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What cause hast thou to show
And some strange force, within me, or Of sacrifice unsped?
around, Of all thy slaves below
Makes answer, kiss for kiss and sigh I most have laborèd
for sigh, With service sung and said;
And somewhere there is fever in the Have cull'd such buds as blow,
halls, Soft poppies white and red,
That troubles me, for no such trouble Where thy still gardens grow, And Lethe's waters weep. Why, then, art thou my foe?
To vex the cool, far hollows of the hills. Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
The foolish folk crowd round me, and
they cry, ENVOY.
That house and wife, and lands, and all
Troy town, Prince, ere the dark te shred
Are little to lose; if they may hold me By golden shafts, ere low
here, And long the shadows creep:
And see me flit, a pale and silent shade, Lord of the wand of lead,
Among the streets bereft, and helpless Soft-footed as the snow,
shrines. Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep!
At other hours another life seems mine,
of rain, THE SHADES OF HELEN.
By pyramids of unremembered kings, Some say that Helen never went to Troy, but And homes of men obedient to the abode in Égypt; for the gods, having made in
Dead. her semblance a woman out of clouds and shad
Their dark and quiet faces come and go, ows, sent the same to be wife to Paris. For this shadow then the Greeks and Trojans slew Around me, then again the shriek of each other.
arms, Why from the quiet hollows of the
And all the turmoil of the Ilian men.
What are they? Even shadows such as I. And extreme meeting-place of light and What make they? Even this — the sport shade,
of Gods, Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and The sport of Gods, however free they
became Clouds among sister clouds, where fair Ah, would the game were ended, and
the light, And dying glories of the sun would The blinding light, and all too mighty dwell.
suns, Why have they whom I know not, nor
Withdrawn, and I once
more with may know,
sister shades, Strange hands, unseen and ruthless, Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the fashioned me,
mist, And borne me from the silent, shadowy
Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills,
hills. Hither, to noise and glow of alien life, To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war?
THE ODYSSEY. One speaks unto me words that would As one that for a weary space has lain be sweet,
Lulled by the song of Circe and her Made harsh, made keen, with love that
wine knows me not,
In gardens near the pale Proserpine,
Where that Æon isle forgets the main, And shepherds still their songs repeat Where only the low lutes of love com- Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.
plain, And only shadows of wan lovers What though they worship Pan no pine,
more, As such an one were glad to know That guarded once the shepherd's the brine
seat, Salt on his lips, and the large air again – They chatter of their rustic lore, So gladly, from the songs of modern They watch the wind among the speech
wheat. Men turn, and see the stars, and feel Cicadas chirp, the young lambs bleat, the free
Where whispers pine to cypress tree; Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy They count the waves that idly beat, flowers,
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea! And through the music of the languid hours,
Theocritus! thou canst restore They hear like ocean on a western
The pleasant years and over-fleet: beach
With thee we live as men of yore, The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
We rest where running waters meet: And then we turn unwilling feet
And seek the world so must it be BALLADE TO THEOCRITUS, IN
We may not linger in the heat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea ! WINTER. Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the
ENVOY. roar Of London, leave the bustling street, Master, when rain and snow and sleet For still, by the Sicilian shore,
And northern winds are wild, to The murmur of the Muse is sweet.
thee Still, still, the suns of summer greet We come, we rest in thy retreat, The mountain grave of Heliké,
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea !
ARTHUR W. E. O'SHAUGHNESSY.
1844-1881. (Born in London, 1844, and at the age of twenty obtained, through the aid of Lord Lytton, a place in the British Museum, where, during the remainder of his life, he was connected with the department of Natural History. In 1873 he married the elder of the Marston sisters, who joined him in writing a volume of prose tales, Toyland, 1875; His early books, An Epic of Women, 1870, and Lays of France, 1872, were successful. Music and Moonlight, 1874, was coldly received. Songs of a Worker appeared after his death, which took place at London in 1881.]
SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. I FOUND a fellow-worker when I I worked in the palace of my brain, he deemed I toiled alone :
in the common street; My toil was fashioning thought and And it seemed his toil was great and hard,
sound, and his was hewing stone; while mine was great and sweet. I said, “O fellow-worker, yea, for I am The restless toilers after good, who sow a worker too,
and never reap, The heart nigh fails me many a day, And one who maketh music for their but how is it with you?
souls that may not sleep. For while I toil, great tears of joy will
sometimes fill my eyes, And when I form my perfect work, it
“Each passed me with a dauntless look,
and my undaunted eyes lives and never dies.
Were almost softened as they passed
with tears that strove to rise "I carve the marble of pure thought At sight of all those labors, and because until the thought takes form,
that every one, Until it gleams before my soul and Ay, the greatest, would be greater if makes the world grow warm;
my little were undone. Until there comes the glorious voice
and words that seem divine, And the music reaches all men's hearts
“They passed me, having faith in me,
and in our several ways, and draws them into mine.
