I.


The corn has turned from grey to red,
Since first my spirit wandered forth
From the drear cities of the north,
And to Italia's mountains fled.

And here I set my face towards home,
For all my pilgrimage is done,
Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun
Marshals the way to Holy Rome.

O Blessed Lady, who dost hold
Upon the seven hills thy reign!
O Mother without blot or stain,
Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!

O Roma, Roma, at thy feet
I lay this barren gift of song!
For, ah! the way is steep and long
That leads unto thy sacred street.


II.


And yet what joy it were for me
To turn my feet unto the south,
And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole!

Soleano i miei pensier soavemente.

HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM.


    My thoughts in fair alliance and array
Hold converse on the theme which most endears:
Pity approaches and repents delay:
E'en now she speaks of us, or hopes, or fears.
Since the last day, the terrible hour when Fate
This present life of her fair being reft,
From heaven she sees, and hears, and feels our state:
No other hope than this to me is left.
O fairest miracle! most fortunate mind!
O unexampled beauty, stately, rare!
Whence lent too late, too soon, alas! rejoin'd.
Hers is the crown and palm of good deeds there,
Who to the world so eminent and clear
Made her great virtue and my passion here.

MACGREGOR.


    My thought...

Thou hast entered the land without shadows,
    Thou who, 'neath the shadow, so long
Hast sat with thy white hands close-folded,
    And lips that could utter no song;
Through a rift in the cloud, for an instant,
    Thine eyes caught a glimpse of that shore,
And Earth with its gloom was forgotten,
    And Heaven is thine own evermore!

We see not the glorious vision,
    Nor the welcoming melodies hear,
That, from bowers of beauty Elysian,
    Float tenderly sweet to thine ear;
Round us, lie Earth's desolate midnight,
    Her winter-plains bare and untrod, -
Round thee, is the glad, morning sunlight
    That beams from the City of God!

Our eyes have grown heavy with weeping, -
    Thine, "the King in his beauty" behold
And thou leanest th...

I

Veteran memories rally to muster
Here at the call of the old battle days:
Cavalry clatter and cannon's hoarse bluster:
All the wild whirl of the fight's broken maze:
Clangor of bugle and flashing of sabre,
Smoke-stifled flags and the howl of the shell,
With earth for a rest place and death for a neighbor,
And dreams of a charge and the deep rebel yell.
Stern was our task in the field where the reaping
Spared the ripe harvest, but laid our men low:
Grim was the sorrow that held us from weeping:
Awful the rush of the strife's ebb and flow.
Swift came the silence - our enemy hiding
Sudden retreat in the cloud-muffled night:
Swift as a hawk-pounce our hill-and-dale riding;
Hundreds on hundreds we caught in their flight!
Hard and incessant the danger a...

ONCE through the forest

Alone I went;
To seek for nothing

My thoughts were bent.

I saw i' the shadow

A flower stand there
As stars it glisten'd,

As eyes 'twas fair.

I sought to pluck it,

It gently said:
"Shall I be gather'd

Only to fade?"

With all its roots

I dug it with care,
And took it home

To my garden fair.

In silent corner

Soon it was set;
There grows it ever,

There blooms it yet.

    The times are not degenerate. Man's faith
Mounts higher than of old. No crumbling creed
Can take from the immortal soul the need
    Of that supreme Creator, God. The wraith
Of dead beliefs we cherished in our youth
Fades but to let us welcome new-born Truth.

    Man may not worship at the ancient shrine
Prone on his face, in self-accusing scorn.
That night is past. He hails a fairer morn,
    And knows himself a something all divine;
No humble worm whose heritage is sin,
But, born of God, he feels the Christ within.

    Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time,
But deep his reverence for that mighty force.
That occult working of the great all Source,
    Which makes the present era so sublime.
Religion now means something high and broad,

"Which of you, knight or squire, will dare
Plunge into yonder gulf?
A golden beaker I fling in it--there!
The black mouth swallows it like a wolf!
Who brings me the cup again, whoever,
It is his own--he may keep it for ever!"

