A woman in her youth, but lost to all
    The joys of innocence. Love she had known,
    Such love as leaves the soul filled full of shame.
    Passion was hers, hate and impurity,
    The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain
    To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush
    Of fallen womanhood, the envy of
    The spotless, the desire that they might sink
    Low in the mire as she.
            Oh, what a soul
    She carried on that day! The women drew
    Their robes back from her touch, men leered,
    And children seemed afraid to meet
    The devilish beauty of her form and face.
            Shunned and alone,
    Till One came to her side,
    And spake her name, and took her hand in His.
            And what He said
    Is past the telli...

It chanced upon a certain day,
When cheerful Summer, bright and gay,
Had brought once more her gift of flowers,
To dress anew her pleasant bowers;
When birds and insects on the wing
Made all the air with music ring;
When sunshine smiled on dell and knoll,
Two Ducks set forth to take a stroll.
'Twas morning; and each grassy bank
Of cooling dew had deeply drank--
Each fair young flower was holding up
Its sweet and freshly painted cup,
Filled with bright dew drops, every one;
Gay, sparkling treasures for the sun,
Who bears them lightly to the sky,
Holds them as vapor far on high,
Till with his rays in dazzling tints,
The rainbow on the cloud he paints.
But our two Ducks we'll not forget,
They were not troubled by the wet;
They rambled on, and ...

    When in the womb of Time our souls' own son
    Dear Love lay sleeping till his natal hour,
    Long months I knew not that sweet life begun,
    Too dimly treasuring thy touch of power;
        And wandering all those days
        By far-off ways,
    Forgot immortal seed must have immortal flower.

    Only, beloved, since my beloved thou art
    I do remember, now that memory's vain,
    How twice or thrice beneath my beating heart
    Life quickened suddenly with proudest pain.
        Then dreamed I Love's increase,
        Yet held my peace
    Till I might render thee thy own great gift again.

    For as with bodies, so with souls it is,
    The greater gives, the lesser doth conceive:
    That thou hast fathered Love, I tell thee this,

I

The faery beam upon you,
The stars to glister on you;
A moon of light
In the noon of night,
Till the fire-drake hath o’ergone you!
The wheel of fortune guide you,
The boy with the bow beside you;
Run ay in the way
Till the bird of day,
And the luckier lot betide you!

II

To the old, long life and treasure!
To the young all health and pleasure!
To the fair, their face
With eternal grace
And the soul to be loved at leisure!
To the witty, all clear mirrors;
To the foolish, their dark errors;
To the loving sprite,
A secure delight;
To the jealous, his own false terrors!

Like to a bride, come forth, my book, at last,
With all thy richest jewels overcast;
Say, if there be, 'mongst many gems here, one
Deserveless of the name of paragon;
Blush not at all for that, since we have set
Some pearls on queens that have been counterfeit.

Of mortal parents is the Hero born
By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led?
Or is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead
Returned to animate an age forlorn?
He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn
When dreary darkness is discomfited,
Yet mark his modest state! upon his head,
That simple crest, a heron's plume, is worn.
O Liberty! they stagger at the shock
From van to rear, and with one mind would flee,
But half their host is buried: rock on rock
Descends: beneath this godlike Warrior, see!
Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock
The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty.

Not with a flash that rends the blue
    Shall fall the avenging sword.
Gently as the evening dew
    Descends the mighty Lord.

His dreadful balances are made
    To move with moon and tide;
Yet shall not mercy be afraid
    Nor justice be denied.

The dreams that seemed to waste away,
    The kindliness forgot,
Were singing in your heart today
    Although you knew them not.

The sun shall not forget his road,
    Nor the high stars their rhyme,
The traveller with the heavier load
    Has one less hill to climb.

And, though a darker shadow fall
    On every struggling age,
How shall it be if, after all,
    He share our pilgrimage?

The end we mourn is not the end.
    The dust has nimble wings.
But tru...

Ever to be the best.    To lead
    In whatsoever things are true;
    Not stand among the halting crew,
The faint of heart, the feeble-kneed,
Who tarry for a certain sign
    To make them follow with the rest--
Oh, let not their reproach be thine!
    But ever be the best.

For want of this aspiring soul,
    Great deeds on earth remain undone,
    But, sharpened by the sight of one,
Many shall press toward the goal.
Thou running foremost of the throng,
    The fire of striving in thy breast,
Shalt win, although the race be long,
    And ever be the best.

And wilt thou question of the prize?
    'Tis not of silver or of gold,
    Nor in applauses manifold,
But hidden in the heart it lies:
To know that but for thee not one
 ...

’Twas brave De Quiros bent the knee before the King of Spain,
And “sire,” he said, “I bring thy ships in safety home again
From seas unsailed of mariner in all the days of yore,
Where reefs and islets, insect-built, arise from ocean’s floor.
And, sire, the land we sought is found, its coasts lay full in view
When homeward bound, perforce, I sailed, at the bidding of my crew.
Terra Australis1 called I it; and linked therewith the name
Of Him who guideth, as of old, in cloud and starry flame.
And grant me ships again,” he said, “and southward let me go,
A new Peru may wait thee there, another Mexico.”

A threadbare suitor, year by year, “There is a land,” said he;
While King and Court grew weary of this old man of the sea;
For there were heretics to burn, and Hollan...

Villula,..........et pauper agelle,
Me tibi, et hos unâ mecum, et quos semper amavi,
Commendo.


PREFACE.

