ters rare, Reacheth to every corner under heaven, Deep-rooted in the living soil of truth; So that men's hopes and fears take refuge in The fragrance of its complicated glooms, And cool impeached twilights. Child of

man,

Seest thou yon river, whose translucent wave,

Forth issuing from the darkness, windeth

through

The argent streets o' the city, imaging The soft inversion of her tremulous domes, Her gardens frequent with the stately palm,

Her pagods hung with music of sweet bells, Her obelisks of rangéd chrysolite, Minarets and towers? Lo! how he passeth by,

And gulfs himself in sands, as not enduring

which bore

The reflex of my city in their depth.
O city! O latest throne! where I was
raised

To be a mystery of loveliness
Unto all eyes, the time is wellnigh come
When I must render up this glorious home
To keen Discovery; soon yon brilliant
towers

Shall darken with the waving of her wand;
Darken and shrink and shiver into huts,
Black specks amid a waste of dreary sand,
Low-built, mud-walled, barbarian settle-

ments.

How changed from this fair city!"

Thus far the Spirit : Then parted heavenward on the wing: and I

Was left alone on Calpe, and the moon Had fallen from the night, and all was dark!

ELEGIACS.

LOW-FLOWING breezes are roaming the broad valley dimmed in the gloaming:

Thro' the black-stemmed pines only the far river shines.

Creeping through blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes, Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall. Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grasshopper carolleth clearly; Deeply the turtle cooes; shrilly the owlet halloos ;

Winds creep: dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly: Over the pools in the burn watergnats murmur and mourn.

Sadly the far kine loweth the glimmering water outfloweth :

Twin peaks shadowed with pine slope to the dark hyaline. Low-throned Hesper is stayéd between the two peaks; but the Naiad Throbbing in wild unrest holds him beneath in her breast.

The ancient poetess singeth that Hesperus all things bringeth,

Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind.

Thou comest morning and even; she cometh not morning or even. False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind?

THE "HOW" AND THE "WHY."

?

I AM any man's suitor,

If any will be my tutor :
Some say this life is pleasant,
Some think it speedeth fast,
In time there is no present,
In eternity no future,

In eternity no past.

We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die, Who will riddle me the how and the

why?

The bulrush nods unto its brother. The wheatears whisper to each other:

Scarce outward signs of joy arise,
Because the Spirit of happiness
And perfect rest so inward is;
And loveth so his innocent heart,
Her temple and her place of birth,
Where she would ever wish to dwell,
Life of the fountain there, beneath
Its salient springs, and far apart,
Hating to wander out on earth,
Or breathe into the hollow air,
Whose chillness would make visible
Her subtile, warm, and golden breath,
Which mixing with the infant's blood,
Full fills him with beatitude.
Oh! sure it is a special care
Of God, to fortify from doubt,
To arm in proof, and guard about
With triple mailéd trust, and clear
Delight, the infant's dawning year.
Would that my gloomed fancy were
As thine, my mother, when with brows
Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld
In thine, I listened to thy vows,
For me outpoured in holiest prayer -
For me unworthy!-and beheld
The mild deep eyes upraised, that knew
The beauty and repose of faith,
And the clear spirit shining through.
Oh wherefore do we grow awry
From roots which strike so deep? why dare
Paths in the desert? Could not I
Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt,
To th' earth -until the ice would melt
Here, and I feel as thou hast felt?
What Devil had the heart to scathe
Flowers thou hadst reared - to brush the
dew

From thine own lily, when thy grave
Was deep, my mother, in the clay?
Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I
So little love for thee? But why
Prevailed not thy pure prayers? Why pray
To one who heeds not, who can save
But will not? Great in faith, and strong
Against the grief of circumstance
Wert thou, and yet unheard? What if
Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive
Through utter dark a full-sailed skiff,
Unpiloted i' the echoing dance
Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low
Unto the death, not sunk! I know
At matins and at evensong,
That thou, if thou wert yet alive,
In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive
To reconcile me with thy God.
Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold
At heart, thou wouldest murmur still

Bring this lamb back into thy fold, My Lord, if so it be thy will." Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod, And chastisement of human pride; That pride, the sin of devils, stood Betwixt me and the light of God! That hitherto I had defied, And had rejected God that Grace Would drop from his o'erbrimming love, As manna on my wilderness,

If I would pray that God would move And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence,

Sweet in their utmost bitterness,
Would issue tears of penitence
Which would keep green hope's life.
Alas!

