 
 Even as a child sore-vexed with thorny ways, 
 With aching feet, turns sobbing to its rest, 
 And there contented stays. 
 
 That may not be, but be thou true to me ; 
 So I may still my hopeless fancy please ; 
 My empty arms outstretched aye to thee 
 In visions such as these. 
 
 267 
 
Ah, sweetheart mine, our dead past liveth yet 
 Blossoms afresh, more bravely than of old ; 
 Yet must I plead (for great dread maketh bold) , 
 Never do thou forget ! 
 
 TARES. 
 
 268 
 
 
LO! IN A DREAM LOVE CAME 
 TO ME. 
 
 LO ! in a dream Love came to me and cried : 
 " The summer dawn creeps over land 
 
 and sea ; 
 
 The golden fields are ripe for harvest-tide, 
 And the grape-gatherers climb the mountain- 
 side ; 
 
 The harvest joy is come ; I wait for thee. 
 Arise, come down, and follow, follow me." 
 
 And I arose, went down, and followed him. 
 
 The reaper's song went ringing through the 
 
 air ; 
 
 Below, the morning mists grew pale and dim, 
 And on the mountain ridge the sun's bright rim 
 
 Rose swiftly, and the glorious dawn was there. 
 
 I followed, followed Love, I knew not -where. 
 
 269 
 
 
Through orange groves and orchard ways we 
 
 went ; 
 The cool fresh dew lay deep on grass and 
 
 tree, 
 
 Above our heads the laden boughs were bent 
 With weight of ripening fruit ; the faint sweet 
 
 scent 
 
 Of fragrant myrtles drifted up to me : 
 Blindly, O Love, blindly I followed thee ! 
 
 Love, the morning shadows passed away 
 From off the broad fair fields of waving wheat ; 
 
 1 followed thee, till in the full noonday 
 The weary women in the vineyards lay ; 
 
 The tall field flowers drooped fading in the 
 
 heat : 
 I followed thee with bruised and bleeding 
 
 feet. 
 
 Upon the long white road the fierce sun shone, 
 And on the distant town and wide waste plain, 
 O Love, I blindly, blindly followed on, 
 Nor knew how sharp the way my feet had gone ; 
 Nor knew I aught of shame or loss or pain, 
 Nor knew I all my labour was in vain. 
 
 270 
 
The sun sank down in silence o'er the land, 
 
 The heavy shadows gathered deep and black ; 
 Across the lonely waste of reeds and sand 
 I followed Love : I could not touch his hand, 
 Nor see his hidden face, nor turn me back, 
 Nor find again the far-off mountain- track. 
 
 Blindly, O Love ! blindly I followed thee : 
 The summer night lay on the silent plain, 
 
 And on the sleeping city and the sea ; 
 
 The sound of rippling waves came up to me. 
 O Love ! the dawn drew near ; far off again 
 The gray light gathered where the night had 
 lain. 
 
 On through the quiet street Love passed, and 
 
 cried : 
 "The summer dawn creeps over land and sea ; 
 
 Sweet is the summer and the harvest-tide ; 
 
 Awake, arise, Love waits for thee, his Bride." 
 And she arose and followed, followed thee, 
 O traitor Love ! who hast forsaken me. 
 
 FRASER'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 271 
 
VALE. 
 
 TJfARBLETH the bird of Love his golden 
 
 song, 
 
 And many hearken to his magic strain; 
 In joyous major now he carols strong, 
 In miners low he croons his soft refrain. 
 
 So fair his lay of Love's fond empery, 
 
 One scarce may mark the qi*aver of his sigh ; 
 
 Or note amid his seeming ecstasy 
 
 The dream that fades, the hopes that shattered 
 lie. 
 
 But most he sings for Youth's enraptured ear. 
 When hope beats fast and buds are bourgeon- 
 ing, 
 " Time flies" he trills, "clasp close the fleeting 
 
 year 
 
 Ere winter cometh, and sweet Love take 
 wing I" 
 
 272 
 
 
INDEX. 
 
 LYALL, SIR ALFRED : 
 
 Sequel to " My Queen " . . Verses written in India 
 
 LYTTON, ROBERT, LORD: 
 
 Experientia Docet ? Marah 
 
 If . . . ? 
 
