I pace my paradise, and long To show it off to Peris; They come not, but it can't be wrong To raise their ghosts by queries.

Is Geraldine in flowing robes? Has Edith rippling curls? And do their ears prolong the lobes Weighed down with gold and pearls?

And do they know the verbs of France? And do they play duetts? And do they blush when led to dance? And are they called coquettes?

Oh, Cissy, if the heartless year Sets our brief loves asunder! Oh, Babbles, whom I daren't call dear! What can I do but wonder?

I wonder what you're both become, Whether you're children still; I pause with fingers twain and thumb Closed on my faltering quill;

I pause to think how I decay, And you win grace from Time. Perhaps ill-natured folks would say He's pausing for a rhyme.

The sun, who drew us far apart, Might lessen my regrets, Would he but deign to use his art In painting your vignettes.

Then though I groaned for losing half Of joys that memory traces, I could forego the talk, the laugh, In welcoming the faces.



A HOUSE AND A GIRL

The strawberry tree and the crimson thorn, And Fanny's myrtle and William's vine, And honey of bountiful jessamine, Are gone from the homestead where I was born.

I gaze from my Grandfather's terrace wall, And then I bethink me how once I stept Through rooms where my Mother had blest me, and wept To yield them to strangers, and part with them all.

My Father, like Matthew the publican, ceased Full early from hoarding with stainless mind, To Torrington only and home inclined, Where brotherhood, cousinhood, graced his feast.

I meet his remembrance in market lane, 'Neath town-hall pillars and churchyard limes, In streets where he tried a thousand times To chasten anger and soften pain.

Ah I would there were some one that I could aid, Though lacking the simpleness, lacking the worth, Yet wanted and trusted by right of birth, Some townfellow stripling, some Torrington maid.

Oh pitiful waste! oh stubborn neglect! Oh pieties smothered for thirty years! Oh gleanings of kindness in dreams and tears! Oh drift cast up from a manhood wrecked!

There's one merry maiden hath carelessly crossed The threshold I dread, and she never discerns In keepsakes she thanks me for, lessons she learns, A sign of the grace that I squandered and lost.

My birthplace to Meg is but window and stone, My knowledge a wilderness where she can stray, To keep what she gathers or throw it away; So Meg lets me laugh with her, mourning alone.



A FELLOW PASSENGER UNKNOWN

Maiden, hastening to be wise, Maiden, reading with a rage, Envy fluttereth round the page Whereupon thy downward eyes Rove and rest, and melt maybe— Virgin eyes one may not see, Gathering as the bee Takes from cherry tree; As the robin's bill Frets the window sill, Maiden, bird, and bee, Three from me half hid, Doing what we did When our minds were free.

Those romantic pages wist What romance is in the look. Oh, that I could be so bold, So romantic as to bold Half an hour the pensive wrist, And the burden of the book.



NUREMBERG CEMETERY

Outside quaint Albert Durer's town, Where Freedom set her stony crown, Whereof the gables red and brown Curve over peaceful forts that screen Spring bloom and garden lanes between The scarp and counter-scarp. Her feet One highday of Saint Paraclete Were led along the dolorous street By stepping stones towards love and heaven And pauses of the soul twice seven.

Beneath the flowerless trees, where May, Proud of her orchards' fine array, Abates her claim and holds no sway, Past iron tombs, the useless shields Of cousins slain in Elsass fields, The girl, with fair neck meekly bowed.

Mores bravely through a sauntering crowd, Hastening, as she was bid, to breathe Above the breathless, and enwreathe, With pansies earned by spinster thrift, And lillybells, a wooer's gift, A stone which glimmers in the shade Of yonder silent colonnade, Over against the slates that hold Marie in lines of slender gold, A token wrought by fictive fingers, A garland, last year's offering, lingers, Hung out of reach, and facing north. And lo! thereout a wren flies forth, And Gertrude, straining on toetips, Just touches with her prayerful lips The warm home which a bird unskilled In grief and hope knows how to build.

The maid can mourn, but not the wren. Birds die, death's shade belongs to men.

1877.



MORTAL THING NOT WHOLLY CLAY

J'aurai passe sur la terre, N'ayant rien aime que l'amour.

