&144U4A4* m
 
 \
 
 EXOTICS; 
 
 ATTEMPTS TO DOMESTICATE THEM. 
 
 J. F. C. AND L. C. 
 
 " EXOTIC, n. A plant, shrub, or tree, not native ; a plant introduced 
 from a foreign country." Webster. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
 1875.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1875. 
 BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 
 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & Co., 
 CAMBRIDGE.
 
 -ps 
 
 7^99 
 
 Cesium, non animam, mutant, qui trans mare currunt." 
 
 THESE poems, visitors from other climes, 
 
 Between whose homes and ours an ocean rolls, 
 
 Have changed their language, metre, rhythm, rhymes ; 
 But let us hope they have not changed their souls. 
 
 .10-35
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 MOST poetical translations resemble the re- 
 verse side of a piece of Gobelin tapestry. 
 The figures and colors are there, but the charm is 
 wanting. 
 
 But what is the use of making a translation at all, 
 unless you can infuse into it some of that element 
 which makes the original poem immortal? If the 
 essential spirit, which is the attraction in it, has evapo- 
 rated, of what advantage is the residuum ? You pre- 
 sent us with an English version of an ode of Horace 
 or a song of Goethe ; and we can only say, " If this 
 were all, Horace and Goethe would not be remem- 
 bered ten years. Why is it, then, that they are im- 
 mortal ? " 
 
 The reason why we who translate are not aware 
 of our own failures is perhaps this, that we are so 
 enchanted with the original poem that we associate 
 this pleasure with our own version. A translator 
 
 5
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 does not see the baldness and prosaic character of 
 his work, because every word suggests to him the 
 beauty which it is meant to represent. So a person 
 travelling through picturesque scenery sometimes 
 makes rude sketches of what he sees, which convey 
 to others no idea of the landscape ; but to him 
 they are associated with the light, the color, the 
 perspective, the ineffable charm of nature, and so 
 are valuable to him as souvenirs of the scene. 
 
 A successful translation must produce in the 
 reader unacquainted with the original the same 
 sort of feeling which that conveys. The ideal of a 
 translation would be one which, if the original were 
 lost, would remain forever as immortal. Without 
 any thought of it as a translation, it should give 
 us so much pleasure in itself as to live a life of its 
 own in literature. Is this impossible ? We have 
 some examples to prove that it can be done. 
 
 Perhaps, of all authors, Horace is the most diffi- 
 cult to render into a modern language. If you trans- 
 late him literally, the whole life of the ode is gone. If 
 you give a free version, hoping to retain this vitality, 
 you lose the classic, sharp-cut, and concise expres- 
 sion, where each word has the beauty and value of 
 a gem ; and you offer us a pleasant poem, belonging 
 to the modern romantic school of literature. Yet 
 
 6
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 even Horace has been sometimes adequately trans- 
 lated. The following lines in Dryden's version of 
 Book III. carmen 29, which is justly said by Theo- 
 dore Martin to be finer than the original, shows how 
 a great poet can re-create in another language the 
 best life of his author. It has all the energy, concise- 
 ness, and perfect expression of the original, with even 
 more of freedom and fire. 
 
 " Happy the man, and happy he alone, 
 He who can call to-day his own ; 
 He who, secure within, can say, 
 'To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day. 
 
 Be fair or foul, or rain or shine, 
 The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. 
 
 Not heaven itself upon the past has power, 
 But what has been, has been, and I have had my 
 
 hour ! ' " 
 
 The rest of the translation is almost or quite as 
 fine as this. It has a grander swell and more free- 
 dom of movement than the original, while it faithfully 
 reproduces the thought, the tone, and the spirit of 
 the Horatian ode. 
 
 Dryden was a great poet ; but men of less genius 
 than he have sometimes met with success in trans- 
 lating Horace. Take, as an example, Professor Con- 
 ington's version of Book I. carmen 24, "Quis desi- 
 
 7
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 derio." The first few lines are not equal to Horace ; 
 but those which follow certainly partake of the qual- 
 ity of the original. 
 
 "And sleeps he then the heavy sleep of death, 
 
 Quintilius? Piety, twin sister dear 
 Of Justice ! naked Truth ! unsullied Faith ! 
 
 When will ye find his peer ? 
 By many a good man wept, Quintilius dies ; 
 
 By none than you, my Virgil, trulier wept." 
 
 The genuine sense of the translator appears in 
 the turn given to the last line in the word " trulier." 
 The same comparative appears in the original, in 
 a different word, "flebilior," 
 
 "Nulli flebilior quam tibi, Virgili." 
 
 But the same effect is produced by "trulier," in 
 English, which is conveyed by "flebilior" in the 
 Latin. This is a touch of genius. 
 
 A poem is often like a gem. An ode of Horace 
 or a song of Goethe has a flash like that which 
 comes from the sharp facet of a diamond. Simply 
 to render the thought is only to imitate the chemist, 
 whose analysis transforms the diamond into charcoal. 
 In English prose the magic of Horace and Goethe 
 disappear. But in another class of poems, where 
 
 8
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 the interest centres in the spirit, thought, and 
 imagery, a prose version is often the best. After 
 all the attempts made upon Homer and Dante, the 
 most faithful prose is perhaps that which brings us 
 nearest to these majestic authors. 
 
 A portrait is really a translation. It is an attempt 
 at translating a human being into another language, 
 from life to art. Most portraits are therefore failures, 
 and have little interest, except to those who are famil- 
 iar with the original. But he who has seen portraits 
 by the great masters by Rubens and Titian, by Rem- 
 brandt and Vandyke, by Sir Joshua Reynolds and 
 Gainsborough is astonished to find these paintings 
 as interesting as the ideal works of Raffaelle or Cor- 
 reggio. Those masters were able to penetrate into 
 the depths of the soul, and they gave on their immor- 
 tal canvas the concentrated history of a human life. 
 That which was deepest in the man, his quintessential 
 spirit, is here fully explained to us. As it takes the 
 great master to paint a perfect portrait, so it takes 
 the great poet to perfectly translate a poem. 
 
 The best poetical translations are usually made by 
 those who are goets themselves. Coleridge, in his 
 Wallenstein, was able to introduce Schiller worthily 
 to English readers. Some passages in the version 
 surpass the original. I think there is nothing in the 
 
 9
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 German play quite as good as those lines in which 
 Wallenstein laments the death of Max, which close 
 thus : 
 
 " For O, he stood beside me like my youth, 
 Transformed for me the Real into a dream, 
 Clothing the palpable and the familiar 
 With golden exhalations of the dawn. 
 Whatever fortunes wait my future toils, 
 The Beautiful is vanished, and returns not." 
 
 When Dryden, Coleridge, Shelley, render a foreign 
 poet into their own language, the stranger has received 
 his naturalization-papers, and becomes henceforth a 
 citizen of the English Parnassus. He has obtained 
 the freedom of the city. 
 
 A test question to decide the success or failure of 
 a translation might be this, " Can you recite your 
 version aloud, in the presence of men of taste, so 
 as to give them real pleasure?" If the poem is 
 worth repeating aloud for its own sake, and gives 
 satisfaction, that is enough. 
 
 The difficulty of rendering German lyrical poetry 
 into English is not so great as that of making ade- 
 quate versions from Greek or Latin authors. These 
 modern languages are sisterly, and lend each other 
 a hand. Accordingly, we have some excellent Eng-
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 lish poems, by such translators as Hedge, Furness, 
 Brooks, Dwight, Leland, and others, which deserve 
 to live a life of their own. But there is room for 
 more. 
 
 The versions into German out of English poetry 
 are often admirably good. We have seen an excel- 
 lent one of Poe's " Raven," of which this is the first 
 stanza : 
 
 " Mitternacht war 's, stiirmisch, schaurig, als ich mild' und 
 
 matt und traurig 
 Ueber manch' ein friih'res Streben hatt' gegriibelt bin 
 
 und her ; 
 Schlummern schlafen fast ich mochte, als mit einem 
 
 mal es pochte, 
 Als ob draussen leise pochte, leise pochte irgend wer 
 
 Das wird 's sein, und sonst nicht mehr." 
 
 In an old number of Eraser's Magazine there is a 
 rendering into German of Moore's song 
 
 " O the days are gone when Beauty bright 
 My heart's chain wove," 
 
 which seems to meet this requisition. Here is a 
 stanza : 
 
 " Ach ! die Tage sind hin, als der Schonheitsmacht, 
 Mein Herz erfuhr,
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Als mein Lebenstraum von der Friih' bis zur Nacht 
 
 War Liebe nur ! 
 Wohl Hoffnung bliiht, 
 Wohl Tage sieht 
 Mein Aug, einst mild und rein 
 Doch stets wird der Liebe Jugendtraum 
 
 Das Schonste sein ! 
 Ach ! stets wird der Liebe Jugendtraum 
 Das Schonste sein ! " 
 
 What Matthew Arnold says of the qualities re- 
 quired to translate Homer may be generalized as a 
 rule for all translation. He demands, first of all, that 
 one " be penetrated by a sense of the qualities of his 
 author." His criticisms on the translations of Homer 
 by Pope, Cowper, Newman, and Chapman are all 
 founded on this primary requisition. Each of them 
 has failed, according to him. Cowper has failed be- 
 cause he has not reproduced the rapidity of Homer ; 
 Pope, because he does not give his plainness and 
 directness of language ; Chapman, because he loses 
 his plainness and directness of ideas ; and Newman, 
 because he does not appreciate the nobleness of his 
 author. 
 
 As each of the writers of whose work we have 
 here imported specimens has qualities of his own, 
 we have probably sometimes failed in finding and
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 reproducing them. We willingly leave to our read- 
 ers the pleasure of discovering these failures. A 
 French writer says that it is the business of critics 
 to watch authors, not that of authors to watch critics. 
 We therefore fall back on the Horatian valedictory, 
 
 "Vive: vale! Si quid novisti rectius istis, 
 Candidus imperti : si non, his mere mecum " ; 
 
 which may be thus rendered, 
 
 " If this book suits you, call yourself our debtor ; 
 If not, take pains, and give us something better."
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I. WAS 1ST SCHWER ZU VERBERGEN? Goethe. 
 
 THE RULE WITH NO EXCEPTIONS 
 
 II. DIE BEIDEN ENGEL. Geibel. 
 
 THE TWO ANGELS 
 
 Ill PUISQU'ICI TOUTE AME. Victor Hugo. 
 
 " BECAUSE " 
 
 IV. LIEBESZAUBER. Burger. 
 
 THE WITCH 
 
 V. LIEGT DER HEISSB SOMMER. Heitit. 
 
 CHANGE OF SEASONS 31 
 
 VI. UEBER DIE BERGE. Heine. 
 
 LOVE'S MATINS 32 
 
 VII. MORGENS STEH' ICH AUF UND FRAGE. Heine. 
 
 HOPE DEFERRED 33 
 
 VIII. DIE ROSE, DIE LILIE, DIE TAUBE, DIE SONNE. Heine. 
 
 IXJVE'S RESUME 34 
 
 IX GOLDNE BRUCKEN SEIEN. Geibel. 
 
 BRIDGES AND WINGS 35 
 
 X. DA DIE STUNDE KAM. Oster-wald. 
 
 THE TRUE SPRING 36 
 
 XI. ICH GLAUBTE DIE SCHWALBE. 
 
 WINTER IN SPRING 37 
 
 XII. DlE BLAUEN VEILCHEN DER AfiUGELEIN. Heine. 
 
 FROST IN THE HEART 38
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XIII. WlR HABEN VIEL FDR ElNANDER GEFUHLT. Heine. 
 
 CHILI>PLAY 39 
 
 XIV. AUF MEINER HERZLIEBSTEN AEUGELEIN. Heine. 
 
 THE DIFFICULTY 40 
 
 XV. WAS ICH BOS SEI, FRAGST DU MICH ? Kiickcrt. 
 
 A FOOLISH QUESTION 41 
 
 XVI. LIEB' LIEBCHHN, LEG'S HANDCHEN AUF'S HERZE 
 MEIN. Heine. 
 THE CARPENTER 43 
 
 XVII. Lo HAST DU GANZ UND GAR VERGESSEN. Heine. 
 
 ALAS! 43 
 
 XVIII. SEIT DIE LlEBSTE WAR ENTFERNT. Heine. 
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW 44 
 
 XIX. EBBE UND FLUTH. F. Dingehtedt. 
 
 EBB AND FLOW 45 
 
 XX. ICH HAB' IM TRAUM GEWEINET. Heine. 
 
 THE BITTER WAKING 47 
 
 XXI. O WAR ES EINE ScHULD NUR WAS UNS TRENNTE. Geibel. 
 
 THE IMPASSABLE GULF 48 
 
 XXII. O DARUM IST DER LENZ so scHON. Geibel. 
 
 THE WINE OF LIFE 49 
 
 XXIII. DIE STILLE WASSERROSE. Geibel. 
 
 THE WATER-LILY ...... 50 
 
 XXIV. AUF DEM WASSER. Geibel. 
 
 ON THE WATER 51 
 
 XXV. O FRUHLINGSZEIT ! 
 
 A SPRING SONG 52 
 
 XXVI. VOGLEIN WOHIN so SCHNELL? Geibel. 
 
 SPRING THOUGHTS IN ITALY . . -54 
 
 XXVII. ViJGLEIN WOHIN SO SCHNELL? (2.) Geibel. 
 
 ANOTHER VERSION 56 
 
 XXVIII. GRUBS' AUS DER FERNE. Riickert. 
 
 GREETING FROM FAR AWAY . . . .57 
 16
 
 CONTENTS. 
 XXIX. WARUM WILLST DO ANDRE FRAGEN? Riickert. 
 
