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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,
Where one great river runs unswollen


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Withdrawn, and I once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,



spent beams

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 !


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."




THERE is a legend in some Spanish book

About a noisy reveller who, at night,
Returning home with others, saw a

Shine from a window, and climbed up

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
And see, as through a window, in the

His nobler self, self-choked with coils of

sin, Or sloth or folly? Round the throat

whipped fast The nooses give the face a stiffened

grin. 'Tis but thyself. Look well. Why

be aghast?


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.

I pray.

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



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.

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