In emerald, showed each minaret
Afire with radiant beams of sun,
And glistened, orange, fig, and lime,
Where song-birds made melodious chime,
As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
Like lava in the dying glow,
Through olive orchards far below
I saw the murmuring river run;
And 'neath the wall upon the sand
Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand,
With precious spices they had won,
Lay long and languidly in wait
Till they might pass the guarded gate,
As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
I saw strange men from lands afar,
In mosque and square and gay bazaar,
The Magi that the Moslem shun,
And Grave Effendi from Stamboul,
Who sherbet sipped in corners cool;
And, from the balconies o'errun
With roses, gleamed the eyes of those
Who dwell in still seraglios,

As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
The flaming flower of daytime died,
And Night, arrayed as is a bride
Of some great king, in garments spun
Of purple and the finest gold,
Outbloomed in glories manifold,
Until the moon, above the dun
And darkening desert, void of shade,
Shone like a keen Damascus blade,
As I came down from Lebanon.

RICHARD BURTON (1861-)

The City of the Dead

They do neither plight nor wed

In the city of the dead,

In the city where they sleep away the hours;
But they lie, while o'er them range

Winter blight and Summer change,

And a hundred happy whisperings of flowers;

No, they neither wed nor plight,

And the day is like the night,

For their vision is of other kind than ours.

They do neither sing nor sigh

In that burg of by and by,

Where the streets have grasses growing cool and long; But they rest within their bed,

Leaving all their thoughts unsaid,

Deeming silence better far than sob or song.

No, they neither sigh nor sing,

Though the robin be a-wing,

Though the leaves of Autumn march a million strong.

There is only rest and peace

In the City of Surcease

From the failings and the wailings 'neath the sun,
And the wings of the swift years

Beat but gently o'er their biers,

Making music to the sleepers every one.

There is only peace and rest;

But to them it seemeth best,

For they lie at peace and know that life is done.

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY (1861-1920)

Tryste Noël

The Ox he openeth wide the Doore,
And from the Snowe he calls her inne,
And he hath seen her smile therefore,
Our Ladye without Sinne.

Now soone from Sleep

A Starre shall leap,

And soone arrive both King and Hinde:
Amen, Amen,

But, the place co'd I but finde!

The Ox hath hushed his voyce and bent
Trewe eyes of Pity ore the Mow,
And on his lovelie Neck, forspent,
The Blessed lays her Browe.

Around her feet

Full Warme and Sweete

His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell:
Amen, Amen,

But sore am I with Vaine Travel!

The Ox is host in Judah stall

And Host of more than onelie one,

For close she gathereth withal

Our Lorde her littel Sonne.
Glad Hinde and King

Their Gyfte may bring,

But wo'd tonight my Teares were There,
Amen, Amen :

Between her Bosom and her hayre!

Of Joan's Youth

I would unto my fair restore

A simple thing:

The flushing cheek she had before!
Out-velveting

No more, no more,

On our sad shore,

The carmine grape, the moth's auroral wing.

Ah, say how winds in flooding grass

Unmoor the rose;

Or guileful ways the salmon pass

To sea, disclose;

For so, alas,

With Love, alas,

With fatal, fatal Love a girlhood goes.

ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS (1862-1912)

The Rosary

The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
Are as a string of pearls to me;
I count them over, every one apart,
My rosary.

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer,
To still a heart in absence wrung;
I tell each bead unto the end and there
A cross is hung.

Oh memories that bless-and burn!

Oh barren gain-and bitter loss!

I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn To kiss the cross,

Sweetheart,

To kiss the cross.

HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT (1863-)

Hats off!

The Flag Goes By

Along the street there comes

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,

A flash of color beneath the sky:

Hats off!

The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines,
Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines.
Hats off!

The colors before us fly;

But more than the flag is passing by.

Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great,
Fought to make and to save the State:
Weary marches and sinking ships;
Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace;
March of a strong land's swift increase;
Equal justice, right and law,

Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation, great and strong

To ward her people from foreign wrong:
Pride and glory and honor,-all
Live in the colors to stand or fall.

Hats off!

Along the street there comes

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums;
And loyal hearts are beating high:
Hats off!

The flag is passing by!

OLIVER HERFORD (1863-)

Child's Natural History

GEESE

Ex-er-y child who has the use
Of his sen-ses knows a goose.
Sees them un-der-neath the tree
Gath-er round the goose-girl's knee,
While she reads them by the hour
From the works of Scho-pen-hau-er.
How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend!
But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend
What Scho-pen-hau-er's driv-ing at?

Oh, not at all; but what of that?
Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she;
And, for that mat-ter, nor does he.

THE MON-Goos

This, children, is the famed Mon-goos.
He has an ap-pe-tite ab-struse:

Strange to re-late, this crea-ture takes
A cu-ri-ous joy in eat-ing snakes-
All kinds-though, it must be con-fessed
He likes the poi-son-ous ones the best.
From him we learn how ve-ry small
A thing can bring a-bout a Fall.

O Mon-goos, where were you that day,
When Mistress Eve was led a-stray?
If you'd but seen the ser-pent first,
Our parents would not have been cursed,
And so there would be no ex-cuse
For MILTON, but for you-Mon-goos!

GEORGE SANTAYANA (1863-)

"As in the Midst of Battle"

As in the midst of battle there is room

For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth;
As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth
Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom;
As in the crevices of Cæsar's tomb

The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth:
So in this great disaster of our birth
We can be happy, and forget our doom.
For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy
Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth,
And evening gently woos us to employ

Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth;
Till from that Summer's trance we wake, to find
Despair before us, vanity behind.

"What Riches Have You?"

What riches have you that you deem me poor,
Or what large comfort that you call me sad?
Tell me what makes you so exceeding glad:
Is your earth happy or your heaven sure?
I hope for heaven, since the stars endure