 "LOVE DOTH TO HER EYES REPAIR" . . C'O 
 
 XXX. WOHL LAG' ICH EINST IN GRAM UND SCHMERZ. Geibel. 
 
 TEARS 61 
 
 XXXI. EIN OBDACH GEGEN STURM UND REGEN. Riickert 
 
 WER WENIG SUCHT, DER FINDET VIEL, . . 62 
 
 XXXII. MlNNELIED. 
 
 WINTER SUNSHINE 63 
 
 XXXIII. C'ETAIT EN AVRIL, LE DiMANCHE. Ed. Pciilleron. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE 64 
 
 XXXIV. DIE ZUFRIEDENEN. Uhland. 
 
 CONTENTED 65 
 
 XXXV. NUN IST DER TAG GESCHIEDEN. Geibel. 
 
 THE NIGHT-BLOOMING FLOWER . . .66 
 
 XXXVI. LASS ANDRE NUR IM REIGEN. Geibel. 
 
 To THE SILENT ONE 67 
 
 XXXVII. DIE LIEBE SPRACH. Riickert. 
 
 WHAT LOVE SAID 68 
 
 XXXVIII. DU FRAGST MICH, LIEBE KLEINE. Geibel. 
 
 LOST SUNSHINE 69 
 
 XXXIX. O, SIEH' MICH NICHT so LACHELND AN ! Geibel. 
 
 THE SUNSET HOUR 71 
 
 XL. WIE ES GEHT. Geibel. 
 
 HOW IT HAPPENS 73 
 
 XLI. THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. Heine. 
 
 "AM FENSTER STAND DIE MUTTER" . 75 
 
 XLII. LINES TO M. DU PERRIER. Malherbe. 
 
 BEREAVEMENT 79 
 
 XLIII. KINDERGOTTESDIENST. Karl Gerok. 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH . . . .82 
 
 XLIV. STREB' IN GOTT DF.IN SEIN zu SCHLICHTEN. Geibel 
 
 "THE PERFECT WHOLE" . . . .84
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XLV. "THE DEVIL is A FOOL." Herder . . . .85 
 
 XLVI. "UNSER ZUVERSICHT." Theod. Korner. 
 
 OUR CONFIDENCE 87 
 
 XLVI I. THE LAST TEN OF THE FOURTH REGIMENT. Jules Mosen. 89 
 
 XLVI 1 1. URWORTE, ORPHISCH. Goethe. 
 
 ORPHIC SAVINGS gi 
 
 XLIX. EPILOG zu SCHILLER'S GLOCKE. Goetlie. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF SCHILLER 93 
 
 L. THE GONDOLA. Goethe 98 
 
 LI. MODERN CATHOLICS : A PARABLE. Goethe . 99 
 
 LI I. THEKLA, EINE GEISTERSTIMME. Schiller. 
 
 THEKLA : A SPIRIT'S VOICE . . . . 101 
 
 LI 1 1. THE WAY AND THE LIFE. De Wette . . .103 
 
 L1V. SOLVITUR ACRIS HYEMS. (I. iv.) Horace. 
 
 AN ITALIAN SPRING 105 
 
 LV. VIDES UT ALTA. (I. ix.) Horace. 
 
 AN ITALIAN WINTER 107 
 
 LVI. QUIS MULTA GRACILIS. (I. V.) Horace. 
 
 A COQUETTE OF OLD ROME .... 109 
 
 LVII. PERSICOS GDI. (I. 38 ) Horace. 
 
 A SIMPLE FEAST no 
 
 LVI 1 1. LATIN PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 WITH A TRANSLATION Ill 
 
 LIX. ^NEADUM GENETRIX. (De R. N., Lib. I.) Lttcretivs. 
 
 INVOCATION TO BEAUTY AND LOVE . . .112 
 
 LX. ILLAM QUIDQUID AGIT. Tibullus. 
 
 A BEAUTY OF ANCIENT ROME . . . .116 
 
 LXI. SOMNE VENI. Lord Lyttleton. 
 
 To SLEEP .118 
 
 LXII. PROSPERA NON L^TAM FECEKE. 
 "ERECTUS, NON ELATUS"
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 LXIII. SSUFISMUS, RABIA. Tholuck. 
 
 THE MOHAMMEDAN SAINTS .... 120 
 
 LXIV. DSCHELADEDDIN. Tholuck. 
 
 "HE WHO ASKS, RECEIVES" . . . .121 
 LXV. THE CALIPH AND SATAN. Thol-uck . . .123 
 LXVI. MOSES AND THE WORM. Herder . . .127 
 
 FROM THE GULISTAN. Saadi. 
 
 LXVII. THE USE OF WEALTH 129 
 
 LXVIII. KNOWLEDGE AND ACTION 129 
 
 LXIX. EASTERN HUMANITY 130 
 
 LXX. "TIMEO DANAOS" 130 
 
 LXXI. To PHILANTHROPISTS 131 
 
 LXX 1 1. A LOVER'S ECONOMY 131 
 
 LXXIII. SLOW AND SURE I3 2 
 
 LXXIV. UNPRODUCTIVE INDUSTRY 132 
 
 LXXV. WHAT THE WORLDLY-WISE ARE FOR . . . 133 
 LXXVI. WARNING TO OFFICE-SEEKERS . . . .133 
 
 LXXVII. HOW TO GET RID OF BORES 134 
 
 LXXVIII. "CELA DEPEND" 134 
 
 LXXIX. UNSUITABLE BOUNTY 135 
 
 LXXX. MAN THE INSTRUMENT OF GOD'S WILL . . 136 
 
 LXXXI. RESULTS OF A BAD REPUTATION .... 136 
 
 LXXXII. JUDGE NOT 137 
 
 LXXX I II. GENEROSITY I3 8 
 
 LXXXIV. SELF-SATISFACTION 138 
 
 LXXXV. THE MOTE AND THE BEAM , 39 
 
 LXXXVI. LOST ILLUSIONS i 39 
 
 '9
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 LXXXVII. "FACTA, NON VERBA" 140 
 
 LXXXVIII. PEDANTRY 140 
 
 LXXXIX. BEGINNING AND END 140 
 
 XC. GRASS AND ROSES 141 
 
 [NOTE. The translations with the following numbers were made 
 by L. C. : Nos. n, 15, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 30, 31, 32, 36, 37, 38, 39, 
 40. The remaining poems were translated by J. F. C.]
 
 EXOTICS. 
 
 THE RULE WITH NO EXCEPTIONS. 
 
 TELL me, friend, as you are bidden, 
 What is hardest to be hidden ? 
 Fire is hard. The smoke betrays 
 Its place, by day, by night, its blaze. 
 I will tell, as I am bidden, 
 FIRE is hardest to be hidden. 
 
 I will tell, as I am bidden ! 
 LOVE is hardest to be hidden. 
 Do your best, you can't conceal it ; 
 Actions, looks, and tones reveal it. 
 I will tell, as I am bidden, 
 LOVE is hardest to be hidden. 
 
 I will tell, as I am bidden ! 
 POETRY cannot be hidden. 
 Fire may smoulder, love be dead ; 
 But a Poem must be read. 
 Song intoxicates the Poet ; 
 He will sing it, he will show it.
 
 THE RULE WITH NO EXCEPTIONS. 
 
 He must show it, he must sing it. 
 Tell the fellow then to bring it ! 
 Though he knows you can't abide it, 
 'T is impossible to hide it. 
 I will tell, as I am bidden, 
 POEMS never can be hidden.
 
 II. 
 
 THE TWO ANGELS. 
 
 TWO blessed gifts from heaven to earth are 
 sent, 
 
 Know'st thou, my heart, each sister-angel's name ? 
 One is calm Friendship, robed in white content ; 
 The other, rosy Love, with heart of flame. 
 
 Love 's a brunette : her cheeks with fire are glowing, 
 Beauteous as spring, when roses blossom wild. 
 Friendship is blonde, a lily softly blowing, 
 Or moonlight, in a summer evening mild. 
 
 Love is a raging and tumultuous ocean, 
 Where waves, in thousand forms, leap fast and high. 
 Friendship, a mountain lake, where no commotion 
 Breaks the blue image of the solemn sky. 
 
 Love darts from heaven like lightning, Friendship 
 
 creeps, 
 
 A slowly breaking dawn, o'er hill and plain. 
 Insatiate Love demands, devours, grasps, keeps, 
 Friendship gives all, nor asks for aught again. 
 23
 
 THE TWO ANGELS. 
 
 v' But happy, three times happy, is the heart 
 So large that in it both may find a home ; 
 Where Love may come, and Friendship not depart, 
 And where the Lilies with the Roses bloom. ..
 
 III. 
 
 "BECAUSE." 
 
 "DECAUSE every soul 
 --' Feels incessant desire 
 To give to some other 
 Its fragrance and fire ; 
 
 Because all things give, 
 
 Below and above, 
 Their roses or thorns 
 
 To that which they love ; 
 
 Because May gives music 
 To murmuring streams, 
 
 And Night, to our pains, 
 Gives nepenthe in dreams ; 
 
 Because the sky gives 
 The bird to the bower, 
 
 And morn drops its dew 
 In the cup of the flower;
 
 "BECAUSE." 
 
 Because when the wave 
 Falls asleep on the strand, 
 
 It trembles, and gives 
 A kiss to the land ; 
 
 For these reasons, my own, 
 
 My heart is inclined 
 To give thee the best 
 
 I have in my mind. 
 
 I bring my sad thoughts, 
 My griefs and my fears ; 
 
 Take these, as the earth takes 
 The night's shower of tears. 
 
 Of my infinite longing, 
 Take, dearest, thy part; 
 
 Take my light and my shadow, 
 O child of my heart ! 
 
 Take the unalloyed trust 
 
 Which our intercourse blesses ; 
 And take all my songs, 
 
 With their tender caresses. 
 
 Take my soul, which moves on 
 
 Without sail or oar, 
 But pointing to thee 
 
 As its star evermore. 
 26
 
 "BECAUSE." 
 
 And take, O my darling, 
 My precious, my own ! 
 
 This heart, which would perish, 
 Its love being gone.
 
 IV. 
 
 THE WITCH. 
 
 CHILD ! attend to what I say ; 
 Do not turn, nor look away. 
 Roguish eye ! you must not wink, 
 I shall tell you all I think. 
 Here ! Hollo ! Don't look away. 
 Child, attend to what I say ! 
 
 You 're not homely, that is true ! 
 You 've an eye that 's clear and blue ; 
 Cunning mouth and little nose 
 Have their merits, I suppose. 
 Charming is the word to fit it, 
 Yes, you 're charming ; I admit it. 
 
 Charming here and charming there, 
 But no empress anywhere. 
 No ! I cannot quite allow 
 Beauty's crown would suit your brow. 
 Charming there and charming here 
 Do not make a queen, my dear.
 
 THE WITCH. 
 
 For I know a hundred girls, 
 Brown as berries, fair as pearls, 
 Each of whom might claim the prize 
 Given to loveliest lips and eyes, 
 Yes, a hundred might go in, 
 Challenge you, sweet child, and win. 
 
 A hundred beauties, did I say ? 
 Why, what a number ! Yet there may 
 A hundred thousand girls combine 
 To drive thee from this heart of mine ; 
 May try together, try alone, 
 My empress they cannot dethrone. 
 
 Whence, then, this imperial right 
 Over me, your own true knight ? 
 Like an empress is your reign 
 In my heart, for joy or pain; 
 Death or life, your royal right, 
 He accepts, your own true knight. 
 
 Roguish lip and roguish eye, 
 Look at me, and make reply. 
 Witch ! I wish to understand 
 How I came into your hand. 
 Look at me and make reply: 
 Tell me, roguish lip and eye. 
 
 Up and down I search to see 
 The meaning of this mystery. 
 29
 
 THE WITCH. 
 
 Tied so tight, by nothing, dear? 
 Ah ! there must be magic here ! 
 Up and down, sweet sorceress, tell ! 
 Where 's your wand, and what 's your spell ?
 
 V. 
 
 CHANGE OF SEASONS. 
 
 A LL seasons we may come to seek 
 *" Where thou, my dear one, art, 
 Warm summer on the little cheek, 
 Cold winter in the heart. 
 
 But all things change ; and so, my love, 
 These seasons shall depart : 
 
 The winter to thy cheek shall move ; 
 The summer, to thy heart !
 
 VI. 
 
 LOVE'S MATINS. 
 
 OVER the mountain rises the dawning ! 
 Lambs bleat on the distant plain; 
 My Darling, my Lamb, my Heaven, my Morning , 
 How I long to see thee again ! 
 
 Upward I look, and faintly I mutter 
 Farewell, dear child ! I 'm going from thee ! 
 No motion or flutter in curtain or shutter ! 
 She is fast asleep, is she dreaming of me ?
 
 VII. 
 
 HOPE DEFERRED. 
 
 EACH morn I mutter, self-tormenting, 
 "Will he come to-day?" 
 Every night lie down, lamenting, 
 " He has stayed away ! " 
 
 All night, only half asleep, 
 
 Little rest I take, 
 In a dream, all day, I keep 
 
 Only half awake !
 
 VIII. 
 
 LOVE'S RESUME. 
 