 Omens and Oracles 
 
 When Stars are in the Quiet Skies Poems 
 
 MCCARTHY, JUSTIN HUNTLY: 
 
 The Garden of Memory Harlequinade 
 
 Tryst 
 
 MACDONALD, GEORGE : 
 
 If I were a Monk and thou wert a Nun . . . Poems 
 
 MACKAIL, J. W.: 
 
 A Ballade of Colours .... Love' 's Looking-Glass 
 False Dawn " " 
 
 MACKAY, ERIC: 
 
 My Amazon Love Letters of a Violinist 
 
 The Lady of the May A Lover's Litanies 
 
 MARSTON, PHILIP BOURKE : 
 
 Changed Love Wind Voices 
 
 Summer's Return . . . . Song-Tide, and Other Poems 
 
 MARSTON, WESTLAND: 
 
 Mine Selected Dramatic Work and Poems 
 
 VOL. ii. 18 273 
 
MARTIN, W. WILSEY : 
 
 Love's Way Quatrains, Life's Mystery, and Other Poems 
 Paolo e Francesca " " " " " 
 
 MARZIALS, THEO. : 
 
 Aubacle . . The Gallery of Pigeons, and Other Poems 
 The Phial and the Philtre " " " 
 
 The Rose of her Cheek " " " " 
 
 The Tulip to One Blossom blows " " " 
 
 MASSEY, GERALD : 
 
 Not I, Sweet Soul, not I Love Lyrics 
 
 MEREDITH, GEORGE : 
 
 At Dinner she is Hostess Modern Love 
 
 Love within the Lover's Breast. 
 
 MONKHOUSE, COSMO : 
 
 A Dead March Corn and Poppies 
 
 The Secret " " 
 
 MORRIS, LEWIS : 
 
 Fair Star that on the Shoulder of yon Hill . . Given 
 
 Oh, Vermeil Rose and Sweet " 
 
 Thy Shadow, O Tardy Night " 
 
 MORRIS, WILLIAM : 
 
 Song : To Psyche The Earthly Paradise 
 
 The First Lyric Love is Enough 
 
 The Concluding Lyric " " 
 
 MOULTON, LOUISE CHANDLER : 
 
 Beside a Bier In the Garden of Dreams 
 
 For Me Alone S-w allow Plights 
 
 Hereafter In the Garden of Dreams 
 
 The Shadow Dance ... " " " 
 
 MURRAY, GEORGE : 
 
 Fortunio's Song Verses and Versions 
 
 MYERS, FREDERIC W. H. : 
 
 Have other Lovers ? 
 
 The Renewal of Youth, and Other Poems 
 
 274 
 
NESBIT, E. (MRS. HUBERT BLAND) : 
 
 Song Lays and Legends, First Series 
 
 Splendide Mendax . " " Second Series 
 
 The Kiss Leaves of Life 
 
 The Mill .... Lays and Legends, Second Series 
 
 NICHOLS, J. B. B.: 
 
 A Pastoral Love in Idleness 
 
 Secundum Altitudinem Cseli a Terra . 
 
 Vigilate Itaque " " 
 
 NOBLE, JAMES ASHCROFT : 
 
 The Horizon Verses of a Prose Writer 
 
 O'CONNOR, JOSEPH : 
 
 Shadows Poems 
 
 O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR : 
 
 A Dream Music and Moonlight 
 
 A Farewell " " 
 
 Song 
 
 Supreme Summer 
 
 PARKER, GILBERT : 
 
 As One would stand who saw a Sudden Light 
 
 A Lover's Diary 
 If Death should come to me to-night and say " 
 
 PATMORE, COVENTRY: 
 
 Departure The Unknown Eros 
 
 PAYNE, JOHN : 
 
 Cadences Songs of Life and Death 
 
 Chant Royal of the God of Love .... New Poems 
 
 False Spring Songs of Life and Death 
 
 Madrigal Gai New Poems 
 
 PERRY, NORA : 
 
 In June After the Ball, and Other Poems 
 
 PFEIFFER, EMILY : 
 A Song of Winter. 
 A Wind from off the Sea .... Sonnets and Songs 
 
 275 
 
PHILLIPS, STEPHEN : 
 
 To a Lost Love Primavera 
 
 PHILPOT, WILLIAM : 
 
 Prince of Painters, come, I pray. 
 