Mortal thing not wholly clay, Mellowing only to decay, Speak, for airs of spring unfold Wistful sorrows long untold.

Under a poplar turning green, Say for age that seems so bold, Oh, the saddest words to say, "This might have been."

Twenty, thirty years ago— Woe, woe, the seasons flow— Beatings of a zephyr's plume Might have broken down the doom.

Gossamer scruples fell between Thee and this that might have been; Now the clinging cobwebs grow; Ah! the saddest loss is this, A good maid's kiss.

Soon, full soon, they will be here, Twisting withies for the bier; Under a heathen yew-tree's shade Will a wasted heart be laid— Heart that never dared be dear.

Leave it so, to lie unblest, Priest of love, just half confessed.



A SICK FRENCH POET'S ENGLISH FRIENDS

When apple buds began to swell, And Procne called for Philomel, Down there, where Seine caresseth sea Two lassies deigned, or chanced, to be Playmates or votaries for me, Miss Euphrasie, Miss Eulalie.

Then dates of birth dropt out of mind, For one was brave as two were kind; In cheerful vigil one designed A maze of wit for two to wind; And that grey Muse who served the three Broke daylight into reverie.

Peace lit upon a fluttering vein, And, self forgetting, on the brain, On rifts, by passion wrought, again Splashed from the sky of childhood rain; And rid of afterthought were we, And from foreboding sweetly free.

Now falls the apple, bleeds the vine, And moved by some autumnal sign, I, who in spring was glad, repine, And ache without my anodyne. Oh things that were, oh things that are, Oh setting of my double star!

This day this way an Iris came, And brought a scroll, and showed a name. Now surely they who thus reclaim Acquaintance should relight a flame. So speed, gay steed, that I may see Dear Euphrasie, dear Eulalie.

Behind this ivy screen are they Whose girlhood flowered on me last May. The world is lord of all; I pray They be not courtly—who can say? Well, well, remembrance held in fee Is good, nay, best. I turn and flee.



L'OISEAU BLEU

Down with the oar, I toil no more. Trust to the boat; we rest, we float. Under the loosestrife and alder we roam To seek and search for the halcyon's home.

Blue bird, pause; thou hast no cause To grudge me the sight of fishbones white. Thine is the only nest now to find. Show it me, birdie; be calm, be kind.

Wander all day in quest of prey, Dart and gleam, and ruffle the stream; Then for the truth that the old folks sing, Comfort the twilight, and droop thy wing.



HOME, PUP!

Euphemia Seton of Urchinhope, The wife of the farmer of Tynnerandoon, Stands lifting her eyes to the whitening slope, And longs for her laddies at suppertime soon.

The laddies, the dog, and the witless sheep, Are bound to come home, for the snow will be deep. The mother is pickling a scornful word To throw at the head of the elder lad, Hugh; But talkative Jamie, as gay as a bird, Will have nothing beaten save snow from his shoe. He has fire in his eyes, he has curls on his head, And a silver brooch and a kerchief red.

Poor Hugh, trudging on with his collie pup Jess, Has kept his plain mind to himself all the way, Just quietly giving his dog the caress Which no one gave him for a year and a day. And luckily quadrupeds seldom despise Our lumbering wits and our lack-lustre eyes.

Deep down in the corrie, high up on the brae, Where Shinnel and Scar tumble down from the rock The wicked white ladies have been at their play, The wind has been pushing the leewardly flock. The white land should tell where the creatures are gone, But snow hides the snow that their hooves have been on.

Ah! down there in Urchinhope nobody knows How blinding the flakes, and the north wind how cruel. Euphemia's gudeman will come for his brose, But far up the hill is her darling, her jewel. She sees something crimson. "Oh, gudeman, look up! There's Jamie's cravat on the neck of the pup."

"Where, where have ye been, Jess, and where did ye leave him? Now just get a bite, pup, then show me my pet. Poor Jamie 'll be tired, and the sleep will deceive him; Oh, stir him, oh, guide him, before the sun set!" "Quick, Jock, bring a lantern! quick, Sandie, some wraps! Before ye win till him 'twill darken, perhaps."