 HPHE Sun, the Rose, the Lily, the Dove,- 
 J- I loved them all, in .my early love. 
 I love them no longer, but her alone, 
 The Pure, the Tender, the Only, the One. 
 For she herself, my Queen of Love, 
 Is Rose, and Lily, and Sun, and Dove !
 
 IX. 
 
 BRIDGES AND WINGS. 
 
 EACH song I send thee is a bridge, 
 Built by thy happy lover, 
 A golden bridge, by which my love 
 To thee, sweet child, comes over. 
 
 And all my dreams have angel-wings, 
 Made up of smiles and sighing ; 
 
 Lighter than air, on which my love 
 To thee, dear heart, comes flying.
 
 X. 
 
 THE TRUE SPRING. 
 
 WHEN the hour had come, I must leave thy 
 home, 
 
 Saw I nothing of the charm of May; 
 Knowing this alone, that all joy was gone, 
 When from thee, from thee, I must away. 
 
 Song and perfume sweet in the air did meet, 
 But they could not touch my heart that day ; 
 Knowing this alone, that all joy was gone, 
 When from thee, from thee, I must away. 
 
 Now I come again, 'mid the winter rain, 
 Feeling nothing of its bitter sting ; 
 For each sound I hear says the hour is near, 
 Which to thee, to thee, my steps shall bring. 
 
 Though around my form roars the cruel storm, 
 Tender is its voice as song of spring ; 
 For each sound I hear says the hour is near, 
 Which to thee, to thee, my steps shall bring.
 
 XI. 
 
 WINTER IN SPRING. 
 
 I DREAMED that the swallow did build again 
 Her warm soft nest ; 
 I dreamed that the lark with his joyous strain 
 
 The glad earth blessed ; 
 I dreamed that the flowers from earth did start, 
 
 In bright sunshine ; 
 
 And I held thee close to my happy heart, 
 Forever mine ! 
 
 In one short night are the sunny hours 
 
 By northwinds chilled ; 
 In one short night are the tender flowers 
 
 With black frost killed ; 
 And dead forever the hopes so bright 
 
 That on me smiled ; 
 Since thou hast forgotten, in one short night, 
 
 Thy poor, poor child.
 
 XII. 
 FROST IN THE HEART. 
 
 THE blue, blue violets which I see 
 Bloom in her eyes so tenderly ; 
 The red, red roses which I seek 
 To pluck, with kisses, from her cheek ; 
 The cool pale lily-leaves which linger 
 In the pure whiteness of each finger, 
 No winter chill in these appear, 
 They bloom throughout the rolling year; 
 December's frosts have done their part, 
 But only froze my darling's heart.
 
 XIII. 
 
 CHILD-PLAY. 
 
 MUCH have we felt in our inmost breast, 
 Yet still were calm and self-possessed. 
 We played, like children, " Man and Wife," 
 With little scolding, quarrel, or strife. 
 Jested and laughed with merry faces, 
 Gave and took kisses and embraces ; 
 And once, because we deemed it good, 
 Played " Hide and Seek " in plain and wood ; 
 But played it so well in wood and plain, 
 That we never found each other again !
 
 XIV. 
 THE DIFFICULTY. 
 
 ABOUT my Darling's lovely eyes 
 I Ve made no end of verses ; 
 About her precious little mouth, 
 Songs, which each voice rehearses ; 
 About my darling's little cheek, 
 I wrote a splendid sonnet ; 
 And, if she only had a heart, 
 I 'd write an ode upon it.
 
 XV. 
 
 A FOOLISH QUESTION. 
 
 WHY I am not kind to-day ? 
 Why, my friend, what's this you say? 
 Pray, can you recall to mind 
 That I ever have been kind ? 
 But, if it were ever so, 
 'T is forgotten, long ago ! 
 Or, if not forgotten yet, 
 From this hour I will forget !
 
 XVI. 
 THE CARPENTER. 
 
 PUT your hand on my heart, my dear ! 
 In that little chamber you may hear 
 A cruel carpenter's hammer go, 
 Making my coffin with every blow. 
 
 His hammer pounds by night and day, 
 It drives my peaceful sleep away ; 
 Do your work, carpenter, soon and strong ! 
 That I may go to sleep erelong.
 
 XVII. 
 
 ALAS! 
 
 T S that time forgotten ? its memory gone 
 * When thy heart was mine, and mine alone 
 That heart so false, that heart so sweet ! 
 Falser and sweeter could never meet ! 
 
 And hast thou forgotten the love and the woe 
 That rent my heart ? Is it long ago ? 
 If the love were greater, or greater the woe 
 Both were so great, I can never know.
 
 XVIII. 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 
 
 WHEN she left me for a while, 
 Through' long months I could not smile : 
 Sun and smiles had passed away ; 
 When my life had lost its Day. 
 
 She came back, her love was gone ! 
 
 Tearless then I made no moan. 
 No more hope, so no more sorrow ; 
 
 When my life had lost its Morrow.
 
 XIX. 
 
 EBB AND FLOW. 
 
 : T7 BB and flow, ebb and flow, 
 !' Slowly rising and sinking slow, 
 Why, vast Ocean, movest thou so ? " 
 Asked the maiden, in accents low. 
 
 " Gazing upon thy mighty breast, 
 
 Why is my spirit so opprest ? 
 
 Unquiet Ocean, why thine unrest, 
 
 And thy tide, still sweeping from east to west ? : 
 
 " Ebb and flow, ebb and flow," 
 Answered the Ocean, rolling below ; 
 " I follow wherever the moon may go, 
 Follow always, steady and slow. 
 
 " Above my billows, with mighty power, 
 She lifts me high, in a happy hour, 
 And my waves leap up in sparkle and shower, - 
 As swells toward the sun the bursting flower. 
 
 45
 
 EBB AND FLOW. 
 
 " I follow her movement, night and day ; 
 When she has gone, I cannot stay ; 
 When she departs, I sink away, 
 Sinking from harbor and creek and bay." 
 
 Then answered the maiden, " I see ! I see ! 
 O Heart of mine, thy mystery ! 
 Thou who dost follow, glad and free, 
 The star which forever lifteth thee. 
 
 " There is ebb and flow in sea and heart, 
 And our life ebbs out if Love depart ; 
 For an empty heart what joys remain ? 
 Let my monarch come, though he go again ! 
 
 " Let Love arrive, though Love must go ! 
 Let Heart and Ocean ebb and flow ! 
 Come, cruel pleasure ! Come, kindly woe ! 
 For where Love has never been, I know 
 That life is only death below."
 
 XX. 
 
 THE BITTER WAKING. 
 
 I SLEPT, dear love; and in my dream was weeping. 
 I woke. My heart beat hard with cruel fears ; 
 For I had dreamed thou in thy grave wert sleeping, 
 And so my cheek was wet with foolish tears. 
 
 I dreamed another dream that cruel morn, 
 
 bitter tears ! O unavailing sorrow ! 
 
 For now I thought thy love was dead and gone, 
 And night which falls on love can know no morrow. 
 
 1 dreamed once more. With love of other years 
 You loved me. Ah ! how sweet that love did seem ! 
 And then I woke, and faster flowed my tears, 
 My bitter tears, because it was a dream.
 
 XXI. 
 
 THE IMPASSABLE GULF. 
 
 OWERE it but some wrong our hearts divided! 
 Or were this gulf between us but a sin ! 
 For Love is grace, and can forgive provided 
 It find some answering love the other heart within. 
 
 But how can fire burn on in water ? How 
 Can water live with fire in calm consent ? 
 The fatal discord which divides us now 
 Is like the war of either element. 
 
 Follow thy star henceforth, as I shall mine, 
 
 In Faith, Thought, Love, diverging, line from line, 
 
 Alas ! how changed henceforth those stars shall shine. 
 
 Thy voice now sounds to me empty and vain ; 
 My voice is dead to thee, and we complain, 
 That we have naught in common but this pain.
 
 XXII. 
 THE WINE OF LIFE. 
 
 THE spring is lovely on the earth and sky, 
 Because its beauty must so soon go by. 
 
 And Love's young dream is sweet because its day 
 Swifter than spring's first blossoms fades away. 
 
 Yet to have loved, though Love has fled, is bliss, 
 For nothing warms the human heart like this. 
 
 Of that glad wine my soul has drunk its fill ; 
 Now the sun sinks, let night come when it will. 
 
 The unknown hours may bring or shade or shine, 
 The treasure in my heart is always mine.
 
 XXIII. 
 
 THE WATER-LILY. 
 
 A SILENT water-lily 
 From the dark lake doth rise : 
 Her tender snow-white blossom 
 On the still water lies. 
 
 The moon, from highest heaven, 
 Pours down its golden light; 
 
 And all its rays are gathered 
 Into that blossom bright. 
 
 Around that snow-white flower 
 A singing swan doth float ; 
 
 It is his dying hour, 
 It is his dying note. 
 
 He pours his soul in music, 
 
 His heart must break, ere long: 
 
 O flower, snow-white flower ! 
 Wilt thou not hear the song ?
 
 XXIV. 
 ON THE WATER. 
 
 HPHE valley and the hill are sweet with May, 
 J- Th soft spring air is softer still, to-day, 
 The woodland echoes float in evening red; 
 The earth is joyful, but my heart is dead. 
 
 The silver moon hangs in the crimson west, 
 Gay songs are ringing from each happy breast, 
 In the full wine-cup glows the wine, deep-red 
 Can I be joyful, when my heart is dead. 
 
 The little boat goes swiftly on her way, 
 The first stars glimmer in the twilight gray, 
 Soft music sounds, and softer words are said 
 I would be joyful, but my heart is dead. 
 
 Yet if my lost love from her grave could rise, 
 To thrill me with those unforgotten eyes, 
 And offer me once more the joys long fled 
 In vain ! for lost is lost, and dead is dead.
 
 XXV. 
 A SPRING SONG. 
 
 O SPRINGTIME sweet! 
 Over the hills come thy lovely feet ; 
 The earth's white mantle is cast away, 
 She clothes herself all in green to-day ; 
 And the little flowers that hid from the cold 
 Are springing anew from the warm, fresh mould. 
 
 O springtime sweet ! 
 
 The whole earth smiles thy coming to greet ; 
 Our hearts to their inmost depths are stirred 
 By the first spring flower and the song of the bird : 
 Our sweet, strange feelings no room can find, 
 They wander like dreams through heart and mind. 
 
 O springtime sweet ! 
 
 How the old and the new in thy soft hours meet ! 
 The dear, dead joys of the days long past, 
 The brightness and beauty that could not last, 
 Their fair ghosts rise with the ending of snow, 
 The springs and the summers of long ago.
 
 A SPRING SOA T G. 
 
 O springtime sweet ! 
 
 How thou once wert dear and fair and complete ! 
 No sweetness of words nor of music could tell 
 The gladness that once made my bosom swell ; 
 And thou art not the same as the springs of yore, 
 For the beauty and blessing that come no more. 
 
 O springtime sweet! 
 With silent hope thy coming I greet ; 
 For all that in winter the bright earth lost 
 Doth rise, new-born, with the ending of frost : 
 Even so shalt thou bring me at last, at last ! 
 All the hope and the joy and the love of the past.
 
 XXVI. 
 SPRING THOUGHTS IN ITALY. 
 
 T ITTLE bird, where do you fly so fast ? 
 
 -L* " O, winter is ended, at last, at last ! 
 And I fly in haste to my northern home, 
 For winter has ended and spring has come." 
 
 Dear little bird with the feathers gay, 
 
 A moment listen, a moment stay ! 
 
 I have a love in that northern land, 
 
 I stand alone on a foreign strand ; 
 
 I cannot fly with thee to woo her, 
 
 But thou shalt take my greeting to her. 
 
 So, when thou art come to that distant shore, 
 
 t), hasten to my darling's door ! 
 
 Sing sweet and low, sing loud and clear, 
 
 And thou shalt catch her listening ear ; 
 
 Tell her, her eyes' remembered light 
 
 Is all that makes my heaven bright ; 
 
 Tell her, her sweet lips' parting word 
 
 Still day and night by me is heard; 
 
 That every hour of every day 
 
 I think of her so far away ;
 
 SPRING THOUGHTS IN ITALY. 
 
 That time nor space, nor life nor death, 
 My heart from her can sever, 
 For I love my love with every breath, 
 I love my love forever ! 
 
 And the little flowers in the valley sweet, 
 The happy flowers that kiss her feet ! 
 Greet them a thousand times for me, 
 And tell them that across the sea 
 All strange, bright blossoms come with May, 
 But none are fair to me as they!
 
 XXVII. 
 ANOTHER VERSION. 
 
 WHITHER, dear bird, your flight? 
 " I 'm going, I 'm going, 
 Where shines the northern sun so bright, 
 For there spring flowers are growing." 
 
 O little bird, fly far and fast ! 
 And when you find my love at last, 
 
 Whose house the lindens cover, 
 Tell her I think of her all day, 
 And dream of her all night ; and say, 
 
 I am her own true lover. 
 
 And every flower that you see 
 Greet thousand times for me.
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 GREETING FROM FAR AWAY. 
 
 SO many stars as shine in the sky, 
 So many little winds murmuring by, 
 So many blessings attend thee ; 
 So many leaves as dance on the trees, 
 So many flowers as wave in the breeze, 
 Brighter than those, love, and sweeter than these, 
 The loving thoughts that I send thee. 
 
