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But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that

scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that

flies.

Where shall we find her, how shall we

sing to her, Fold our hands round her knees, and

cling? O that man's heart were as fire and

could spring to her Fire, or the strength of the streams

that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling

to her, And the south west-wind and the west

wind sing. For winter's rains and ruins are over,

And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that

wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover

Blossom by blossom the spring begins. The full streams feed on flower of rushes,

Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young

year flushes

From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofèd heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut

root. And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with de

light The Mænad and the Bassarid; And soft as lips that laugh and hide The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in

sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid. The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair

Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare

Her brightbreastshorteningintosighs; The wild vine slips with the weight of

its leaves,

FROM "THE GARDEN OF

PROSERPINE." PALE, beyond porch and portal,

Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal

With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her

From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,

She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,

The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow

And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,

The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,

And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,

Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow,

And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;

Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful,
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful

Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,

Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken,

Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal

In an eternal night.

FROM HERTHA."

THE tree many-rooted

That swells to the sky
With frondage red-fruited,

The life-tree am I;
In the buds of your lives is the sap of

my leaves : ye shall live and not die.

The storm-winds of ages

Blow through me and cease,
The war-wind that rages,

The spring-wind of peace,
Ere the breath of them roughen my

tresses, ere one of my blossoms

increase.
All sounds of all changes,

All shadows and lights
On the world's mountain-ranges

And stream-riven heights, Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and

language of storm-cloudson earth

shaking nights;
All forms of all faces,

All works of all hands
In unsearchable places

Of time-stricken lands,
All death and all life, and all reigns and

all ruins, drop through me

sands.
Though sore be my burden

And more than ye know,
And my growth have no guerdon

But only to grow,
Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings

above me or deathworms below. These too have their part in me,

As I too in these;
Such fire is at heart in me,

Such sap is this tree's,
Which hath in it all sounds and all

secrets of infinite lands and of

as

But the Gods of your fashion

That take and that give,
In their pity and passion

That scourge and forgive,
They are worms that are bred in the

bark that falls off; they shall die and not live.

My own blood is what stanches

The wounds in my bark;
Stars caught in my branches

Make day of the dark,
And are worshipped as suns till the sun-

rise shall tread out their fires as a spark.

seas.

Where dead ages hide under

The live roots of the tree,
In my darkness the thunder

Makes utterance of me;
In the clash of my boughs with each

other ye hear the waves sound of the sea.

In the spring-colored hours

When my mind was as May's,
There brake forth of me flowers

By centuries of days,
Strong blossoms with perfume of man-

hood, shot out from my spirit as

rays.
And the sound of them springing

And smell of their shoots
Were as warmth and sweet singing

And strength to my roots;
And the lives of my children made per-

fect with freedom of soul were

That noise is of Time,

As his feathers are spread
And his feet set to climb

Through the boughs overhead, And my foliage rings round him and

rustles, and branches are bent with his tread.

my fruits.

DAVID GRAY.

1838–1861. (BORN Jan. 29, 1838, at Duntiblae, a small village on the banks of the Luggie, about eight miles from Glasgow. Son of a weaver. Educated in part at Glasgow University, for the Christian ministry, but abandoned it for literary pursuits, and betook himself at an early age to writing verses, many of which appeared from time to time in The Glasgow Citizen, under the nom de plume of "Will Gurney.' In 1860 he determined to go to London, hoping to attain literary eminence in the great metropolis, where he arrived in the month of May, without friends or means of subsistence. He attracted the favorable notice of several men of letters, who gave him some literary employment and otherwise befriended him, but soon fell ill with pulmonary disease, and was sent back to Merkland, where his parents were then living. He struggled with the disease till the third of December, 1861, when he passed away. His poems, The Luggie, and Other Poems, were published shortly after his death by Macmillan & Co., with a Memoir by James Hedderwick, and a Prefatory Notice by R. M. Milnes, M.P.]

ocean, blown

Thy beauty changing with the changeHOMESICK.

ful day,

Thy beauty constant to the constant COME to me, O my Mother! come to

change? me, Thine own son slowly dying far away! Through the moist ways of the wide

DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY. By great invisible winds, come stately Die down, O dismal day, and let me ships

live; To this calm bay for quiet anchorage; And come, blue deeps, magnificently They come, they rest awhile, they go

strewn away,

With colored clouds, - large, light, and But, O my Mother, never comest thou!

fugitive, The snow is round thy dwelling, the By upper winds through pompous mowhite snow,

tions blown. That cold soft revelation pure as light, Now it is death in life, - à vapor dense And the pine-spire is mystically fringed, Creeps round my window, till I cannot Laced with incrusted silver. Here — ah me!

The far snow-shining mountains, and The winter is decrepit, under-born,

the glens A leper with no power but his disease. Shagging the mountain-tops. O God! Why am I from thee, Mother, far from

make free thee?

This barren shackled earth, so deadly Far from the frost enchantment, and the cold, woods

Breathe gently forth thy spring, till Jewelled from bough to bough? O

winter flies home, my home!

In rude amazement, fearful and yet O river in the valley of my home,

bold, With mazy-winding motion intricate, While she performs her customed charTwisting thy deathless music underneath ities; The polished ice-work, — must I never- I weigh the loaded hours till life is

bare, Behold thee with familiar eyes, and O God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, watch

see

and sweet air!

more

HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON.

1840(BORN at Plymouth, Jan. 18, 1840. Educated in France, England, and Franco-Germany: Entered the Civil Service in 1856, appointed to a clerkship in the Board of Trade, where he still continues. Has contributed to most of the leading English periodicals, Cornhill, Blackwood, Good Words, etc. In 1873, collected his scattered Lyrics in a volume entitled Vignettes in Rhyme, and Vers de Société. It was followed by Proverbs in Porcelain, 1877; republished by Holt & Co. in this country in 1880. He was one of the contributors to Ward's English Poets, 1880, supplying the critical sketches of Prior, Praed,

Gay, and Hood. He is also the author of a life of Fielding in English Men of Letters, edited by John Morley, and has recently edited a selection from Cowper's letters for the Parchment Library.]

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MRS. HARRIET E. HAMILTON KING.

1840(DAUGHTER of the late Admiral W. A. B. Hamilton, and Lady Harriet Hamilton, sister to the Duke of Abercorn. Born in 1840, and in 1863 married Mr. Henry S. King, the banker and publisher. Author of Aspromonte, 1869; The Disciples; Book of Dreams, 1883.]

A DREAM MAIDEN. My baby is sleeping overhead,

And the youth in my blood moves My husband is in the town ;

sweetly In my large white bed uncurtained, As my pulses fall and rise. All alone I lay me down.

I lie so peaceful and lonely,

A maiden in spirit-land, And dreamily I have said my prayers, With the moonbeams in at the window, And dreamily closed my eyes,

And hand laid close to hand,

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