Jess whimpered; the young moon was down in the west; A shelter-stone jutted from under the hill; Stiff hands beneath Jamie's blue bonnet were pressed, And over his beating heart one that was still. Bareheaded and coatless, to windward lay Hugh, And high on his back the snow gathered and grew.

"Now fold them in plaids, they'll be up with the sun; Their bed will be warm, and the blood is so strong. How wise to send Jessie; now cannily run. Poor pup, are ye tired? we'll be home before long." Jess licked a cold cheek, and the bonny boy spoke: "Where's Hugh?" The pup whimpered, but Hugh never woke.



A SOLDIER'S MIRACLE

'Twas when we learnt we could be beat; Our star misled us, and' we strayed. Elsewhere the host was in retreat; We were a guideless lost brigade.

We stumbled on a town in doubt, To halt and sup we were full fain, The man that held the chart cried out, "'Tis Vaucouleurs in old Lorraine."

In Vaucouleurs we will not doubt, For here, when need was sore, Saint Jane Arose, and girt herself to rout The foes that troubled her Lorraine.

So here we feast in faith to-night, To-morrow we'll rejoin the host Drink, drink! the wine is pure and bright, And Jane our maiden is the toast.

But I, that faced the window, caught A passing cloud, a foreign plume, A Prussian helmet; and the thought Of peril chilled the tavern room.

We rose, we glared through twilight panes, We muttered curses bosom-deep; A tell-tale gallop scared the lanes, We grudged to spoil our comrades' sleep.

Then louder than the Uhlan's hoof Fell storm from sky and flood on banks, September's passion smote the roof; We blest it, and to Jane gave thanks.

Betwixt us and that Uhlan's mates A bridgless river strongly flowed. A sign was shown that checked the fates, And on that storm our maiden rode.



A BALLAD FOR A BOY

When George the Third was reigning a hundred years ago, He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe. "You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're not afraid of wreck, So cruise about the west of France in the frigate called Quebec.

Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but twenty years ago King George the Second sent a man called General Wolfe, you know, To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec, As you'd look down a hatchway when standing on the deck.

If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then so you can beat them now. Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow. But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name, And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and you shall do the same."

Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer bowed so low That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow. George gave him his commission, and that it might be safer, Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and sealed it with a wafer.

Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his own, And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon his throne. He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten, And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten score men.

And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen brace of dogs, With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs. From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to Belleisle, She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on her keel.

The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with melting tar, The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar; The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from out the Breton bay, And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and reefers yell "Hooray!"

The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I could pronounce; A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from bounce, One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine For honour and the fleurs-de-lys, and Antoinette the Queen.

The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George, Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths could forge; And both were simple seamen, but both could under- stand How each was bound to win or die for flag and native land.

The French ship was La Surveillante, which means the watchful maid; She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade. Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to spread more sail. On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came like hail.

Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside, And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried. A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing gun; We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the Frenchman won.

Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all aglow; Men clung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth to go; Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not quit his chair. He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him bleeding there.

The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen lowered boats, They flung us planks and hencoops, and everything that floats. They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their rivals aid. 'Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely made.

La Surveillante was like a sieve; the victors had no rest. They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of Brest. And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship went slower, In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to tow her.

They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead; And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed the head. Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "'Twas fire that won, not we. You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to England free."

'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine, A year when nations ventured against us to combine, Quebec was burnt and Farmer slain, by us remem- bered not; But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot.

Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind; Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest, And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.

1885.



EPILOGUE.

Exactos, puer, esse decern tibi gratulor annos; Hactenus es matris cura patrisque decus. Incumbis studiis, et amas et amaris, et audes Pro patria raucis obvius ire fretis. Non erimus comites, fili, tibi; sed memor esto Matris in oceano cum vigil astra leges. Imbelli patre natus habe tamen arma Britannus, Militiam perfer, spemque fidemque fove.

1889.



JE MAINTIENDRAI

(FOR THE TUNE CALLED SANTA LUCIA)

Rise, rise, ye Devon folk! Toss off the traitor's yoke, Peer through the rain and smoke, Look, look again! Run down to Brixham pier— Quick, quick, the Prince is near! All the rights ye reckon dear He will maintain.