Together we began to-day as on the
other days: “And yet for days it seems my heart I felt their mighty hands at work, and, shall blossom never more,
as the days wore through, And the burden of my loneliness lies Perhaps they felt that even I was on me very sore :
helping somewhat too. Therefore, O hewer of the stones that
pave base human ways, How canst thou bear the years till
Perhaps they felt, as with those hands death, made of such thankless
they lifted mightily days?”
The burden once more laid upon the
world so heavily,
That while they nobly held it as each Then he replied: "Ere sunrise, when
man can do and bear, the pale lips of the day
It did not wholly fall my side as though Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at
no men were there. warmth of the first ray, A great thought rose within me, how,
while men asleep had lain, “ And so we toil together many a day The thousand labors of the world had
from morn till night, grown up once again.
I in the lower depths of life, they on
the lovely height; “The sun grew on the world, and on
For though the common stones my soul the thought grew too,
mine, and they have lofty cares, A great appalling sun, to light my soul
Their work begins where this leaves off, the long day through.
and mine is part of theirs. I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began
“And 't is not wholly mine or theirs, I With man's gigantic strength to do the
think of through the day, labor of one man.
But the great, eternal thing we make
together, I and they; “I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a Far in the sunset I behold a city that hundred men,
man owns, The worker with the chisel and the Made fair with all their nobler toil, built worker with the pen,
of my common stones.
“Then noonward, as the task grows “ But when the evening comes, indeed, light with all the labor done,
the words have taken wing, The single thought of all the day be- The thought sings in me still, but I am comes a joyous one;
all too tired to sing : For, rising in my heart at last where it Therefore, O you my friend, who serve has lain so long,
the world with minstrelsy, It thrills up seeking for a voice, and Among our fellow-workers' songs make grows almost a song.
that one song for me."
E. LEE HAMILTON.
THERE is a legend in some Spanish book
About a noisy reveller who, at night,
to look, And saw within the room, hanged to a
hook His own self-strangled self,grim, rigid,
white, And who, struck sober by that livid
sight, Feasting his eyes, in tongue-tied horror
In dim green depths rot ingot-laden
ships, While gold doubloons that from the
drowned hand fell Lie nestled in the ocean-flower's bell With Love's gemmed rings once kissed
by now dead lips. And round some wrought-gold cup the
sea-grass whips, And hides lost pearls, near pearls still
in their shell, Where sea-weed forests fill each
ocean dell, And seek dim sunlight with their count
less tips. So lie the wasted gifts, the long-lost
hopes, Beneath the now hushed surface of
myself, In lonelier depths than where the diver
gropes. They lie deep, deep; but I at times
behold In doubtful glimpses, on some reefy
shelf, The gleam of irrecoverable gold.
Has any man a fancy to peep in
sin, Or sloth or folly? Round the throat
whipped fast The nooses give the face a stiffened
grin. 'Tis but thyself. Look well. Why
MRS. ALICE MEYNELL
1850[Her first volume, Preludes, was published before her marriage, which occurred in 1877, and received favorable notice by Rossetti and other competent critics. She has written comparatively little in verse, and since her marriage has almost exclusively devoted herself to the composition of prose, giving special attention to matters pertaining to art criticism.] A YOUNG CONVERT.
SONG. Who knows what days I answer for My Fair, no beauty of thine will last, to-day?
Save in my love's eternity. Giving the bud I give the flower. I bow Thy smiles, that light thee fitfully, This yet unfaded and a faded brow; Are lost forever - their moment pastBending these knees and feeble knees, Except the few thou givest to me.
Thoughts yet unripe in me I bend one
Thy sweet words vanish day by day, way, Give one repose to pain I know not now,
As all breath of mortality; One leaven to joy that comes, I guess
Thy laughter, done, must cease to be, not how.
And all thy dear tones pass away, Oh, rash! (I smile) as one, when Spring Except the few that sing to me.
is gray, Who dedicates a land of hidden wheat,
Hide then within my heart, oh, hide I fold to-day at altars far apart
All thou art loth should go from thee. Hands trembling with what toils? In
Be kinder to thyself and me. their retreat I sign my love to come, my folded art.
My cupful from this river's tide
Shall never reach the long sad sea. I light the tapers at my head and feet, And lay the crucifix on this silent
MISS MATHILDE BLIND.
1850– (STEP-DAUGHTER of Karl Blind, the German author and political writer. Miss Blind is knowe as a stilful editor and critic of Shelley's works. In 1874, she produced a translation of Strauss's Old Faith and the New, and, in 1881, The Prophecy of St. Oran, and Other Poems. She is also the author of a Life of George Eliot, 1883, which has been republished in this country.] CHRISTMAS EVE.
I pace along the darkening wintry sea.
Now round the yule log and the glitterALONE - with one fair star for com
ing tree pany,
Twinkling with festive tapers, eyes as The loveliest star among the hosts of bright night,
Sparkle with Christmas joys and young While the gray tide ebbs with the ebb- delight, ing light
As each one gathers to his family.