 PINKERTON, PERCY C. : 
 
 A Lagoon Message . . . Galeazzo, and Other Poems 
 
 POLLOCK, WALTER HERRIES : 
 
 A Conquest New and Old 
 
 The Devout Lover. " " 
 
 PROBYN, MAY : 
 
 Ballade of Lovers A Ballade of the Road, and Oilier Poems 
 
 Song , Poems 
 
 RADFORD, DOLLIE : 
 
 My Sweetheart A Light Load 
 
 RADFORD, ERNEST : 
 
 A Choice of Likenesses The Book of the Rhymers' 1 Club 
 RAWNSLEY, HARDWICK DRUMMOND : 
 
 In a Garden .... Poems, Ballads, and Bucolics 
 
 REESE, LIZETTE WOODWORTH : 
 
 A Song for Candlemas . . . A Handful of Lavender 
 
 RHYS, ERNEST : 
 
 A Dream of Diana A London Rose, and Other Rhymes 
 
 RICHARDSON, CHARLES F. : 
 Three Days. 
 
 RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB : 
 
 The Ripest Peach Old-Fashioned Roses 
 
 When She comes Home ... " " 
 
 ROBINSON, A. MARY F. (MADAME JAMES DARMESTETER) : 
 
 Poplar Leaves Lyrics 
 
 Stornelli and Strambotti 
 
 ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA G. : 
 
 After Death Poems 
 
 Autumn Violets . . 
 
 Somewhere or Other 
 
 276 
 
ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL : 
 
 A New Year's Burden Poems 
 
 First Love Remembered .... The House of Life 
 
 Love Enthroned " " 
 
 Sudden Light " " 
 
 SAYLE, CHARLES : 
 
 Grace Erotidia 
 
 SCOLLARD, CLINTON : 
 
 A Perfect Day ....... The Hills of Song 
 
 Her Eyes With Reed and Lyre 
 
 In April-tide The Hills uf Song 
 
 SCOTT, CLEMENT: 
 
 Rtis in Urbe Lays and Lyrics 
 
 SHARP, WILLIAM : 
 Song. 
 
 The Coming of Love The Pagan Review 
 
 Upon Chloe : her Eyes. 
 Upon Julia Blushing. 
 
 SHERMAN, FRANK DEMPSTER : 
 
 To a Rose Lyrics for a Lute 
 
 SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND : 
 
 Recall Poems 
 
 The Thrush . . " 
 
 SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT : 
 
 Fantasia Poems 
 
 Only a Leaf " 
 
 STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE: 
 
 Song from a Drama Poems 
 
 Toujours Amour 
 
 STEVENSON, ROBERT Louis : 
 
 In the Season Underwoods 
 
 STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY : 
 
 A Nest of Love The Book of the East 
 
 STORY, W. W. : 
 
 A Moment Poems 
 
 The Violet " 
 
 277 
 
STRANGE, EDWARD FAIRBROTHER : 
 
 To my Lady . . Palissy tn Prison, and Other Verses 
 
 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES: 
 
 At Parting . . . Poems and Ballads, Second Series 
 
 August Laus Veneris 
 
 Between the Sunset and the Sea .... Chastelard 
 The Oblation Songs before Sunrise 
 
 SYMONS, ARTHUR: 
 
 In Autumn Silhouettes 
 
 On Judge's Walk 
 
 SYMONDS, JOHN ADDINGTON : 
 
 Ich hbr' es sogar im Traum New and Old 
 
 In the Small Canals " " 
 
 I saw a Vision of Deep Eyes . . . In the Key of Blue 
 Oh, when will it be ? The Spirit Lamp 
 
 TAYLOR, FRANK : 
 
 To Midia. 
 TEMPLE, STEPHEN : 
 
 Ballade of the Ladyes of Long Syne. 
 
 TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD : 
 
 Fatima Poems 
 
 Now sleeps the Crimson Petal 
 
 The Window ; or the Songs of the Wrens . . . 
 