Chorus— Welcome, sweet English rose! Welcome, Dutch Roman nose! Scatter, scatter all the Gospel's foes, William and Mary!

High over gulls and boats Bright, free the banner floats; Hearken, hear the clarion notes! Lift hats and stare. Courtiers who break the laws, Tame cats with velvet paws, Hypocrites with poisoned claws, Croppies, beware!

Trust, Sir, the western shires, Trust those who baffled Spain; We'll be hardy like our sires. Down, Pope, again! Off, off with sneak and thief! We'll have an honest chief. England is no Popish fief; Free kings shall reign.



SAPPHICS FOR A TUNE

MADE BY REQUEST OF A SONGSTRESS, AND REJECTED

Relics of battle dropt in sandy valley, Bugle that screamed a warning of surprise, Shreds of the colour torn before the rally, Jewel of troth-plight seen by dying eyes— Welcome, dear tokens of the lad we mourn. Tell how that day his faithful heart was leaping; Help me, who linger in the home forlorn, Throw me a rainbow on my endless weeping.

1885.



JOHNNIE OF BRAIDISLEE

A SECOND ATTEMPT, ACCEPTED

Down the burnside hurry thee, gentle mavis, Find the bothie, and flutter about the doorway. Touch the lattice tenderly, bid my mother Fetch away Johnnie.

Mother, uprouse thee! many bitter arrows Out of one bosom gather, and for ever Pray for one resting in a chilly forest Under an oak tree.

Gentle mavis! hover about the window Where the sun shines on happy things of home life, Bid the clansmen troop to the gory dingle. Clansmen, avenge me!

Mother! oh, my mother! upon a cradle Woven of willows, with a bow beside me, Near the kirk of Durrisdeer, under yew boughs, Rock thy beloved.

1885.



EUROPA

May the foemen's wives, the foemen's children, Feel the kid leaping when he lifts the surge, Tumult of swart sea, and the reefs that shudder Under the scourge.

On such a day to the false bull Europa Trusted her snowy limbs; and courage failed her, Where the whales swarmed, the terror of sea-change and Treason assailed her.

For the meadow-fays had she duly laboured, Eager for flowers to bind at eventide; Shimmering night revealed the stars, the billows, Nothing beside.

Brought to Crete, the realm of a hundred cities, "Oh, my sire! my duty!" she clamoured sadly. "Oh, the forfeit! and oh, the girl unfathered, Wilfully, madly!

What shore is this, and what have I left behind me? When a maid sins 'tis not enough to die. Am I awake? or through the ivory gateway Cometh a lie?

Cometh a hollow fantasy to the guiltless? Am I in dreamland? Was it best to wander Through the long waves, or better far to gather Rosebuds out yonder?

Now, were he driven within the reach of anger, Steel would I point against the villain steer, Grappling, rending the horns of the bull, the monster Lately so dear.

Shameless I left the homestead and the worship, Shameless, 'fore hell's mouth, wide agape, I pause. Hear me, some god, and set me among the lions Stript for their jaws.

Ere on the cheek that is so fair to look on Swoop the grim fiends of hunger and decay, Tigers shall spring and raven, ere the sweetness Wither away.

Worthless Europa! cries the severed father, Why dost thou loiter, cling to life, and doat? Hang on this rowan; hast thou not thy girdle Meet for thy throat?

Lo, the cliff, the precipice, edged for cleaving, Trust the quick wind, or take a leman's doom. Live on and spin; thou wast a prince's daughter; Toil at the loom.

Pass beneath the hand of a foreign lady; Serve a proud rival." Lo, behind her back Slyly laughed Venus, and her archer minion Held the bow slack.

Then, the game played out, "Put away," she whispered, "Wrath and upbraiding, and the quarrel's heat, When the loathed bull surrenders horns, for riving, Low at your feet.

Bride of high Jove's majesty, bride unwitting, Cease from your sobbing; rise, your luck is rare. Your name's the name which half the world divided Henceforth shall bear."



HYPERMNESTRA

Let me tell Lyde of wedding-law slighted, Penance of maidens and bootless task, Wasting of water down leaky cask, Crime in the prison-pit slowly requited.

Miscreant brides! for their grooms they slew. One out of many is not attainted, One alone blest and for ever sainted, False to her father, to wedlock true.

