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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 delight

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 bright breastshortening into sighs; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves,

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

scare

The wolf that follows, the fawn tha flies.

"

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.

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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-clouds on earthshaking 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 as 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

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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.]

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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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[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,
My husband is in the town;
In my large white bed uncurtained,
All alone I lay me down.

And dreamily I have said my prayers, And dreamily closed my eyes,

And the youth in my blood moves sweetly

As my pulses fall and rise.

I lie so peaceful and lonely,
A maiden in spirit-land,

With the moonbeams in at the window,
And hand laid close to hand.

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