Do ye sit there still in slumber,

In gigantic Alpine rows?

The black poppies out of number

Nodding, dripping from your brows
To the red lees of your wine,-

And so kept alive and fine?

Pan, Pan is dead.

Or lie crushed your stagnant corses
Where the silver spheres roll on,

Stung to life by centric forces

Thrown like rays out from the sun?-
While the smoke of your old altars
Is the shroud that round you welters?
Great Pan is dead.

"Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas,"

Said the old Hellenic tongue!
Said the hero-oath, as well as

Poets' songs the sweetest sung!
Have ye grown deaf in a day?

Can ye speak not yea or nay

Since Pan is dead?

INCLUSIONS.

Oh, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine?
As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine!
Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, . . . unfit to plight with thine.

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?
My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down.
Now leave a little space, Dear, . . . lest it should wet thine own.

Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?—
Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand, . . . the part is in the whole ! .
Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul.

HUGH STUART BOYD: LEGACIES.

Three gifts the Dying left me: Æschylus,
And Gregory Nazianzen, and a clock
Chiming the gradual hours out like a flock

Of stars, whose motion is melodious.

The books were those I used to read from, thus
Assisting my dear teacher's soul to unlock
The darkness of his eyes! now, mine they mock,
Blinded in turn, by tears: now, murmurous
Sad echoes of my young voice, years agone,
Entoning, from these leaves, the Græcian phrase,
Return and choke my utterance. Books, lie down
In silence of the shelf within my gaze!

And thou, clock, striking the hour's pulses on,

Chime in the day which ends these parting days!

THE POET AND THE BIRD: A FABLE.

Said a people to a poet-"Go out from among us straightway!
While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine.
There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateway,
Makes fitter music to our ear, than any song of thine !"

The poet went out weeping-the nightingale ceased chanting;
"Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?"
"I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting,
Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under sun."

The poet went out weeping-and died abroad, bereft there—

The bird flew to his grave and died, amid a thousand wails :And, when I last came by the place, I swear the mu ic left there Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's.

lony or bounded to my foots glee

For plants it from

горе

mythe hee

the pale do any more. It only may

how hade on two fale cheets, it mark of tars Taught droging from to head that hangs aside Through sonow's trick. I honort & primeval dears would take this purit - but love is pistified. Take it then printing pare from all tose year The tip my mother oft hee alen she died

7

MS. of Sonnet XIX. from "Sonnets from the Portuguese" (Reproduced by permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co.)

FROM "SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE."

I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery while I strove, . . .

...

"Guess now who holds thee?"-"Death!" I said. But, there, The silver answer rang, .. "Not Death, but Love."

THE SLEEP.

"He giveth His beloved sleep."-PSALM CXXVII. 2.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Born inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this-
"He giveth His beloved, sleep"?

What would we give to our beloved?—
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,

The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,

The monarch's crown, to light the brows.

"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

What do we give to our beloved?—

A little faith, all undisproved,

A little dust, to overweep,

And bitter memories, to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake.

"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,

But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:

But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber, when
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

O earth, so full of dreary noises!

O men, with wailing in your voices !
O delved gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God makes a silence through you all,
And "giveth His beloved, sleep."