 Were I the golden sun to shine, 
 Every ray a glad thought of mine, 
 
 Loving and true and tender, 
 I would crown with my beams thy dearest head, 
 From morning golden to evening red ; 
 Deep in my heart lies the thought unsaid, 
 
 The love that no speech can render. 
 
 Might I but guard thee forevermore ! 
 A sheltering roof, a fast-shut door, 
 In my deep heart to hold thee ;
 
 GREETING FROM FAR AWAY. 
 
 In a still, safe room thou dost dwell apart, 
 Thy spirit pure in my loving heart, 
 So fair, so dear, so true, thou art ; 
 So doth my love enfold thee. 
 
 When I faint with thirst on a dusty way, 
 A pure spring flows for me every day, 
 
 I drink thy love forever ; 
 I wander alone at dead of night, 
 But ever before me I see a light, 
 In darkest hours more clear, more bright; 
 
 And the hope that I bear fails never. 
 
 Though I have journeyed across the sea, 
 Still before me thy face I see, 
 
 Thy form still goes before me ; 
 And I whisper thy name to the woods and caves, 
 And I sing it aloud to the rushing waves ; 
 And I have all that my spirit craves, 
 
 When the thought of thee comes o'er me. 
 
 When thou dost not know what the little brooks say, 
 Think they go sadly upon their way, 
 
 Because we two are parted ; 
 When the dim forest droops its leaves, 
 Think that the soul within it grieves, 
 Because its shadow no more receives 
 
 Two lovers faithful-hearted. 
 
 When the sweet flowers droop and die, 
 Think that my hopes all withered lie ;
 
 GREETING FROM FAR AWAY. 
 
 Think how my heart is broken ! 
 When, in April, with sun and rain, 
 Violets blossom on hill and plain, 
 Think thou couldst call me to life again, 
 
 By the sweet word still unspoken. 
 
 When I send thee a red, red rose, 
 The sweetest flower on earth that grows ! 
 
 Think, dear heart, how I love thee ; 
 Listen to what the sweet rose saith, 
 With her crimson leaf and her fragrant breath, 
 Love, I am thine, in life and death ! 
 
 O 'my love, dost thou love me ?
 
 XXIX. 
 
 "LOVE DOTH TO HER EYES REPAIR.' 
 
 WHY ask of others what they cannot say, 
 Others, who for thy good. have little care? 
 Come close, dear friend, and learn a better way; 
 Look in my eyes, and read my story there ! 
 
 Trust not thine own proud wit ; 't is idle dreaming ! 
 The common gossip of the street forbear ; 
 Nor even trust my acts or surface-seeming : 
 Ask only of my eyes ; my truth is there. 
 
 My lips refuse an answer to thy boldness ; 
 Or with false, cruel words deny thy prayer, 
 Believe them not, I hate them for their coldness ! 
 Look in my eyes ; my love is written there. -
 
 XXX. 
 
 TEARS. 
 
 I MOURNED and wept through many weary years, 
 In bitter grief and care ; 
 
 And now this perfect hour still brings me tears ; 
 My bliss I cannot bear. 
 
 O, how can one poor heart all heaven contain ? 
 
 My foolish lips are dumb ; 
 Alas ! in sweetest joy, in sharpest pain, 
 
 Only these bright tears come.
 
 XXXI. 
 
 WER WENIG SUCHT, DER FINDET VIEL. 
 
 ONLY a shelter for my head I sought, 
 One stormy winter night; 
 To me the blessing of my life was brought, 
 
 Making the whole world bright. 
 How shall I thank thee for a gift so sweet, 
 
 O dearest Heavenly Friend? 
 I sought a resting-place for weary feet, 
 And found my journey's end. 
 
 Only the latchet of a friendly door 
 
 My timid fingers tried; 
 A loving heart, with all its precious store, 
 
 To me was opened wide. 
 I asked for shelter from a passing shower, 
 
 My sun shall always shine ! 
 I would have sat beside the hearth an hour, 
 
 And the whole heart was mine !
 
 XXXII. 
 
 WINTER SUNSHINE. 
 
 SHINE brighter than the sun in heaven, O eyes, 
 beloved so long ! 
 All blessed gifts that can be given, to thee, dear 
 
 child, belong ; 
 Thine eyes hold all my sunshine, my heaven is all in 
 
 thee; 
 I ask no other happiness, when thy dear face I see. 
 
 O, fair and sweet are summer flowers, but sweeter 
 
 still art thou ; 
 I hold them dear, the bright June hours, but I am 
 
 gladder now ; 
 Through storm and snow and rain I come where 
 
 thou, my darling, art ; 
 I am not cold nor weary when I hold thee to my 
 
 heart !
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 "~n WAS April; 'twas Sunday; the day was fair, - 
 J- Yes ! sunny and fair. 
 
 And how happy was I ! 
 You wore the white dress you loved to wear ; 
 And two little flowers were hid in your hair 
 
 Yes ! in your hair 
 
 On that day gone by ! 
 
 We sat on the moss ; it was shady and dry, 
 
 Yes ! shady and dry ; 
 
 And we sat in the shadow. 
 We looked at the leaves, we looked at the sky, 
 We looked at the brook which bubbled near by, 
 
 Yes ! bubbled near by, 
 
 Through the quiet meadow. 
 
 A bird sang on the swinging vine, 
 
 Yes ! on the vine, 
 
 And then, sang not ; 
 I took your little white hand in mine ; 
 'T was April ; 't was Sunday ; 't was warm sunshine, 
 
 Yes ! warm sunshine : 
 
 Have you forgot ?
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 CONTENTED. 
 
 T SAT above the meadow, 
 * Beneath the linden's shadow, 
 And held my darling's hand ; 
 The leaves all still and dreaming, 
 The sun's rays softly streaming, 
 Upon the quiet land. 
 
 We felt our pulses flutter, 
 But not a word did utter ; 
 
 We were too happy so. 
 I felt, but nothing said I, 
 We knew the whole already ; 
 
 What could we wish to know ? 
 
 No longing could torment us, 
 For all things had been sent us ; 
 
 Our hearts were full of bliss. 
 Two sweet eyes sent their greeting, 
 And four warm lips were meeting, 
 
 In one too happy kiss.
 
 XXXV. 
 THE NIGHT-BLOOMING FLOWER. 
 
 THE busy day from off the earth is going, 
 Its noisy and tumultuous labors cease, 
 And, through the cool and mellow darkness flowing, 
 Comes down from out the skies a tranquil peace. 
 
 The fields all sleep. The woods alone are waking ; 
 And what they would not whisper to the light, 
 Now, every branch astir, and leaves all shaking, 
 .They murmur softly to the listening night. 
 
 So I, who in the day could only mutter 
 Vaguely my inmost longing to thine ear, 
 Now, in this gloom, my every thought can utter, 
 Child of my heart ! come soon, come now, to hear !
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 TO THE SILENT ONE. 
 
 AH, leave to other maidens 
 Fair greeting, sweet replies ; 
 Thou art my lovely Silence, 
 With thy clear friendly eyes. 
 
 The eyes, so true, so tender, 
 They tell me, day by day, 
 
 More of thy deepest heart, love, 
 Than lips could ever say.. 
 
 So wakes the earth to gladness 
 
 The blessed April sun ; 
 Yet, year by year, in silence, 
 
 The perfect work is done. 
 
 Yet all sweet words and music 
 To thee, dear child, belong ; 
 
 Be thou my lovely Silence, 
 And I will be thy Song.
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 WHAT LOVE SAID. 
 
 LOVE said, "A beauty not of earth but heaven, 
 Still seek in thy beloved's glances bright ; 
 For love to man as his best strength is given, 
 A guiding star, not a false, wandering light." 
 
 Love said, " In the sweet eyes where thou dost see 
 Pure light, not flame, there shalt thou seek thy fate ; 
 
 So a clear lamp to light thy path shall be, 
 No wasting fire thy heart to desolate." 
 
 Love said, "This blessing to thy life is given, 
 To draw thy heart from things of little worth ; 
 
 Wings shall it give, to lift thy heart to heaven, 
 Not chains to hold it closer to the earth."
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 LOST SUNSHINE. 
 
 DARLING child, you ask me why, 
 While I sing, I still must sigh ; 
 
 What can grieve me so ? 
 Fair spring was mine, and it would not stay ; 
 Bright youth was mine, and I dreamed it away ; 
 True love came to me, one golden day, 
 Smiling, I let it go. 
 
 The morning hour was sweet and cool. 
 
 I had no thirst when my cup brimmed full ; 
 
 Careless, I put it by. 
 Laden boughs were over my head, 
 Fair fruit-clusters, purple and red, 
 Summer's glories all round me spread, 
 
 Yet nothing held my eye. 
 
 But when the sun sank to his rest, 
 And crimson glories curtained the west ; 
 
 What bitter thirst was mine 
 69
 
 LOST SUNSHINE. 
 
 I seek in vain through the hours of night 
 What came to me with the morning light. 
 Long, long weeping has blinded my sight ; 
 
 I mourn my lost sunshine. 
 
 My heart is withered and cold and dead ; 
 Snows of winter are on my head ; 
 
 I travel my weary way : 
 Fair and sweet were my springtime flowers, 
 Rich and full were my summer hours, 
 Laden with gold my autumn bowers ; 
 
 I have nothing left to-day.
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 THE SUNSET HOUR. 
 
 AH, do not smile upon me so ! 
 The glance that beams on me to-day 
 Is sweet, but only brings me woe ; 
 Ah, turn thy lovely eyes away ! 
 
 This lonely heart may quiver, 
 
 Its throbs are only pain ; 
 Even thy kindness never 
 Can bid it hope again. 
 
 I am not young and fresh as thou, 
 
 My heart is not so pure as thine, 
 Thy love can never bless me now ; 
 I dare not take thy hand in mine. 
 Alas ! one fleeting hour 
 
 This bright dream comes to me ; 
 What wouldst thou, opening flower, 
 With me, a blasted tree ? 
 
 The sunset hour for me is near, 
 For thee the day is just begun ;
 
 THE SUNSET HOUR. 
 
 I know no longer hope nor fear, 
 For thee all sweetness may be won : 
 To thee all joy and gladness 
 
 The golden hours bring ; 
 I sit in doubt and sadness, 
 My memories pale to sing. 
 
 Then turn thy lovely eyes away, 
 
 My gentle child, thou rosebud sweet : 
 I wander forth alone to-day 
 With aching heart and weary feet ; 
 I roam the wide earth over, 
 I climb the salt sea-wave ; 
 For thee, a noble lover ; 
 For me, a grave.
 
 XL. 
 
 HOW IT HAPPENS. 
 
 HARSH voices said to her, " He loves thee not ; 
 He trifles with thee." Then she drooped her 
 
 head, 
 
 And to her eyes the tears came thick and hot, 
 And yet in secret were those salt tears shed. 
 Alas, that she believed that cruel word ! 
 
 For when he came, her face was turned away ; 
 
 And then with scorn and pride his heart was stirred, 
 
 And with forced mirth he went his lonely way. 
 
 An angel ever whispered in her heart, 
 
 " Thy love is true ; only reach forth thy hand ! " 
 And while in bitterness he stood apart, 
 
 The same sweet pleading must his heart withstand : 
 " She loves thee well, she is thy destined bride : 
 
 Speak but one tender word, the spell is broken ! " 
 Day after day they met O, sinful pride ! 
 
 The word, the fateful word, remained unspoken. 
 
 And so they parted. And for many days 
 Each mourned in secret. As a dying lamp
 
 HOW IT HAPPENS. 
 
 That lights some dim church with its fitful rays, 
 Then with a flash expires, in dusk and damp, 
 
 Even so their love grew fainter day by day ; 
 Flickered and flashed with many a dying gleam, 
 
 Until at last it faded quite away, 
 Forgotten, or remembered as a dream. 
 
 Yet sometimes would the pale moon's misty light 
 
 Fall on a pillow wet with lonely tears ; 
 And wistful eyes gazed through the silent night, 
 
 Perhaps they dreamed of half-forgotten years ; 
 And of the blessing that they did not win ; 
 
 Sweet, secret hopes that ne'er were plighted troth 
 Now lost forever, all that might have been. 
 
 O God, who sends us love, forgive them both !
 
 XLI. 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. 
 
 I. 
 
 '"THE mother stood at the window; 
 -*- In the chamber lay her son. 
 " Arise ! arise ! dear William, 
 
 And see the crowd march on." 
 " I am so sick, my mother, 
 
 I cannot hear or see ; 
 I think of my dead Gretchen, 
 
 And my heart is sad in me." 
 
 " Then we will go to Kevlaar, 
 
 With book and rosary, 
 And there God's gracious mother 
 
 Will heal thy heart for thee." 
 
 The banners flutter gayly, 
 The church bells ring aloud, 
 
 Past proud Cologne it marches, 
 The singing, praying crowd. 
 
 75
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. 
 
 The son, he leads his mother, 
 
 And all go marching on ; 
 " All hail to thee, Maria ! " 
 
 They sing with solemn tone. 
 
 II. 
 
 God's mother sits at Kevlaar, 
 
 With jewels in her hair ; 
 To-day she wears her diamonds, 
 
 For many guests are there. 
 The 1 sick with votive offerings 
 
 Have come from many lands, 
 To hang upon her altar 
 
 Their waxen feet and hands. 
 For when one offers a waxen hand, 
 
 His hand is cured of its wound ; 
 And when one offers a waxen foot, 
 
 His foot at once is sound. 
 Many who came on crutches ,. 
 