Praise her! she gave her young husband the warning. Praise her for ever! She cried, "Arise! Flee from the slumber that deadens the eyes; Flee from the night that hath never a morning.

Baffle your host who contrived our espousing, Baffle my sisters, the forty and nine, Raging like lions that mangle the kink, Each on the blood of a quarry carousing.

I am more gentle, I strike not thee, I will not hold thee in dungeon tower. Though the king chain me, I will not cower, Though my sire banish me over the sea.

Freely run, freely sail, good luck attend thee; Go with the favour of Venus and Night. On thy tomb somewhere and some day bid write Record of her who hath dared to befriend thee."



BARINE

Lady, if you ever paid Forfeit for a heart betrayed, If for broken pledge you were By one tooth, one nail less fair,

I would trust. But when a vow Slips from off your faithless brow, Forth you flash with purer lustre, And a fonder troop you muster.

You with vantage mock the shade Of a mother lowly laid, Silent stars and depths of sky, And high saints that cannot die.

Laughs the Queen of love, I say, Laughs at this each silly fay, Laughs the rogue who's ever whetting Darts of fire on flint of fretting.

Ay, the crop of youth is yours, Fresh enlistments throng your doors, Veterans swear you serve them ill, Threaten flight, and linger still.

Dames and thrifty greybeards dread Lest you turn a stripling's head; Poor young brides are in dismay Lest you sigh their lords away.



TO BRITOMART MUSING

Classic throat and wrist and ear Tempt a gallant to draw near; Must romantic lip and eye Make him falter, bid him fly?

If Camilla's upright lance By the contrast did enhance Charms of curving neck and waist, Yet she never was embraced.

She was girt to take the field, And her aventayle concealed Half the grace that might have won Homage from Evander's son.

Countess Montfort, clad in steel, Showed she could both dare and feel; Smiled to greet the champion ships, Touched Sir Walter with the lips.

She could charm, although in dress Like the sainted shepherdess, Jeanne, a leader void of guile, Jeanne, a woman all the while.

Damsel with the mind of man, Lay not softness under ban; For the glory of thy sex Twine with myrtle manly necks.



HERSILIA

I see her stand with arms a-kimbo, A blue and blonde sub aureo nimbo; She scans her literary limbo, The reliques of her teens;

Things like the chips of broken stilts, Or tatters of embroidered quilts, Or nosegays tossed away by jilts, Notes, ballads, tales, and scenes.

Soon will she gambol like a lamb, Fenced, but not tethered, near the Cam. Maybe she'll swim where Byron swam, And chat beneath the limes,

Where Arthur, Alfred, Fitz, and Brooks Lit thought by one another's looks, Embraced their jests and kicked their books, In England's happier times;

Ere magic poets felt the gout, Ere Darwin whelmed the Church in doubt Ere Apologia had found out The round world must be right;

When Gladstone, bluest of the blue, Read all Augustine's folios through; When France was tame, and no one knew We and the Czar would fight.

"Sixty years since" (said dear old Scott; We're bound, you know, to quote Sir Wat) This isle had not a sweeter spot Than Neville's Court by Granta;

No Newnham then, no kirtled scribes, No Clelia to harangue the tribes, No race for girls, no apple bribes To tempt an Atalanta.

We males talked fast, we meant to be World-betterers all at twenty-three, But somehow failed to level thee, Oh battered fort of Edom!

Into the breach our daughters press, Brave patriots in unwarlike dress, Adepts at thought-in-idleness, Sweet devotees of freedom.

And now it is your turn, fair soul, To see the fervent car-wheels roll, Your rivals clashing past the goal, Some sly Milanion leading.

Ah! with them may your Genius bring Some Celia, some Miss Mannering; For youthful friendship is a thing More precious than succeeding.



SAPPHO'S CURSING

Woman dead, lie there; No record of thee Shall there ever be, Since thou dost not share Roses in Pieria grown. In the deathful cave, With the feeble troop Of the folk that droop, Lurk and flit and crave, Woman severed and far-flown.