I think that pride hath now no place
Or sojourn in me. I am void,
Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.

"Yet," said I, in my morn of youth,
The unsunned freshness of my strength,
When I went forth in quest of truth,
"It is man's privilege to doubt,
If so be that from doubt at length,
Truth may stand forth unmoved of change,
An image with profulgent brows,
And perfect limbs, as from the storm
Of running fires and fluid range
Of lawless airs at last stood out
This excellence and solid form
Of constant beauty. For the Ox
Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills
The hornéd valleys all about,
And hollows of the fringed hills
In summerheats, with placid lows
Unfearing, till his own blood flows
About his hoof. And in the flocks
The lamb rejoiceth in the year,

And raceth freely with his fere,
And answers to his mother's calls
From the flowered furrow. In a time,
Of which he wots not, run short pains
Through his warm heart: and then, from
whence

He knows not, on his light there falls
A shadow; and his native slope
Where he was wont to leap and climb,
Floats from his sick and filmed eyes,
And something in the darkness draws
His forehead earthward, and he dies.
Shall men live thus, in joy and hope
As a young lamb, who cannot dream,
Living, but that he shall live on?
Shall we not look into the laws
Of life and death, and things that seem,
And things that be, and analyze
Our double nature, and compare
All creeds till we have found the one,
If one there be?" Ay me! I fear
All may not doubt, but everywhere
Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God,
Whom call I Idol? Let thy dove
Shadow me over, and my sins
Be unremembered, and thy love
Enlighten me. O teach me yet
Somewhat before the heavy clod
Weighs on me, and the busy fret
Of that sharp-headed worm begins
In the gross blackness underneath.

O weary life! O weary death!
O spirit and heart made desolate !
O damnéd vacillating state!

THE BURIAL OF LOVE.

His eyes in eclipse,
Pale-cold his lips,

The light of his hopes unfed,
Mute his tongue,
His bow unstrung
With the tears he hath shed,
Backward drooping his graceful head,
Love is dead:

His last arrow is sped; He hath not another dart; Go carry him to his dark deathbed; Bury him in the cold, cold heart Love is dead.

O truest love! art thou forlorn,
And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles
Forgotten, and thine innocent joy?
Shall hollow-hearted apathy,

The cruellest form of perfect scorn, With languor of most hateful smiles, For ever write,

In the withered light

Of the tearless eye,

An epitaph that all may spy?
No sooner she herself shall die.

For her the showers shall not fall,
Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all;

Her light shall into darkness change; For her the green grass shall not spring, Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing,

Till Love have his full revenge.

ΤΟ

SAINTED Juliet ! dearest name!
If to love be life alone,
Divinest Juliet,

I love thee, and live; and yet Love unreturned is like the fragrant flame

Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice

Offered to gods upon an altar-throne; My heart is lighted at thine eyes, Changed into fire, and blown about with sighs.

SONG.

I.

I' THE glooming light Of middle night

So cold and white,

Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave, Beside her are laid

Her mattock and spade,

For she hath half delved her own deep

grave.

Alone she is there :

The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls

loose :

Her shoulders are bare; Her tears are mixed with the beaded dews.

II.

Death standeth by ;
She will not die ;
With glazed eye

She looks at her grave: she cannot sleep;
Ever alone

She maketh her moan: She cannot speak: she can only weep,