 Go running and dancing away , 
 And those whose fingers were stiff as sticks 
 
 On the violin can play. 
 Out of a waxen candle 
 
 The mother formed a heart : 
 "Give this to Holy Mary, 
 
 And she will cure thy smart ! " 
 Sadly he took the image, 
 
 Went sadly to the shrine, 
 And, words with tears commingled, 
 
 He cried : " O Maid divine ! 
 76
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. 
 
 Queen of heaven and angels ! 
 Receive my bitter moan. 
 
 1 dwell with my poor mother, 
 
 In a street of fair Cologne ; 
 Where, in three hundred churches, 
 
 Men go to sing and pray ; 
 And near to us lived Gretchen, 
 
 And she is dead to-day ! 
 I bring this waxen image, 
 
 The image of my heart ; 
 Heal thou my bitter sorrow, 
 
 And cure my deadly smart ! 
 Do this, and every morning, 
 
 Evening, and all day long, 
 Hail to thee, Blessed Mary, 
 
 Shall be my prayer and song ! " 
 
 III. 
 
 The sick son and his mother 
 
 Slept in a little room ; 
 Then came the Blessed Virgin, 
 
 Soft stepping through the gloom. 
 She bent above the sick man, 
 
 And on his heart she laid 
 Her gentle hand, then, smiling, 
 
 Passed, like a mist, the Maid. 
 The mother, in her slumber 
 
 Had seen the whole event ; 
 Then wakened, for the frightened dogs 
 
 Howled, as the Virgin went. 
 
 77
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO -KEVLAAR. 
 
 He lay stretched out before her, 
 
 Her son, and he was dead ; 
 And on his thin and pallid cheek 
 
 The morning sun burned red. 
 The mother knew not how she felt, 
 
 But bent in peace her head; 
 " God bless thee ! Holy Mother ! " 
 
 Were all the words she said.
 
 XLII. 
 
 BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 SHALL the seasons bring no end to your sorrow, 
 O my friend, 
 
 As you journey on your way ? 
 
 And your bitterness of grief find no comfort, no re- 
 lief, 
 But deepen day by day. 
 
 Shall it thus confuse your mind, till no outlet you can 
 
 find 
 
 From a labyrinth of woe ; 
 That your daughter sleeps in peace, where earthly 
 
 trials cease, 
 And where we all must go ? 
 
 If, in answer to your prayer, she had gone, with snowy 
 
 hair, 
 
 And bent with age, above, 
 Would the angels come to meet her with welcome any 
 
 sweeter 
 Than their present tones of love ? 
 
 79
 
 BEREA VEMENT. 
 
 " O cruel fate," you cry, " for such a child to die ! 
 
 " Taken back, as soon as given ! " 
 But had she stayed here long, she still had perished 
 young ; 
 
 For there is no age in heaven. 
 
 It is nature's law, I know, that when our darlings go 
 
 Such tears should blind our eyes ; 
 But because their life has gone, to cast away our own 
 
 Is neither well nor wise. 
 
 I knew the darling child, so tender, pure, and mild, 
 
 Now vanished from your arms ; 
 Nor foolishly would try to bid your grief go by, 
 
 Or underrate her charms. 
 
 But she was of this world, where the things most 
 sweet 
 
 Pass soonest away ; 
 And Rose met the fate which other roses meet, 
 
 To bloom for a day. 
 
 Death, harsher than all else to a mortal's prayers and 
 tears, 
 
 Falling fast as summer rain, 
 Like a statue, sitting calm with his cruel, stony ears, 
 
 Lets us cry ; but in vain ! 
 
 Of the peasant's simple latch, sleeping under strawy 
 
 thatch, 
 He pulls the silent string,
 
 BEREA VEMEXT. 
 
 And passes by the guard, at the Louvre keeping ward, 
 To the couch of our king. 
 
 Your grief may smite the sky ; no echo shall reply ! 
 
 Your stormy grief is vain ! 
 To will what God doth will, is for us the only skill 
 
 To cure this bitter pain.
 
 XLIII. 
 THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH. 
 
 THE bells of the churches are ringing, 
 Papa and mamma have both gone, 
 And three little children sit singing 
 Together this still Sunday morn. 
 
 While the bells toll away in the steeple, 
 Though too small to sit still in a pew, 
 
 These busy religious small people 
 Determine to have their church too. 
 
 So, as free as the birds, or the breezes 
 By which their fair ringlets are fanned, 
 
 Each rogue sings away as he pleases, 
 With book upside down in his hand. 
 
 Their hymn has no sense in its letter, 
 Their music no rhythm nor tune : 
 
 Our worship, perhaps, may be better, 
 But theirs reaches God quite as soon.
 
 THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH. 
 
 4 
 Their angels stand close to the Father ; 
 
 His heaven is bright with these flowers ; 
 And the dear God above us would rather 
 Hear praise from their lips than from ours. 
 
 Sing on, little children, your voices 
 Fill the air with contentment and love ; 
 
 All nature around you rejoices, 
 And the birds warble sweetly above. 
 
 Sing on, for the proudest orations, 
 
 The liturgies sacred and long, 
 The anthems and worship of nations, 
 
 Are poor to your innocent song. 
 
 Sing on, our devotion is colder, 
 
 Though wisely our prayers may be planned, 
 For often we, too, who are older, 
 
 Hold our book the wrong way in our hand. 
 
 Sing on, our harmonic inventions 
 
 We study with labor and pain ; 
 Yet often our angry contentions 
 
 Take the harmony out of our strain. 
 
 Sing on ; all our struggle and battle, 
 Our cry when most deep and sincere, 
 
 What are they? A child's simple prattle, 
 A breath in the Infinite Ear. 
 83
 
 XLIV. 
 
 "THE PERFECT WHOLE." 
 
 LIVE in that Whole to which all parts belong ; 
 Thus Beauty, Action, Truth shall be thy dower. 
 Compose thyself in God, and so be strong, 
 Since only in life's fulness is its power. 
 As, in a plant, leaves, flowers, and fruits must grow 
 Out of one germ, each centred in the whole, 
 So must Love, Thought, and Deed forever flow 
 Forth from one fountain in the human soul. 
 
 . . , 
 Oto. 7.
 
 XLV. 
 
 "THE DEVIL IS A FOOL." 
 
 SAINT Dominic, the glory of the schools, 
 Writing, one day, "the Inquisition's " rules, 
 Stopt, when the evening came, for want of light. 
 The devils, who below, from morn till night, 
 Well pleased, had seen his work, exclaimed with 
 
 sorrow, 
 
 " Something he will forget before to-morrow ! " 
 One zealous imp flew upward from the place, 
 And stood before him, with an angel face. 
 " I come," said he, " sent from God's Realm of Peace, 
 To light you lest your holy labors cease." 
 Well pleased, the saint wrote on with careful pen. 
 The candle was consumed ; the devil then 
 Lighted his thumb; the saint, quite undisturbed, 
 Finished his treatise to the final word. 
 Then he looked up, and started with affright ; 
 For lo ! the thumb blazed with a lurid light. 
 " Your thumb is burned ! " said he. The child of sin, 
 Changed to his proper form, and, with a grin, 
 85
 
 "THE DEVIL IS A FOOL." 
 
 Said, " I will quench it in the martyrs' blood 
 Your book will cause to flow, a crimson flood ! : 
 
 Triumphantly the fiend returned to hell, 
 And told his story. Satan said, " 'T is well ! 
 Your aim was good, but foolish was the deed, 
 For blood of martyrs is the Church's seed."
 
 XLVI. 
 
 OUR CONFIDENCE. 
 
 T 1 7ITH joyful looks on thee we call, 
 
 * V Firm in thy word we stay ; 
 Madness and murder rise from hell, 
 
 But turn us not away. 
 And though in ruins lies our land, 
 We know thy Word will always stand ! 
 
 Faith conquers in no easy war, 
 By toil alone the prize is won ; 
 
 The grape dissolves not in the cup, 
 
 Wine from the crushing press must run ; 
 
 And would an angel heavenward go, 
 
 A human heart must break below. 
 
 And thus, though life is made a lie, 
 And shams their showy temples rear, 
 
 And shameless traitors, set on high, 
 Shudder at Truth, and Courage fear, 
 
 And see, with terror's dizzy brain, 
 
 The waking nation burst its chain, 
 87
 
 OUR CONFIDENCE. 
 
 Though brothers brethren may oppress, 
 Severed by hate and streaming blood ; 
 
 And German princes not confess 
 Their thrones to be one sisterhood ; 
 
 And that, if we were One, we might 
 
 In Germany the world's law write; 
 
 We will not lose our faith in thee, 
 But ever strive ; in steadfast trust, 
 
 That thou thy German land wilt free, 
 Wilt cast the tyrant in the dust. 
 
 And though year-distant lies the day ; 
 
 Who can, like thee, the right time say ?
 
 XLVII. 
 
 THE LAST TEN OF THE FOURTH REGI- 
 MENT. 
 
 A THOUSAND soldiers knelt in Warsaw's square, 
 x * The solemn oath of battle sternly taking ; 
 They swore, without a shot, the foe to dare, 
 With bayonets' point their deadly pathway making. 
 Beat drums ! march on, and let our country tell 
 That " Poland's Fourth " will keep its promise well. 
 
 So said, and bloody Praga saw it clone. 
 Right where the foe in thickest mass was rushing, 
 We charged, and not a comrade fired his gun, 
 But each with deadly bayonet on was pushing. 
 Praga shall tell how, 'mid the blackened air, 
 Poland's " Fourth Regiment " was bleeding there. 
 
 When, from a thousand throats of fire, the flame 
 
 At Ostrolenka on our columns falling 
 
 Mowed down our ranks, we broke our way, and came 
 
 With the sharp bayonets' point their heart appalling. 
 
 Let Ostrolenka, joined with Praga, say 
 
 That " Poland's Fourth " has kept its vow to-day.
 
 THE LAST TEN OF THE FOURTH REGIMENT. 
 
 Yes, many manly hearts then sank to rest, 
 To the war-fiend a noble offering bringing ; 
 Yet to his oath each man was true, and prest 
 On to the end, still to his weapon clinging ; 
 Yes, with unloaded gun and steady eye, 
 Poland's " Fourth Regiment " marched on to die. 
 
 O, woe to us ! "woe to our land forlorn ! 
 
 O, ask not whence or how this misery came ! 
 
 Woe, woe to every child in Poland born ! 
 
 Our wounds break open when we hear her name. 
 
 They bleed afresh, but most our hearts are wrung 
 
 When " Poland's Fourth " is named by any tongue. 
 
 And ah ! dear brothers, who to death have gone, 
 But, dying, from our souls shall perish never ; 
 We, who still live, with broken hearts move on, 
 Far from our homes, the homes now lost forever ; 
 And pray that God in heaven may quickly send 
 The last of " Poland's Fourth " a blessed end. 
 
 From Poland's confines, through the misty air, 
 Ten soldiers come, and, crossing Prussia's border, 
 The sentry challenges with, " Who comes there ? " 
 They stand in silence. He repeats the order. 
 At last one says, " Out of a thousand men 
 In ' Poland's Fourth ' we are the only ten."
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 ORPHIC SAYINGS. 
 
 1. DESTINY. 
 
 A CCORDING as the sun and planets saw 
 *"* From their bright thrones the moment of thy 
 
 birth, 
 
 Such is thy destiny ; and by that law 
 Thou must go on and on upon the earth. 
 Such must thou be. Thyself thou canst not fly ; 
 So still do sibyls speak, have prophets spoken. 
 The living stamp, received from Nature's die, 
 No time can change, no art has ever broken. 
 
 2. CHANCE. 
 
 Yet through these limits, sternly fixed to bound us, 
 A pleasing, wandering form goes with and round us. 
 Thou art not lonely, thou hast many brothers, 
 Learning and acting, still art moved by others. 
 Chance takes or gives the thing while we pursue it, 
 Our life 's a trifle, and we trifle through it. 
 The circling years go round. All keeps the same 
 The lamp stands waiting for the kindling flame.
 
 ORPHIC SAYINGS. 
 
 3. LOVE. 
 
 It comes at last. From Heaven it falls, down darting, 
 Whither from ancient chaos up it flew ; 
 Around it floats ; now near and then departing, 
 It fans the brow and breast the spring day through ; 
 Mournful, though sweet, a saddened bliss imparting ; 
 Rousing vague longings for the fair and true. 
 Whilst most hearts fade away, unfixed, alone ; 
 The noblest is devoted to the One. 
 
 4. NECESSITY. 
 
 And so once more 't is as the planets would ; 
 Conditions, limits, laws, our fate decide ; 
 We will the right, because we see we should ; 
 And thus by our own hands our limbs are tied. 
 The heart drives out its hopes, a much-loved brood ; 
 At the stern must, wishes and whims subside ; 
 So, after many years in seeming free, 
 More closely fettered than at first are we. 
 
 5. HOPE. 
 
 Yet shall these gates unfold, these walls give way. 
 These barriers, rooted in the ancient hill, 
 Are firm as primal rock ; but rocks decay. 
 One essence moves in life and freedom still ; 
 Through cloud, and mist, and storm, to upper day, 
 Lifts the sad heart, weak thoughts, and fainting will ; 
 Through every zone she ranges unconfined ; 
 She waves her wing, we leave time, space, behind !
 
 XLIX. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF SCHILLER. 
 