Every reader turns with pleasure to those passages of Horace, and Pope, and Boileau, which describe how they lived and where they dwelt; and which, being interspersed among their satirical writings, derive a secret and irresistible grace from the contrast, and are admirable examples of what in Painting is termed repose.

We have admittance to Horace at all hours. We enjoy the company and conversation at his table; and his suppers, like Plato's, 'non solum in præsentia, sed etiam postero die jucundæ sunt.' But when we look round as we sit there, we find ourselves in a Sabine farm, and not in a Roman villa. His windows have every charm of prospect; but his furniture might have descended from...

O king! what is the quest that evermore
    Foredooms thy feet to roam, yet blinds thine eyes?
    Why seek ye still for life's imperfect prize,
Or turn thy weary sail from shore to shore,
When here thou layest aside the ills of yore
    To calm thy soul with dreams? Let it suffice--
    This heart-sick burden of the worldly-wise--
That ye have borne it and the task is o'er,
Here see the world fade like a spark of fire,
    While all thy restless ways grow full of peace,
And wear the fittest crown for them that tire
    Their souls with life's unraveled mysteries,--
Above the old red roses of desire
    The languid lotus of desire's surcease!

To weed the Garden of the Mind
Of all rank growths of doubt and sin,
And let faith's flowers thrive and win
To blossom; and, through faith, to find
That lilies, too, can toil and spin,
And roses work for good and right;
That even the frailest flower that fills
A serious purpose, as God wills,
Is all man needs to give him light,
Is all he needs for all his ills.
Here is a Garden gone to flowers
While one beside it runs to weeds
Yet both were sown with similar seeds:
What was it? Did the World, or Hours,
Bring forth according to their needs?
Or was it that the Gardener
Neglected one? or did not care
What growths matured to slay and snare?
Thinking, whatever might occur,
Labour, perhaps, would manage there.
But Labour looked and took his ease,...

What will ye, my poor orphans, do,
When I must leave the world and you;
Who'll give ye then a sheltering shed,
Or credit ye, when I am dead?
Who'll let ye by their fire sit,
Although ye have a stock of wit,
Already coin'd to pay for it?
I cannot tell: unless there be
Some race of old humanity
Left, of the large heart and long hand,
Alive, as noble Westmorland;
Or gallant Newark; which brave two
May fost'ring fathers be to you.
If not, expect to be no less
Ill used, than babes left fatherless.

(Fergus.) This whole day have I followed in the rocks,
And you have changed and flowed from shape to
shape,
First as a raven on whose ancient wings
Scarcely a feather lingered, then you seemed
A weasel moving on from stone to stone,
And now at last you wear a human shape,
A thin grey man half lost in gathering night.

(Druid.) What would you, king of the proud Red Branch
kings?

(Fergus.) This would I Say, most wise of living souls:
Young subtle Conchubar sat close by me
When I gave judgment, and his words were wise,
And what to me was burden without end,
To him seemed easy, So I laid the crown
Upon his head to cast away my sorrow.

(Druid.) What would you, king of the proud Red Branch
kings?

(Fergus.) A king and proud! and that ...

    My heart is full of inarticulate pain,
        And beats laborious. Cold ungenial looks
    Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain,
        Wise in success, well-read in feeble books,
    No nigher come, I pray: your air is drear;
    'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear.

    Beloved, who love beauty and fair truth,
        Come nearer me; too near ye cannot come;
    Make me an atmosphere with your sweet youth;
        Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room;
    Speak not a word, for, see, my spirit lies
    Helpless and dumb; shine on me with your eyes.

    O all wide places, far from feverous towns;
        Great shining seas; pine forests; mountains wild;
    Rock-bosomed shores; rough heaths, and sheep-cropt downs;
        Vast pallid clo...

‘Though to my feathers in the wet,
I have stood here from break of day,
I have not found a thing to eat
For only rubbish comes my way.
Am I to live on lebeen-lone?’
Muttered the old crane of Gort.
‘For all my pains on lebeen-lone.’

King Guari walked amid his court
The palace-yard and river-side
And there to three old beggars said:
‘You that have wandered far and wide
Can ravel out what’s in my head.
Do men who least desire get most,
Or get the most who most desire?’
A beggar said: ‘They get the most
Whom man or devil cannot tire,
And what could make their muscles taut
Unless desire had made them so.’
But Guari laughed with secret thought,
‘If that be true as it seems true,
One of you three is a rich man,
For he shall have a thous...

In His blest name, who was His own creation,
Who from all time makes making his vocation;
The name of Him who makes our faith so bright,
Love, confidence, activity, and might;
In that One's name, who, named though oft He be,
Unknown is ever in Reality:
As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim,
Thou findest but the known resembling Him;
How high so'er thy fiery spirit hovers,
Its simile and type it straight discovers
Onward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay,
Where'er thou goest, smiling is the way;
No more thou numbrest, reckonest no time,
Each step is infinite, each step sublime.

I

My soul goes out to her who says,
"Come, follow me and cast off care!"
Then tosses back her sun-bright hair,
And like a flower before me sways
Between the green leaves and my gaze:
This creature like a girl, who smiles
Into my eyes and softly lays
Her hand in mine and leads me miles,
Long miles of haunted forest ways.

II

Sometimes she seems a faint perfume,
A fragrance that a flower exhaled
And God gave form to; now, unveiled,
A sunbeam making gold the gloom
Of vines that roof some woodland room
Of boughs; and now the silvery sound
Of streams her presence doth assume -
Music, from which, in dreaming drowned,
A crystal shape she seems to bloom.

III

Sometimes she seems the light that lies
On foam of w...