I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,
And set thee here; I did not well.

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere,

Vain was thy dream of many a year.

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it droppedCreation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again The early way, while I remain.

"With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ: Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home;

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.

87

TITHONUS 1

ALFRED TENNYSON

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The
vapors weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality

Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,

Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.

Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man—
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd
To his great heart none other than a God!
I ask'd thee, "Give me immortality."

Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men who care not how they give.
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills,
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me,
And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd
To dwell in presence of immortal youth,

Immortal age beside immortal youth,

And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love,

1. "Aurora, goddess of the dawn, fell in love with Tithonus, son of the king of Troy. She stole him away, and prevailed on Jupiter

to grant him immortality; but forgetting to have youth joined in the gift, after some time she discovered that he was growing old. When his hair was white she left his society. In time he lost the power of using his limbs. Finally she turned him into a grasshopper."-Gayley's Classic Myths.

Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now,
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,

Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears
To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift:
Why should a man desire in any way

To vary from the kindly race of men,
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance

Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?

A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.

Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful
In silence, then before thine answer given
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt,
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true?
"The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."

Ay me! ay me! with what another heart
In days far-off, and with what other eyes
I used to watch-if I be he that watch'd-
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings;
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my

blood

Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay,
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,
Like that strange song I heard Apollo 2 sing,
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East:
How can my 'nature longer mix with thine?
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, eold

Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes
Of happy men that have the power to die,
And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
Release me, and restore me to the ground;
Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave:
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn;
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,
And thee returning on thy silver wheels.

2. Apollo. The god of music.

3. Ilion. Troy.

88

1

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA 1

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Speak and tell us, our Ximena,2 looking northward far

away,

O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near?

Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.

"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls;

Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!"

Who is losing? who is winning?-"Over hill and over plain,

I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain."

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look

once more:

"Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse,

Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course."

1. "A letter written from Mexico during the Mexican war, when detailing some of the incidents at the terrible fight of Buena Vista, mentioned that Mexican women were seen hovering near the field of death, for the purpose of giving aid and succor to the wounded. One poor woman was found surrounded by maimed and suffering of both armies, ministering to the wants of Americans as well as Mexicans with impartial tenderness."-Whittier.

2. Ximena, pronounced Zimáynya.