 AND so it happened ! Bells were gayly ringing 
 O'er all the peaceful land, and everywhere 
 New happiness appeared. With joyous singing 
 
 We welcomed home the youthful, princely pair. 
 And while each hour new throngs and crowds was 
 
 bringing 
 
 These national festivities to share, 
 On the wreathed stage we all, with cheerful hearts, 
 Brought out once more the "Homage of the Arts." 
 
 A cry of fear the midnight hush has broken ; 
 
 Heavy and sad the mournful tones ascend ; 
 And can it possibly his fate betoken 
 
 With whose existence warmest wishes blend? 
 Ah ! with what words shall this world-loss be spoken ? 
 
 Can death have made of so much life an end ? 
 Ah ! in our midst we feel a frightful rent. 
 The world laments him, shall not we lament ? 
 
 For he was ours. How happily surrounded, 
 Each favoring hour revealed his lofty mind ;
 
 Iff MEMORY OF SCHILLER. 
 
 How sometimes grace and cheerfulness abounded, 
 In mutual talk, with earnestness combined ; 
 
 And sometimes daring thought, with power un- 
 bounded, 
 Life's deepest sense and highest plan divined, 
 
 All in rich fruits of act and counsel shown ; 
 
 This have we oft enjoyed, experienced, known. 
 
 For he was ours. And may that word of pride 
 Drown with its lofty tone pain's bitter cry ! 
 
 With us, the fierce storm over, he could ride 
 At anchor, in safe harbor fixedly. 
 
 Yet onward did his* mighty spirit stride 
 To Beauty, Goodness, Truth, eternally ; 
 
 And far behind, in mists dissolving fast, 
 
 That which confines us all, the Common, passed. 
 
 In that fair garden chamber, through the night, 
 He watches the lone stars' unearthly ray ; 
 
 They pour in sympathy mysterious light 
 On one as pure, as infinite, as they. 
 
 There, busied earnestly for our delight, 
 He strangely alternates the hours of day ; 
 
 And welcomes thus, engaged in worthiest toil, 
 
 Those darkening hours which all our strength despoil. 
 
 Wave after wave, the floods of History rolled 
 Before his eye, with all their good and ill, 
 
 Earth's mighty conquerors and warriors bold, 
 W 7 hose armies swept the world with reckless will ; 
 
 Each act most good and high, most base and cold,
 
 IN MEMORY OF SCHILLER. 
 
 Clearly distinguished with unerring skill, 
 Till sinks the moon, and, while the darkness flies, 
 The sun mounts upward through the eastern skies. 
 
 Burned in his cheeks, with ever-deepening fire, 
 The spirit's youth, which never passes by, 
 
 The courage which, though worlds in hate conspire, 
 Conquers at last their dull hostility, 
 
 The lofty faith, which, ever mounting higher, 
 Now presses on, now waiteth patiently, 
 
 By which the good tends ever toward his goal, 
 
 By which day lights at last the generous soul. 
 
 And yet, thus skilled, and armed with learning's wand, 
 The Drama's laws he willingly obeyed, 
 
 And painted here how Fate, with iron hand, 
 
 Turns the earth-axle on through light and shade ; 
 
 And many a work, profound and nobly planned, 
 The Art and Artist more illustrious made, 
 
 While thus the flower of life's best efforts giving, 
 
 Yea, life itself, to this, the shade of living. 
 
 Have we not known how he, with giant tread, 
 
 Measured the mighty round of thought and deed ? 
 
 With cheerful glance in that dark volume read 
 Of times and lands, each nation's law and creed ? 
 
 Yet have we seen, with sympathy and dread, 
 His suffering body bowed, his spirit bleed ; 
 
 Seen in cur midst, in fair but mournful years ; 
 
 For he was ours, his pangs with pitying tears. 
 
 95
 
 IN MEMORY OF SCHILLER. 
 
 And when the bitter throng of pains passed over, 
 And his bright mind had momentary peace, 
 
 By each kind art our friendship could discover 
 Him from the heavy present to release, 
 
 We sought to quicken the fair thoughts, which hover 
 Round the sick brain, till its hot throbbings cease ; 
 
 And happy were we if, ere evening fell, 
 
 A smile or laugh repaid our efforts well. 
 
 With life's severest law too soon acquainted, . 
 
 For early death by early suffering armed, 
 He goes, and all our cup of joy is tainted ; 
 
 Now that affrights, which had so oft alarmed. 
 Yet from on high, transfigured now and sainted, 
 
 His essence bends, by death untouched, unharmed ; 
 And what before in him was blamed and hated, 
 Death has ennobled, Time has consecrated. 
 
 Many there were who, while he dwelt on earth, 
 Hardly due honor to his powers would pay, 
 
 But now are overshadowed by his worth, 
 Willingly subject to his magic lay. 
 
 Up to the Highest borne, a second birth 
 
 Links him with all the best that 's passed away. 
 
 Then honor him ! What life but poorly gave, 
 
 An after world shall heap above his grave. 
 
 Thus he remains with us remains, though gone 
 For ten years since he vanished from our side ! 
 
 Yet all by him first taught, through him made known, 
 
 The world receives with joy, and we with pride, 
 
 9 6
 
 IN MEMORY OF SCHILLER. 
 
 And, long ago, that which was most his own 
 
 Has passed through countless hearts in circle wide. 
 So, like a comet, vanishing away, 
 Infinite light he blends with his own ray.
 
 L. 
 
 THE GONDOLA. 
 
 ~D OCKS like a cradle on the wave this lightly mov- 
 
 J-^- ing bark ; 
 
 Upon the top, a small black house, most like a coffin 
 
 dark. 
 Between our cradle and our shroud 't is thus we float 
 
 below, 
 And on the great canal of life so carelessly we go.
 
 LI. 
 
 MODERN CATHOLICS : A PARABLE. 
 
 "T* WAS in a city and a nation 
 
 J- Where reigned the largest toleration ; 
 Where every Christian sect was found, 
 With equal rights, on common ground ; 
 Where Church Reformed and Church of Rome 
 Rose side by side, each quite at home, 
 And every man could sing and pray 
 And worship in his father's way. 
 We boys in Luther's church were bred, 
 By sermon and by hymn-book fed, 
 Which did not suit us half as well 
 As masses, chants, and vesper-bell ; 
 These pleased our eye, and filled our ear, 
 Much pleasanter to see and hear. 
 
 And now, since boys and men, by fate 
 Are monkeys, born to imitate ; 
 We children took supreme delight 
 In mimicking each priestly rite. 
 For robes, upon our shoulders hung, 
 Our sisters' borrowed aprons swung ;
 
 MODERN CATHOLICS: A PARABLE. 
 
 And for a stole, each little thief 
 Took mother's lace-edged handkerchief ; 
 While on the bishop's head there sat, 
 For mitre, a gilt-paper hat. 
 
 Thus dressed in fillet, stole, and gown, 
 We marched, all day, up stairs and down ; 
 But though our dresses pleased us well, 
 One thing was wanted still, a bell ! 
 When luckily a rope we see : 
 One end we fastened to a tree ; 
 Thus was the belfry quickly made, 
 Each child, in turn, the sexton played. 
 No bell, indeed, was hanging there, 
 And yet we pulled as if there were, 
 We rang and tolled, pulled hard and long, 
 And, as we pulled, we cried, " Ding, clong. 
 
 Forgotten were these childish plays 
 
 Until, within these latter days, 
 
 We suddenly, with much surprise, 
 
 Behold the same amusements rise. 
 
 Our modern Catholics again 
 
 Play the same play, with might and main, - 
 
 A web of poetry they weave, 
 
 And don't believe, but make believe.
 
 LIT. 
 
 THEKLA: A SPIRIT'S VOICE. 
 
 WHERE am I, askest them, and where ascended 
 My shadowy nature from its earthly strife ? 
 Was not my fate fulfilled, my being ended ? 
 I loved, and, loving, drained the cup of life. 
 
 The nightingales in melody departed, 
 
 Whose swelling notes poured rapture on the spring : 
 But ask not where they fled, the tender-hearted ! 
 
 They only lived their note of love to sing. 
 
 And have I found the lost one ? Yes, believe me, 
 
 We are together, ever to remain, 
 Where hopes are real, and faith will not deceive me, 
 
 A land where tears will never flow again. 
 
 And in that land of union thou shalt meet us, 
 If, like our love, thy love be firm and true ; 
 
 And there the father, freed from sin, shall greet us, 
 Freed from the hand of bloody murder too.
 
 THEKLA: A SPIRIT'S VOICE. 
 
 He feels he was by no false thought deceived, 
 When to the stars he looked with trust and fear. 
 
 The measure which he gave he has received, 
 Faith in the Holy brings the Holy near. 
 
 There shall be realized each word of love ; 
 
 Faith be rewarded there in sunlit day, 
 O venture, then on earth to dream and rove ! 
 
 Deep meaning often lies in childish play.
 
 LIII. 
 THE WAY AND THE LIFE. 
 
 WORLD Redeemer, Lord of glory ! as of old to 
 zealous Paul 
 Thou didst come in sudden splendor, and from out 
 
 the cloud didst call ; 
 
 As to Mary, in the garden, did thy risen form appear, 
 Come, arrayed in heavenly beauty ; come and speak, 
 and I will hear ! 
 
 " Hast thou not," the Master answered, " hast thou 
 
 not my written Word ? 
 Hast thou not, to go before thee, the example of the 
 
 Lord?" 
 Blessed one ! thy word of wisdom is too high for 
 
 me to know, 
 And my feet are all too feeble for the path where thou 
 
 didst go. 
 
 Doubts torment me while I study ; all my reading and 
 
 my thinking 
 Lead away from firm conviction, and in mire my feet 
 
 are sinking. 
 
 103
 
 THE WA Y AND THE LIFE. 
 
 Then I turn to works of duty, here thy law is very 
 
 plain, 
 But I look at thy example, strive to follow, strive 
 
 in vain. 
 
 Let me gaze, then, at thy glory : change to flesh this 
 heart of stone ! 
 
 Let the light illume my darkness that around the apos- 
 tle shone ! 
 
 Cold belief is not conviction, rules are impotent to 
 move ; 
 
 Let me see thy heavenly beauty, let me learn to trust 
 and love. 
 
 In my heart the voice made answer : " Ask not for a 
 
 sign from heaven. 
 In the gospel of thy Saviour life, as well as light, is 
 
 given. 
 
 Ever looking unto Jesus, all his glory thou shalt see, 
 From thy heart the veil be taken, and the Word made 
 
 clear to thee. 
 
 " Love the Lord, and thou shalt see him ; do his will, 
 and thou shalt know 
 
 How the spirit lights the letter, how a little child 
 may go 
 
 Where the wise and prudent stumble, how a heav- 
 enly glory shines 
 
 In his acts of love and mercy, from the gospel's sim- 
 plest lines."
 
 LIV. 
 
 AN ITALIAN SPRING TWO THOUSAND 
 YEARS AGO. 
 
 MELTS to spring the bitter winter, with glad 
 change from day to day ; 
 Through the sand the creaking pulleys drag the ves- 
 
 sels to the bay ; 
 Ploughmen leave the chimney-corner ; from their stalls 
 
 the cattle go, 
 
 Browzing in the grassy meadow, white no more with 
 frost and snow. 
 
 Now, amid the showers of moonlight, on the turf the 
 
 maidens dance. 
 Are they girls ? or with the Graces does the Queen 
 
 of Love advance ? 
 Hear their feet, with throbs alternate, shake the earth 
 
 in joyous rhyme ! 
 Hear, below, the burning Cyclops on their anvils beat- 
 
 ing time !
 
 AN ITALIAN SPRING. 
 
 Hasten, brothers ! bind your foreheads with spring 
 
 flowers and. myrtles green ! 
 For the frozen sods have crumbled, and the buds 
 
 appear between. 
 Hasten, brothers, to the forest, and within some shady 
 
 dell 
 Offer there a lamb to Faunus, or the kid he loves so 
 
 well. 
 
 Steadily pale Death approaches, bringing each an 
 equal fate, 
 
 Knocking on the cottage-lattice, knocking at the pal- 
 ace-gate. 
 
 Vast ambitions, O my Sextus, do not suit our little 
 day. 
 
 Night and Death are moving toward us ; use our sun- 
 light while we may. 
 
 Kings of wine will not be chosen at our banquets, 
 
 when we go 
 To the regions unsubstantial and the mighty Powers 
 
 below ! 
 Then your little pet will leave you, he with whom 
 
 the striplings play, 
 And to whom, a little later, all the maidens' hearts 
 
 shall stray.
 
 LV. 
 
 AN ITALIAN WINTER TWO THOUSAND 
 YEARS AGO. 
 
 SEE how, at last, even old Soracte 's covered 
 Up to its summit with deep-fallen snow ! 
 The bending woods beneath the drifts are smothered ; 
 And rivers stand, held fast by ice, below. 
 
 But in our house let winter be a fable ! 
 
 Pile up the logs, and drive the frost afar, 
 And bring, O Thaliarchus, to our table, 
 
 Wine four years old, within its two-eared jar. 
 
 And, for the rest, leave all to those High Powers 
 Who, when the storm-lashed surges rise and fall, 
 
 And the old trees rock in their leafy bowers, 
 Speak, and a sudden silence comes to all. 
 
 Do thou, clear boy, indulge no wintry sorrow, 
 But give to dance and song youth's happy day ; 
 
 Ask not what darker fate may come to-morrow ; 
 Count as clear gain all good you find to-day.
 