 THAXTER, CELIA: 
 Because of Thee 
 
 The Cruise of the Mystery, and other Poems 
 
 THOMAS, EDITH M. : 
 
 The Passing of the Letters . . . Lyrics and Sonnets 
 Valentine " " 
 
 THOMPSON, FRANCIS : 
 
 Dream Tryst Poems 
 
 THOMPSON, MAURICE : 
 
 Atalanta Songs of Fair Weather 
 
 278 
 
 
THOMSON, JAMES : 
 
 A Song of Thanksgiving . . . Sunday up the River 
 Day after Day of this Azure May Sunday at Hampstead 
 
 TILTON, THEODORE : 
 
 The Minnesinger's Wife Swabian Stories 
 
 TODHUNTER, JOHN : 
 
 The Song of Tristram 
 
 The Second Book of the Rhymers' Club 
 
 TOMSON, GRAHAM R. (ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON) : 
 
 Aubade . . . . A Summer Night, and Other Poems 
 
 Love the Guest The Bird Bride 
 
 TURNER, CHARLES TENNYSON : 
 
 A Blush at Farewell Collected Sonnets 
 
 The Kiss of Betrothal " " 
 
 The Parting-Gate " " 
 
 TYNAN, KATHERINE : 
 
 Irish Love Song Irish Love Songs 
 
 TYTLER, C. C. FRASER (MRS. EDWARD LIDDELL) : 
 
 Good-Night Songs in Minor Keys 
 
 VENABLE, WILLIAM H. : 
 
 I know 'tis Late, but let Me stay Melodies of the Heart 
 
 WADDINGTON, SAMUEL : 
 
 The Coquette Sonnets, and Other Verses 
 
 WALSH, EDWARD: 
 
 Beloved of the Flaxen Tresses . . . Irish Love Songs 
 
 Cashel of Munster " " 
 
 Kitty Bhan " " 
 
 WARREN, JOHN LEICESTER (LORD DE TABLEY) : 
 
 Aurora Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical 
 
 Daffodils " " " " 
 
 The Pilgrim Cranes . . " " " " 
 
 WATSON, ROSAMUND MARRIOTT (GRAHAM R. TOMSON) : 
 Ave atque Vale . . . Vespertilia, and Other Verses 
 Epitaph " " " " 
 
 279 
 
WATSON, WILLIAM : 
 
 A Golden Hour Lachrymce Musarum^ and Other Poems 
 And These are These indeed the End ? . . Poems 
 
 Beauty's Metempsychosis " 
 
 Love like a Bird " 
 
 WATTS, THEODORE : 
 
 A Dream Ayhvin 
 
 The First Kiss Sonnets 
 
 WHITE, GLEESON : 
 Sufficiency. 
 
 WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF : 
 
 Benedicite Poems 
 
 WINTER, WILLIAM : 
 
 Love's Queen Wanderers 
 
 WOLLASTON, J. T. BURTON : 
 
 My Violet Golden Hours 
 
 WOOLNER, THOMAS : 
 
 Wild Rose My Beautiful Lady 
 
 WRATISLA\V, THEODORE : 
 
 A Memory Orchids 
 
 Asleep 
 
 Song in Spring Caprices 
 
 Swimming Song Orchids 
 
 YEATS, W. B.: 
 
 The Countess Kathleen, and 
 
 The Peace of the Rose . , r . 
 
 Vartous Legends and Lyrics 
 
 YOUNG, WILLIAM : 
 
 The Bridal Pair Wishmakers' 1 Town 
 
 TheTriflers " " 
 
 ANONYMOUS : 
 At thy Grave. 
 
 Be True to Me as I to Thee Tares 
 
 Lo ! in a Dream Love came to Me Fraser's Magazine 
 
 280 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A BECKONING spirit of gladness seemed afloat . 239 
 