A SERVING MAN'S EPITAPH

A slave—oh yes, a slave! But in a freeman's grave. By thee, when work was done, Timanthes, foster-son, By thee whom I obeyed, My master, I was laid. Live long, from trouble free; But if thou com'st to me, Paying to age thy debt, Thine am I, master, yet.



A SONG TO A SINGER

Dura fida rubecula, Cur moraris in arbore Dum cadunt folia et brevi Flavet luce November.

Quid boni tibi destinat Hora crastina? quid petes Antris ex hiemalibus? Quid speras oriturum?

Est ut hospita te vocet Myrtis, et reseret fores, Ut te vere nitentibus Emiretur ocellis.

Quod si contigerit tibi, Ter beata vocaberis, Invidenda volucribus, Invidenda poetae.



AGE AND GIRLHOOD



A dry cicale chirps to a lass making hay, "Why creak'st thou, Tithonus?" quoth she. "I don't play; It doubles my toil, your importunate lay; I've earned a sweet pillow, lo! Hesper is nigh; I clasp a good wisp, and in fragrance I lie; But thou art unwearied, and empty, and dry."



A LEGEND OF PORTO SANTO

A time-worn sage without a home, A man of dim and tearful sight, Up from the hallowed haven clomb In lowly longing for the height.

He loiters on a half-way rock To hear the waves that pant and seethe, Which give the beats of Nature's clock To mortals conscious that they breathe.

The buxom waves may nurse a boat, May well nigh seem to soothe and lull The crying of a tethered goat, The trouble of a searching gull.

There might be comfort in the tide, There might be Lethe in the surge, Could they but hint that oceans hide, That pangs absolve, bereavements purge.

The thinker, not despairing yet, Upraises limbs not wholly stiff, Half envying him that draws the net, Half proud to combat with the cliff.

He groans, but soon around his lips Tear-channels bend into a smile, He thinks "They're saying in the ships I'm looking for the hidden isle.

I climb but as my humours lead, My thoughts are mazed, my will is faint, Yon men who see me roam, they need No Lethe-fount, no shriving saint."

Good faith! can we believe, or feign Believing, that such lands exist Through ages drenched with blotting rain, For ever folded in the mist?

Maybe some babe by sirens clothed Swam thence, and brought report thereof. Some hopeful virgin just betrothed Braved the incredulous pilot's scoff;

And murmuring to a friendly lute, While greybeards snored and beldames laughed, Some minstrel-corsair made pursuit Along the moon's white hunting-shaft;

Along the straight illumined track The bride, the singer, and the child Fled, far from sceptics, came not back, Engulped? Who knows? perhaps enisled.

Now were there such another crew, Now would their bark make room for me, Now were that island false or true, I'd go, forgetting, with the three.



TO A LINNET

My cheerful mate, you fret not for the wires, The changeless limits of your small desires; You heed not winter rime or summer dew, You feel no difference 'twixt old and new; You kindly take the lettuce or the cress Without the cognizance of more and less, Content with light and movement in a cage. Not reckoning hours, nor mortified by age, You bear no penance, you resent no wrong, Your timeless soul exists in each unconscious song.



A SONG FOR A PARTING

I. Flora will pass from firth to firth; Duty must draw, and vows must bind. Flora will sail half round the earth, Yet will she leave some grace behind.

II. Waft her, on Faith, from friend to friend, Make her a saint in some far isle; Yet will we keep, till memories end, Something that once was Flora's smile.



MIR IST LEIDE

Woe worth old Time the lord, Pointing his senseless sword Down on our festal board, Where we would dine, Chilling the kindly hall, Bidding the dainties pall, Making the garlands fall, Souring the wine.



LEBEWOHL—WORDS FOR A TUNE

I. With these words, Good-bye, Adieu Take I leave to part from you, Leave to go beyond your view, Through the haze of that which is to be; Fare thou forth, and wing thy way, So our language makes me say. Though it yield, the forward spirit needs must pray In the word that is hope's old token.

II. Though the fountain cease to play, Dew must glitter near the brink, Though the weary mind decay, As of old it thought so must it think. Leave alone the darkling eyes Fixed upon the moving skies, Cross the hands upon the bosom, there to rise To the throb of the faith not spoken.