 AN ITALIAN WINTER. 
 
 Let youth, light-hearted, have its hour of joy, 
 Its manly games, its long day's tramp and walk, 
 
 And tender whispers when the girl and boy 
 Meet with shy footsteps for their twilight talk. 
 
 For then the child, within her corner hidden, 
 Is by her stifled laughter soon betrayed 
 
 To him who boldly dares, but half forbidden, 
 Kiss on her arm the unreluctant maid.
 
 LVI. 
 
 A COQUETTE OF OLD ROME. 
 
 WHAT perfumed boy beside you now reposes 
 In some cool shade, with eager, mad caresses ; 
 While you, to please him, 'mid the dropping roses, 
 Let fall your golden tresses ? 
 
 Artfully artless ! how the child will wonder, 
 When this fair day of love, so bright, so warm, 
 
 With black clouds overcast, and bursting thunder, 
 Shall change to sudden storm ! 
 
 Facile and tender when her whim it pleases, 
 He thinks, fond fool, this golden hour will last ; 
 
 But sooner hope to fix the faithless breezes 
 Than hold her to her past ! 
 
 But I, experienced in each subtle motive 
 
 Which brings such shifting gales o'er love's wild 
 sky, 
 
 Hang in the Temple, as an offering votive, 
 My sea-drenched panoply.
 
 LVII. 
 
 A SIMPLE FEAST. 
 
 MY boy, on me no Persian luxury waste, 
 Costly bark chaplets are not to my taste ; 
 Nor to far forest thickets do thou haste, 
 Where one rose lingers. 
 
 Plain myrtle suits me, as beneath this vine 
 In nickering light and shade I drink my wine ; 
 Suits thee, as well, dear boy, in wreaths to twine 
 With idle fingers.
 
 LVIII. 
 PRAYER OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 (WRITTEN IN HER BOOK OF DEVOTIONS JUST BEFORE HER, 
 EXECUTION.) 
 
 " O DOMINE DEUS ! speravi in te ; 
 O care mi Jesu ! mine libera me. 
 In dura catena, in misera poena, 
 
 Desidero te. 
 
 Languendo, gemendo, et genuflectendo, 
 Adoro, imploro, ut liberes me ! " 
 
 O MASTER and Maker! my hope is in thee. 
 My Jesus, dear Saviour ! now set my soul free. 
 From this my hard prison, my spirit uprisen, 
 
 Soars upward to thee. 
 
 Thus moaning, and groaning, and bending the knee, 
 I adore, and implore that thou liberate me.
 
 LIX. 
 
 INVOCATION TO BEAUTY AND 
 LOVE. 
 
 WITH OTHER SPECIMENS FROM LUCRETIUS. 
 
 MOTHER of Rome, delight of Gods and Men ! 
 Divinest Beauty ! under drifting stars, 
 Or on the Ocean, white with numerous sails, 
 Or on the Earth, yellow with waves of corn, 
 Still art thou evident, and still adored ! 
 Drawn by thy love, all creatures move and live ; 
 And, at thy coming, storms subside, and clojuds 
 Pass from the blue of Heaven, the happy waves 
 Laugh round the sea, the flowers laugh back from 
 
 earth, 
 
 And all the joyful sky is full of light. 
 Soon as spring days are mellow with warm air, 
 And south-winds whisper to the sleeping seeds, 
 A thousand birds proclaim, in tender song 
 From loving hearts, the coming of their Queen ! 
 Joy fills the hearts of all who swim the stream, 
 Leap in the meadow, or, in wood or sea, 
 On the lone mountain, in the rushing flood, 
 Are warmed again by thee to life and love.
 
 FROM LUCRETIUS. 
 
 Therefore, O royal Beauty ! since thy power 
 
 Sweeps through all nature, since, without thy might 
 
 And great attractive influence, nothing fair 
 
 And nothing sweet or lovely ever comes, 
 
 I long to have thee with me while I write; 
 
 My helper, while I sing, in measured verse, 
 
 Nature, its Substance, Source, Law, Meaning, End. 
 
 SAFE, on the solid land, 't is sweet to see 
 
 The tumult and the terror of the storm, 
 
 When mountain waves pitch headlong on the shore, 
 
 And helpless vessels struggle with the gale. 
 
 Not that we take a pleasure in their pain, 
 
 But in their pain we realize our peace. 
 
 'T is sweet, in safety, to behold the field 
 
 Where mighty armies meet to fight and die. 
 
 But, sweetest of all sights, secure ourselves, 
 
 In the grand calm of science, to survey 
 
 The passions and the struggles of the crowd, 
 
 Seeking distinction, admiration, power \ 
 
 Spending long days of care and sleepless nights 
 
 For what ? A heap of gold, an empty name ! 
 
 O wretched human minds ! O blinded' hearts ! 
 To waste in toils like these your little day, 
 When all that Nature asks is only this, 
 A body free from pain, a mind from care. 
 
 To crowd around an altar, and to bend 
 Humbly, with veiled face, before a stone,
 
 FROM LUCRETIUS. 
 
 To fling ourselves upon fhe ground, with hands 
 
 Spread out in vows to inattentive gods, 
 
 To patter over countless prayers, to pour 
 
 The blood of harmless lambs upon the shrine, 
 
 This is not piety ; but rather this, 
 
 To look on all events with equal mind. 
 
 Ah ! when we see the mighty dome above, 
 The midnight firmament thick-set with stars, 
 Heaven's great highway, where march the sun and 
 
 moon, 
 
 There comes to us a natural human doubt, 
 If the Almighty and Eternal Gods 
 May not, perhaps, move all these shining stars ! 
 Our very poverty of reason strikes 
 Fear in our heart of some mysterious powers 
 From whom these worlds arise, by whom they 
 
 cease, 
 
 Fear, lest the deep foundations of the earth 
 Shall shake beneath the forces of the skies, 
 Unless, held up by some diviner hand, 
 The Universe, in its eternal youth, 
 May move superior to decay and change. 
 
 THE sacred sides of Pindus I ascend 
 
 By paths before untrod ; with joy I drink 
 
 From springs before unknown, plucking strange 
 
 flowers 
 
 With which no bard before has crowned his brow. 
 The truths I teach shall free the human soul
 
 FROM LUCRETIUS. 
 
 From superstitious fears, "and fill with light 
 The darkest regions in the mind of man. 
 And as the wise physician tempts the child 
 To drink the bitter draught within the cup 
 By putting honey all around its brim, 
 So I adorn my sad philosophy, 
 Hard and repellent to the common mind, 
 With the sweet voice and honey of my song, 
 Thus to detain men's thoughts, until they know 
 The grandeur and the good of all I teach.
 
 LX. 
 
 A BEAUTY OF ANCIENT ROME 
 
 " ILLAM, quidquid agit, quoquo vestigia movit, 
 Componit furtim, subsequiturque Decor. 
 
 Seu solvit crines, fusis decet esse capillis ; 
 Seu comsit, comtis est veneranda comis. 
 
 Urit, seu Tyria voluit procedere palla ; 
 Urit, seu nivea Candida veste venit." 
 
 WHERE'ER she goes, whate'er she does, in si- 
 lence, speech, tears, laughter ; 
 Soft grace attends her and befriends, goes with her, 
 
 follows after. 
 She drives us crazy when her locks are floating, 
 
 harum-scarum, 
 And then we say that that 's the way, the only way 
 
 to wear 'em. 
 But if brushed smooth, why then we love the glory 
 
 trembling o'er her, 
 A halo round the shapely head, half tempting to adore 
 
 her.
 
 A BEAUTY OF ANCIENT ROME. 
 
 She takes all hearts in grand toilette, when dressed a 
 
 quatre epingles, 
 Bewitches in her morning dress, of muslin from the 
 
 mangle. 
 
 In justice to Tibullus, I have inserted the lines which I have here 
 imitated, and certainly modernized. I once showed this translation to 
 my friend, Oliver Wendell Holmes, who remarked that I had turned this 
 stately Roman beauty into a French grisette. The criticism is just ; 
 but I insert my lines for the sake of the first couplet, which may call 
 attention to the exquisite grace of the original. 
 
 J. F. C.
 
 LXI. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 ' SOMNE veni ; et quanquam certissima Mortis imago es, 
 Consortem cupio te tamen esse tori ; 
 Hue ades, haud abiture cito : nam sic sine vita 
 Vivere quam suave est sic sine morte mori ! " 
 
 COME, Sleep! though thou most like to Death 
 appear 
 
 Yet come, and share the couch on which I lie. 
 Come soon, stay long. I hold it sweet and dear 
 Thus without life to live, thus without death to die. 
 
 After this version had been written many years, and read by many 
 persons, another translation appeared in a London Magazine, in which 
 the last line was identical with that above. This is one of those 
 curious coincidences which sometimes are found in literary work, and 
 which give rise to the charge of plagiarism.
 
 LXII. 
 
 "ERECTUS, NON ELATUS." 
 
 PROSPERA non laetam fecere, nee aspera tristem ; 
 Aspera risus erant, prospera terror erant. 
 Non decor efficet fragilem, non sceptra superbum : 
 Sola potens humilis, sola pudica decens." 
 
 T N gladness timid, but in sadness brave ; 
 - In trials smiling, but in triumphs grave ; 
 Strong, but not proud ; though beautiful, not weak : 
 No queen so royal, and no child so meek.
 
 LXIII. 
 THE MOHAMMEDAN SAINTS 
 
 RABIA, sick upon her bed, 
 By two saints was visited, 
 
 Holy Malik, Hassan wise ; 
 Men of mark in Moslem eyes. 
 
 Hassan said, " Whose prayer is pure 
 Will God's chastisements endure." 
 
 Malik, from a deeper sense, 
 Uttered his experience : 
 
 " He who loves his Master's choice 
 Will in chastisement rejoice" 
 
 Rabia saw some selfish will 
 In their maxims lingering still, 
 
 And replied : " O men of grace ! 
 He who sees his Master's face 
 
 " Will not in his prayer recall 
 That he is chastised at all ! "
 
 LXIV. 
 "HE WHO ASKS, RECEIVES." 
 
 " A LLAH, Allah ! " cried the sick man, racked with 
 
 ^*- pain the long night through ; 
 Till with prayer his heart was tender, till his lips like 
 honey grew. 
 
 But at morning came the Tempter; said, " Call louder, 
 
 child of pain ! 
 See if Allah ever hear, or answer ' Here am I ' again." 
 
 Like a stab, the cruel cavil through his brain and 
 
 pulses went; 
 To his heart an icy coldness, to his brain a darkness, 
 
 sent. 
 
 Then before him stands Elias ; says, "My child! 
 
 why thus dismayed? 
 Dost repent thy former fervor? Is thy soul of prayer 
 
 afraid ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried, " I Ve called so often ; never heard 
 
 the ' Here am I ' ; 
 And I thought, God will not pity, will not, turn on me. 
 
 his eye."
 
 "HE WHO ASKS, RECEIVES." 
 
 Then the grave Elias answered, " God said, ' Rise, 
 
 Elias, go, 
 Speak to him, the sorely tempted; lift him from his 
 
 gulf of woe. 
 
 " ' Tell him that his very longing is itself an answering 
 
 cry; 
 That his prayer " Come, gracious Allah " is my answer^ 
 
 "Here am I.'" 
 
 " Every inmost aspiration is God's angel undefiled ; 
 And in every ' O my Father ! ' slumbers deep a ' Here, 
 my child!'"
 
 LXV. 
 THE CALIPH AND SATAN. 
 
 T N heavy sleep the Caliph lay, 
 
 *- When some one called, " Arise and pray ! ; 
 
 The angry Caliph cried, "Who dare 
 Rebuke his king for slighted prayer ? " 
 
 Then, from the corner of the room, 
 
 A voice cut sharply through the gloom : 
 
 " My name is Satan. Rise ! obey 
 Mohammed's law : awake and pray." 
 
 " Thy -words are good," the Caliph said, 
 " But their intent I somewhat dread ; 
 
 " For matters cannot well be worse, 
 
 Than when the thief says, ' Guard your purse. 
 
 " I cannot trust thy counsel, friend, 
 It surely hides some wicked end."
 
 THE CALIPH AND SATAN. 
 
 Said Satan : " Near the throne of God, 
 In ages past, we devils trod ; 
 
 " Angels of light, to us was given 
 
 To guide each wandering soul to heaven. 
 
 " Not wholly lost is that first love, 
 Nor those pure tastes we knew above. 
 
 " Roaming across a continent, 
 The Tartar moves his shifting tent, 
 
 " But never quite forgets the day 
 When in his father's arms he lay ; 
 
 " So we, once bathed in love divine, 
 Recall the taste of that rich wine. 
 
 " God's finger rested on my brow, 
 That magic touch, I feel it now ! 
 
 " I fell, 't is true, O, ask not why ! 
 For still to God I turn my eye ; 
 
 " It was a chance by which I fell; 
 Another takes me back from Hell. 
 
 " 'T was but my envy of mankind, 
 The envy of a loving mind. 
 
 " Jealous of men, I could not bear 
 God's love with this new race to share.
 
 THE CALIPH AND SATAN. 
 
 " But yet God's tables open stand, 
 His guests flock in from every land. 
 
 " Some kind act toward the race of men 
 May toss us into Heaven again. 
 
 " A game of chess is all we see, 
 And God the player, pieces we. 
 
 " White, black, queen, pawn, 't is all the same, 
 For on both sides he plays the game. 
 