 A dream took hold of the heart of a man ... 83 
 
 Ah, love, it was the nightingale 18 
 
 A little love, of Heaven a little share 245 
 
 All glorious as the Rainbow's birth 37 
 
 All the phantoms of the future, all the spectres . 9 
 
 Along the grass sweet airs are blown . . ^ . . . 140 
 
 And these are these indeed the end .... 240 
 
 April has whispered to the rose 257 
 
 Ask nothing more of me, sweet 181 
 
 As molecules together whirl in fire 30 
 
 As one would stand who saw a sudden light . . 94 
 
 At Ballinahinch, my dear 226 
 
 At dinner she is hostess, I am host ..... 39 
 
 Azure of sky and silver of cloud 81 
 
 BARB'D blossom of the guarded gorse no 
 
 Because thou wast cold and proud 263 
 
 Because your eyes are blue, your lips are red . . 57 
 
 Before the sun rose at yester-dawn 230 
 
 Beneath the loveliest dream there coils a fear . . 243 
 
 Be true, ah, twin soul of my soul, be true . . . 267 
 
 Between the sunset and the sea 179 
 
 281 
 
PAGE 
 
 Be ye in love with April- tide 148 
 
 Bland air and leagues of immemorial blue . . . 146 
 
 By the primrose bank and meadow 231 
 
 COME what will, you are mine to-day 122 
 
 Comrades ! in vain ye seek to learn 61 
 
 DAY after day of this azure May 208 
 
 FAIR star that on the shoulder of yon hill ... 46 
 
 Farewell my Youth ! for now we needs must part 235 
 
 Flower of the vine 135 
 
 For a day and night, Love sang to us, played . . 174 
 
 For the man was she made by the Eden tree . . 120 
 
 Frail autumn lights upon the leaves 182 
 
 From out the past she comes to me 173 
 
 GOD'S love and peace be with thee, where . . . 246 
 
 Gone! . . 199 
 
 Go, Rose, and in her golden hair 1 56 
 
 HAS summer come without the rose 87 
 
 Hath any loved you well down there 84 
 
 " Have other lovers say, my love " 63 
 
 He loves not well whose love is bold 249 
 
 Her eyes are like unfathomable lakes 147 
 
 Her tears are all thine own ! how blest thou art ! . 217 
 
 How long would you love me ? A lifetime ... 168 
 
 I CANNOT look upon thy grave 113 
 
 I did not dream that Love would stay . . . . 215 
 
 If Death should come to me to-night, and say . . 95 
 
 If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun .... 13 
 
 If Michael, leader of God's host 261 
 
 If only in dreams may man be fully blest . . . 244 
 
 282 
 
PAGE 
 
 I found him openly wearing her token . . . . 118 
 
 If thou canst make the frost be gone 202 
 
 I had never kissed her her whole life long ... 56 
 
 I have been here before 144 
 
 I know not if moonlight or starlight 161 
 
 I know 't is late, but let me stay 223 
 
 I marked all kindred Powers the heart finds fair . 143 
 
 In after years a twilight ghost shall fill .... 59 
 
 In and out the osier beds, all along the shallows . 152 
 
 In dream I saw Diana pass, Diana as of old . . - 129 
 
 In that dear country which men call 191 
 
 In that old beech-walk, now bestrewn with mast . 219 
 
 In that tranced hush when sound sank awed . . 28 
 
 I pull my cloak around my chin 12 
 
 I question with the amber daffodils 233 
 
 I saw a vision of deep eyes 188 
 
 It is not mine to sing the stately grace .... 119 
 
 It is over now, she is gone to rest 221 
 
 It is the season now to go 165 
 
 It was not like your great and gracious ways . . 96 
 
 I would wed you, dear, without gold or gear . . 228 
 
 KEEP love for youth and violets for the spring . 138 
 
 LIDS closed and pale, with parted lips she lay . . 256 
 
 Lo ! in a dream Love came to me and cried . . 269 
 
 Love felt from far, long sought, scarce found . . 186 
 
 Love in my heart ! oh, heart of me, heart of me ! . 151 
 
 Love is enough : ho, ye who seek saving ... 53 
 
 Love is enough : though the World be a waning . 52 
 
 Love, like a bird, hath perched upon a spray . . 242 
 
 " Love me, or I am slain ! " I cried, and meant . 157 
 
 Love within the lover's breast 40 
 
 283 
 
PAGE 
 
 MY lady has a casket cut 33 
 
 My life has grown so dear to me 200 
 
 My love and I among the mountains strayed . . 73 
 
 My Love is a lady fair and free 20 
 