REMEMBER



You come not, as aforetime, to the headstone every day, And I, who died, I do not chide because, my friend, you play; Only, in playing, think of him who once was kind and dear, And, if you see a beauteous thing, just say, he is not here.



APPENDIX



TO THE INFALLIBLE

("Ionica," 1858, p. 60)

Old angler, what device is thine To draw my pleasant friends from me? Thou fishest with a silken line Not the coarse nets of Galilee.

In stagnant vivaries they lie, Forgetful of their ancient haunts; And how shall he that standeth by Refrain his open mouth from taunts?

How? by remembering this, that he, Like them, in eddies whirled about, Felt less: for thus they disagree: He can, they could not, bear to doubt.



THE SWIMMER'S WISH

("Ionica," 1858, p. 81)

Fresh from the summer wave, under the beech, Looking through leaves with a far-darting eye, Tossing those river-pearled locks about, Throwing those delicate limbs straight out, Chiding the clouds as they sailed out of reach, Murmured the swimmer, I wish I could fly.

Laugh, if you like, at the bold reply, Answer disdainfully, flouting my words: How should the listener at simple sixteen Guess what a foolish old rhymer could mean Calmly predicting, "You will surely fly"— Fish one might vie with, but how be like birds?

Sweet maiden-fancies, at present they range Close to a sister's engarlanded brows, Over the diamonds a mother will wear, In the false flowers to be shaped for her hair.— Slow glide the hours to thee, late be the change, Long be thy rest 'neath the cool beechen boughs!

Genius and love will uplift thee: not yet, Walk through some passionless years by my side, Chasing the silly sheep, snapping the lily stalk, Drawing my secrets forth, witching my soul with talk. When the sap stays, and the blossom is set, Others will take the fruit, I shall have died.



AN APOLOGY

("Ionica," 1858, p. 115)

Uprose the temple of my love Sculptured with many a mystic theme, All frail and fanciful above, But pillared on a deep esteem.

It might have been a simpler plan, And traced on more majestic lines; But he that built it was a man Of will unstrung, and vague designs;

Not worthy, though indeed he wrought With reverence and a meek content, To keep that presence: yet the thought Is there, in frieze and pediment.

The trophied arms and treasured gold Have passed beneath the spoiler's hand; The shrine is bare, the altar cold, But let the outer fabric stand.



NOTRE DAME—FROM THE SOUTH-EAST

("Ionica," 1877)

Oh lord of high compassion, strong to scorn Ephemeral monsters, who with tragic pain Purgest our trivial humours, once again Through thine own Paris have I roamed, to mourn

For freemen plagued with cant, ere we were born, For feasts of death, and hatred's harvest wain Piled high, for princes from proud mothers torn, And soft despairs hushed in the waves of Seine.

Oh Victor, oh my prophet, wilt thou chide If Gudule's pangs, and Marion's frustrate plea, And Gauvrain's promise of a heavenly France, Thy sadly worshipt creatures, almost died This evening, for that spring was on the tree, And April dared in children's eyes to dance?

April 1877.



IN HONOUR OF MATTHEW PRIOR



("Ionica," 1877)

I am Her mirror, framed by him Who likes and knows her. On my rim No fret, no bead, no lace. He tells me not to mind the scorning Of every semblance of adorning, Since I receive Her face.

Sept. 1877.

The following little Greek lyric occurs in a letter of December 18, 1862, to the Rev. E. D. Stone. "My lines," wrote William Johnson, "are suggested by the death of Thorwaldsen: he died at the age of seventy, imperceptibly, having fallen asleep at a concert. But when I had done them, I remembered Provost Hawtrey's last appearance in public at a music party, where he fell asleep: and so I value my lines as a bit of honour done to him, and it seems odd that I should unintentionally have caught in the second and third lines his characteristic sympathy with the young...."



NEC CITHARA CARENTEM



Guide me with song, kind Muse, to death's dark shade; Keep me in sweet accord with boy and maid, Still in fresh blooms of art and truth arrayed.

Bear with old age, blithe child of memory! Time loves the good; and youth and thou art nigh To Sophocles and Plato, till they die.

Playmate of freedom, queen of nightingales, Draw near; thy voice grows faint: my spirit fails Still with thee, whether sleep or death assails.

THE END