 " Moved to and fro, from good to ill, 
 We rise and fall as suits his will." 
 
 *" *. 
 
 The Caliph said : " If this be so 
 I know not, but thy guile I know ; 
 
 " For how can I thy words believe, 
 When even God thou didst deceive. 
 
 " A sea of lies art thou, our sin 
 Only a drop that sea within." 
 
 " Not so," said Satan ; " I serve God, 
 His angel now, and now his rod. 
 
 "In tempting I both bless and curse, 
 Make good men better, bad men worse. 
 
 " Good coin is mixed with bad, my brother, 
 I but distinguish one from th' other." 
 125
 
 THE CALIPH AND SA TAN. 
 
 "Granted," the Caliph said; "but still 
 You never tempt to good, but ill. 
 
 " Tell, then, the truth, for well I know 
 You come as my most deadly foe." 
 
 Loud laughed the fiend. " You know me well 
 Therefore my purpose I will tell. 
 
 " If you had missed your prayer, I knew 
 A swift repentance would ensue ; 
 
 " And such repentance would have been 
 A good, outweighing far the sin. 
 
 r 
 
 " I chose this humbleness divine, 
 Born out of fault, should not be thine ; 
 
 " Preferring prayers elate with pride, 
 To sin with penitence allied."
 
 LXVI. 
 AND THE WORM. 
 
 HOLY Moses, man of God, came to his tent one 
 day, 
 And called his wife Safurja, and his children from 
 
 their play : 
 " O sweetest orphaned children ! O dearest widowed 
 
 wife ! 
 We meet, dear ones, no more on earth, for this day 
 
 ends my life. 
 
 Jehovah sent his angel down, and told me to prepare " 
 Then swooned Safurja on the ground ; the children, 
 
 in despair, 
 Said, weeping : " Who will care for us when you, dear 
 
 father, go ? " 
 And Moses wept and sobbed aloud to see his children's 
 
 woe. 
 But then Jehovah spake from heaven: "And dost 
 
 thou fear to die ? 
 And dost thou love this world so well that thus I hear 
 
 thee cry ? " 
 And Moses said : " I fear not death. I leave this 
 
 world with joy ; 
 
 127
 
 MOSES AND THE WORM. 
 
 Yet cannot but compassionate this orphan girl and 
 
 boy." 
 " In whom, then, did thy mother trust, when, in thy 
 
 basket-boat, 
 An infant on the Nile's broad stream, all helpless 
 
 thou didst float'? 
 In whom didst thou thyself confide when by the raging 
 
 sea 
 The host of Pharaoh came in sight ? " Then Moses 
 
 said : " In Thee! 
 
 In Thee, O Lord, I now confide, as I confided then." 
 And God replied : " Go to the shore ! Lift up thy 
 
 staff again." 
 Then Moses lifted up his rod. The sea rolled wide 
 
 away, 
 And in the midst a mighty rock, black and uncovered, 
 
 lay. 
 " Smite thou the rock ! " said God again. The rock 
 
 was rent apart, 
 And then appeared a little worm, close nestled in its 
 
 heart. 
 The worm cried : " Praise to God on high, who hears 
 
 his creatures' moan, 
 Nor did forget the little worm concealed within the 
 
 stone." 
 " If I remember," said the Lord, " the worm beneath 
 
 the sea, 
 Shall I forget thy children, who love and honor me ? "
 
 LXVII. 
 THE USE OF WEALTH. 
 
 T T 7EALTH is a means, and life the end; 
 
 * * You lose your hoard, have what you spend. 
 For that unhappy mortal pray 
 Who never learned to give away. 
 His heaped-up wealth made him its slave; 
 He did not use who never gave. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 KNOWLEDGE AND ACTION. 
 
 OCOLD of heart, but wise of head, 
 Whose knowledge barren is and dead ! 
 Thou, like the statue in thy porch, 
 Art blind, though holding forth a torch ; 
 Or like the ass, with solemn looks, 
 Weighed down beneath a load of books.
 
 LXIX. 
 
 EASTERN HUMANITY. 
 
 YOUR conquered foe do not despise, 
 But treat him nobly while you can ; 
 In every bone some marrow lies, 
 In every jacket there 's a man. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 "TIMEO DANAOS." 
 
 HEAR what the bad man counsels, carefully, 
 Then quickly go, and do the opposite ; 
 If on the left he shows a straight smooth way, 
 Take thou the steep wild road upon the right.
 
 LXXI. 
 
 TO PHILANTHROPISTS. 
 
 LOVE with strength as well as meekness ; 
 Love with firmness, not with weakness ; 
 Probe the wound and scarify, 
 Before the balsam you apply. 
 Be so benevolent, I pray, 
 As to drive the wolf away ; 
 Love him, if you will, but keep 
 Some love also for the sheep. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 A LOVER'S ECONOMY. 
 
 WHILE writing verses for my love, I looked up 
 from the paper, 
 And there she stood ! I rose in haste, and overturned 
 
 the taper. 
 " How careless to put out the light ! " she said. " Is 
 
 it surprising," 
 
 I answered, " that I quenched my lamp when I saw 
 the sun arising ? "
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 SLOW AND SURE. 
 
 T N forty years of steady work, so Eastern travellers 
 
 say, 
 
 The Chinese make a porcelain cup of Oriental clay, 
 In Bagdad they form easily a hundred in a day; 
 But princes seek and prize the one, the other 's 
 
 thrown away. 
 The chicken walks from out its shell, and goes its food 
 
 to find, 
 While helpless lies for months and years the child of 
 
 human kind ; 
 Which yet, by gradual growth, o'ertops all else in 
 
 strength and mind. 
 O slow of thought ! remember this, be thankful and 
 
 resigned. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 UNPRODUCTIVE INDUSTRY. 
 
 T SAW a farmer plough his land, who never came 
 
 to sow ; 
 
 I saw a student, filled with truth, to practise never go ; 
 In land or mind I never saw the ripened harvest grow.
 
 LXXV. 
 WHAT THE WORLDLY-WISE ARE FOR. 
 
 WOULDST learn to make of leathern skins 
 Good clothes that men may wear them, 
 Take not as teacher Master Wolf, 
 
 His business is to tear them. 
 And wouldst thou, brother, help thy race 
 
 To grow in truth and joy, 
 Avoid the worldly-wise, who love 
 To rend and to destroy. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 WARNING TO OFFICE-SEEKERS. 
 
 A GEM which falls within ttoe mire will still a gem 
 * remain ; 
 
 Men's eyes turn downward to the earth, and search 
 
 for it with pain. 
 But dust, though whirled aloft to heaven, continues 
 
 dust alway, 
 More base and noxious in the air than when on earth 
 
 it lay.
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 HOW TO GET RID OF BORES. 
 
 A SCHOLAR sought his teacher, " What shall 
 I do? "said he, 
 " With these unasked-for visitors, who steal my time 
 
 from me ? " 
 The learned master answered : " Lend money to the 
 
 poor, 
 And borrow money of the rich, they '11 trouble you 
 
 no more." 
 When Islam's army marches, send a beggar in the 
 
 van, 
 And the frightened hosts of Infidels will run to Hin- 
 
 dostan. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 "CELA DEPEND." 
 
 A TYRANT asked a Dervish, " Tell me, pray, 
 Ought I to rise for prayers at break of day ? ' 
 " For you to sleep till noon," said he, " were best ; 
 Then for six hours, at least, mankind would rest."
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 UNSUITABLE BOUNTY. 
 
 
 THE Sultan in his fever cried, " If Allah lets me 
 live, 
 
 In gratitude, to holy men a purse of gold I '11 give." 
 
 So said, so done. He soon grew well and sent his 
 servant out, 
 
 A hundred Dirams in his purse, to hunt their saint- 
 ships out. 
 
 The servant, wise beyond his years, returned at even- 
 ing late ; 
 
 He kissed the purse and laid it down, and said, " From 
 gate to gate 
 
 I searched all day, nor in the town a holy man could 
 find." 
 
 " Why ! what a story ! " said the King. " Already in 
 my mind 
 
 I can recall a hundred who live not far from us." 
 
 "O mighty lord!" the youth replied, "thy servant 
 argued thus ; 
 
 That holy men would never take my money, and 
 again 
 
 That those who took my money could not be holy 
 men." 
 
 The Sultan smiled, and, pondering, said : " The saucy 
 fellow 's right. 
 
 A bag of gold is not the thing to give an anchorite ! " 
 135
 
 LXXX. 
 
 MAN THE INSTRUMENT OF GOD'S WILL. 
 
 GOD gives to man the power to strike or^iss you ; 
 r It was not thy foe who did the thing. 
 The arrow from the bow may seem to issue, 
 But we know an archer drew the string. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 RESULTS OF A BAD REPUTATION. 
 
 ONCE I saw a fox, in terror, running hastily away. 
 "Whence," said I, "good Master Reynard, this 
 
 precipitate dismay ? " 
 " Stop me not ! I heard the master give command to 
 
 kill an ox." 
 
 " Well, and what is that to you, sir ? What 's a bul- 
 lock to a fox ? " 
 " Ah ! " said he, " my foes are many ; and if one should 
 
 say, ' See there ! 
 That 's an ox ! ' the resj would kill me. For the error 
 
 who would care ? 
 Malice rides an Arab courser, strikes his blow as 
 
 sure as fate. 
 
 Justice, travelling in his carriage, mostly comes an 
 hour too late." 
 
 .36
 
 LXXXII. 
 JUDGE NOT. 
 
 T N my youth, as I remember, I was scrupulous and 
 
 *- careful ; 
 
 Every sacred rite performing; fasting, watching, anx- 
 ious, prayerful. 
 
 So one night, the whilst my father (Allah bless him !) 
 watch was keeping, 
 
 On the floor and on the divans travellers around were 
 sleeping. 
 
 I nor closed my eyes nor nodded, but beside the 
 glimmering taper 
 
 Held the precious Koran open, fixed my eyes upon 
 the paper. 
 
 Still they slept; till, over-zealous, thus I uttered my 
 objections : 
 
 " See, my father, no one rises to perform his genu- 
 flections ; 
 
 Not a man goes through his ritual, not a man his 
 prayer has said ; 
 
 Prone upon the floor extended, you might think they 
 all were dead." 
 
 "Emanation of your father," said the good man, 
 " cease your railings ; 
 
 Better sleep yourself than waken to calumniate human 
 failings."
 
 LXXXIII. 
 'GENEROSITY. 
 
 ONCE to a hermit's cell there came a thief, 
 But from its empty walls he turned in grief. 
 The hermit, sad that he went sad away, 
 Tossed him the sleeping-rug on which he lay. 
 Thus, even in the battle's heat and strain 
 The hero spares his foe superfluous pain. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 SELF-SATISFACTION. 
 
 ONCE I heard a Jew and Moslem arguing with 
 "Yes! "and "No!" 
 " May I," yells the child of Moses, " trust in Islam if 
 
 it 's so." 
 " If it is not," screams the other, " I will turn a Jew 
 
 to-night." 
 Then I thought, " How every nation takes for 
 
 granted it is right! 
 Should the Lord destroy-all knowledge in each people 
 
 creed, and school, 
 
 Not a man in this dilemma e'er would own himself a 
 fool ! " 
 
 138
 
 LXXXV. 
 THE MOTE AND THE BEAM. 
 
 '"TO a darning-needle once exclaimed the kitchen 
 
 sieve, 
 " You 've a hole right through your body, and I wonder 
 
 how you live ! " 
 But the needle (who was sharp) replied, " I too have 
 
 wondered 
 That you notice my one hole when in you there are 
 
 a hundred." 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 LOST ILLUSIONS. 
 
 SHE sat enveloped in her veil. I thought she must 
 be fair and young ; 
 I judged Jiini one of mighty parts, he spoke with such 
 
 a fluent tongue. 
 
 But when the veil was taken off, a good old grand- 
 mother was seen ; 
 
 And when the talker went to work, his qualities were 
 poor and mean.
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 "FACTA, NON V E R B A ." 
 
 PRAISE not thy work, but let thy work praise 
 thee; 
 
 For deeds, not words, make each man's memory stable. 
 If what thou dost is good, its good all men will see. 
 Musk by its smell is known, not by its label. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 PEDANTRY. 
 
 A HOLLOW shell and solemn words do not below 
 the surface reach ; 
 
 There is no meat within that nut, nor any soul within 
 that speech. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 BEGINNING AND END. 
 
 ^T 7"ATCH well two points in life, I heard a wise 
 
 * " man say, 
 
 The beginning of each labor, and the end of every 
 play.
 
 xc. 
 
 GRASS AND ROSES. 
 
 T LOOKED where the roses were blooming, 
 *- They stood among grasses and weeds ; 
 I said, " Where such beauties are growing, 
 Why surfer these paltry weeds ? " 
 
 Weeping, the poor things faltered : 
 " We have neither beauty nor bloom, 
 
 We are grass in the roses' garden, 
 But the Master gives us room. 
 
 " Slaves of a generous Master, 
 
 Born from a world above, 
 We came to this place in his wisdom, 
 
 We stay to this hour from his love. 
 
 " We have fed his humblest creatur'es, 
 We have served him truly and long ; 
 
 He gave no grace to our features, 
 We have neither color nor song. 
 
 " Yet He who has made the flowers 
 
 Placed us on the self-same sod ; 
 He knows our reason for being, 
 
 We are grass in the garden of God."
 
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