 My love is the flaming sword, to fight through . 207 
 
 My sweet, my sweet 65 
 
 My sweetheart lays her hand in mine . . . . . 124 
 
 " NAY," said the husband; "give him this " . . 125 
 
 Not now, but later, when the road 117 
 
 Not only in my lady's eyes 209 
 
 Now lay thee down to sleep, and dream of me . 237 
 
 Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white . . 197 
 
 O BIRDS, 'twas not well done of you 105 
 
 O heart full of song in the sweet song weather . 89 
 
 Oh, faint delicious spring-time violet 171 
 
 Oh, vermeil rose and sweet 47 
 
 Oh, when will it be, oh, when will it be, oh, when 190 
 
 Oh, would, oh, would that thou and I So 
 
 O Love, Love, Love! O withering might! . . . 195 
 
 O love, O love, I cannot dare to love you ... 75 
 
 O most fair God, O Love both new and old . . 101 
 
 Once more I walk mid summer days, as one . . 27 
 
 O pensive, tender maid, downcast and shy ... 50 
 
 O stars that fade in amber skies 22 
 
 Out of the crowd of women I 255 
 
 PEACE in her chamber, wheresoe'er v 142 
 
 Play me a march low-toned and slow 41 
 
 Poets are singing, the whole world over .... 149 
 
 Prince of painters, come, I pray 115 
 
 Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin 163 
 
 284 
 
PAGE 
 
 SHE passes in her beauty bright 44 
 
 She sees her image in the glass 60 
 
 She went with morning down the wood .... 16 
 
 Sing on, sing on : half dreaming still 184 
 
 Somewhere or other there must surely be ... 139 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing . . 108 
 
 So you but love me, be it your own way .... 6 
 
 Strive not Love's stream tumultuous to stay . . 29 
 
 Sweetheart, we in the world to-day 145 
 
 TELL me wher, in what contree, is 193 
 
 That beauty such as thine 241 
 
 That night on Judge's Walk the wind .... 183 
 
 The ancient memories buried lie 98 
 
 The blue above, the sheep-shorn grass beneath . 112 
 
 The breaths of kissing night and day 204 
 
 The broad green rollers lift and glide 258 
 
 The cowslip glowed, the tulip burned 126 
 
 The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept 137 
 
 The lights are out in the street, and a cool wind . 213 
 
 The mail from the east and the mail from the west 201 
 
 The pilgrim cranes are moving to their south . . 234 
 
 There is a certain garden where I know .... 1 1 
 
 There 's never a rose upon the bush 128 
 
 The restless years that come and go ..... 78 
 
 There were four apples on the bough 176 
 
 The ripest peach is highest on the tree . . . . 132 
 
 The rose of her cheek may wane and die ... 35 
 
 The snow is white on wood and wold 69 
 
 The star of love is trembling in the west . . . . 212 
 
 The summer sunshine comes and goes .... 107 
 
 The sweet fleet hours refuse to stay 131 
 
 The thrush sings high on the topmost bough . . 158 
 
 285 
 
PAGE 
 
 The tulip to one blossom blows 36 
 
 The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round . . 71 
 
 The wind blows down the dusty street .... 134 
 
 This pirate bold upon Love's sea 225 
 
 This rose-flushed Opal from the Orient came . . 155 
 
 Though the roving bee as lightly 262 
 
 Thy shadow, O tardy night 49 
 
 To call My Lady where she stood 253 
 
 Two sloes do not an autumn make, 't is said . . 154 
 
 VAIN is the experience of the past 4 
 
 Vine, vine and eglantine 198 
 
 WAVES the soft grass at my feet 264 
 
 We 're all alone, we 're all alone ........ 1 59 
 
 What sweetness is there in the honeycomb . . . 167 
 
 When did the change come, dearest Heart ... 25 
 
 When fair Hyperion dons his night attire ... 31 
 
 When God some day shall call my name ... 67 
 
 When lovers' lips from kissing disunite .... 218 
 
 When she comes home again ! A thousand ways 133 
 
 When spring grows old, and sleepy winds . . . 206 
 
 When stars are in the quiet skies 10 
 
 When the late leaves lit all the place 160 
 
 When violets blue begin to blow 251 
 
 Would God I were the tender apple-blossom . . 220 
 
 YES, but the years run circling fleeter i 
 
 286 
 
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