Tis the king who speaks; and he flings from the brow
Of the cliff, that, rugged and steep,
Hangs out o'er the endless sea below,
The cup in the whirlpool's howling heap:--
"Again I ask, what hero will follow?
What brave heart plunge into yon dark hollow?"

The knights and the squires, the king about,
Hear him, and dumbly stare
Into the wild sea's tumbling rout;
But to win the beaker, they hardly care!
The king, for the third time, round him glaring--
"Not a soul of you has the daring?"

Speechless all, as before,...

Lyre! though such power do in thy magic live
As might from India's farthest plain
Recall the not unwilling Maid,
Assist me to detain
The lovely Fugitive:
Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed
By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid.
Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye,
The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort
Of contemplation, the calm port
By reason fenced from winds that sigh
Among the restless sails of vanity.
But if no wish be hers that we should part,
A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart.
Where all things are so fair,
Enough by her dear side to breathe the air
Of this Elysian weather;
And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy
Shade upon the sunshine lying
Faint and somewhat pensively;
And downward Image gaily vying

Vergine bella che di sol vestita.

TO THE VIRGIN MARY.


Beautiful Virgin! clothed with the sun,
Crown'd with the stars, who so the Eternal Sun
Well pleasedst that in thine his light he hid;
Love pricks me on to utter speech of thee,
And--feeble to commence without thy aid--
Of Him who on thy bosom rests in love.
Her I invoke who gracious still replies
To all who ask in faith,
Virgin! if ever yet
The misery of man and mortal things
To mercy moved thee, to my prayer incline;
Help me in this my strife,
Though I am but of dust, and thou heaven's radiant Queen!

Wise Virgin! of that lovely number one
Of Virgins blest and wise,
Even the first and with the brightest lamp:
O solid buckler of afflicted hearts!
'Neath which aga...

The seasons send their ruin as they go,
For in the spring the narciss shows its head
Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,
And in the autumn purple violets blow,
And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;
Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again
And this grey land grow green with summer rain
And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.

But what of life whose bitter hungry sea
Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night
Covers the days which never more return?
Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn
We lose too soon, and only find delight
In withered husks of some dead memory.

        --"Throughout the day, I walk,
My path o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him."
                --Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin.


Mother, gazing on thy son,
He, thy precious only one,
Look into his azure eyes,
Clearer than the summer skies.
Mark his course; on scrolls of fame
Read his proud ancestral name;
Pause! a cloud that path will dim,
Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.

Young bride, for the altar crowned,
Now thy lot with one is bound,
Will he keep each solemn vow?
Will he ever love as now?
Ah! a dreamy shadow lies
In the depths of those bright eyes;
Time will this day's glory dim,
Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.

Sister, has thy brother gone,
To the fields where fights are won;
O...

Piero Luca, known of all the town
As the gray porter by the Pitti wall
Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall,
Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down
His last sad burden, and beside his mat
The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.

Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted,
Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted;
Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted
Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife,
In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life
But when at last came upward from the street
Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet,
The sick man started, strove to rise in vain,
Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain.
And the monk said, "'T is but the Brotherhood
Of Mercy going on some errand good
Their black masks by the palace-wall ...

Love thyself last. Look near, behold thy duty
    To those who walk beside thee down life's road;
Make glad their days by little acts of beauty,
    And help them bear the burden of earth's load.

Love thyself last. Look far and find the stranger,
    Who staggers 'neath his sin and his despair;
Go lend a hand, and lead him out of danger,
    To hights where he may see the world is fair.

Love thyself last. The vastnesses above thee
    Are filled with Spirit Forces, strong and pure.
And fervently, these faithful friends shall love thee:
    Keep thou thy watch o'er others and endure.

Love thyself last; and oh, such joy shall thrill thee,
    As never yet to selfish souls was given.
Whate'er thy lot, a perfect peace will fill thee,
    And earth sha...

The gem is not this ode itself;
Hardly can it aspire so high.
Earth has its gems; but all its wealth,

Increased by thousands, cannot buy
Man's soul, the gem of priceless worth,
Made in God's image at its birth;
Ordained to live for evermore;
Redeemed by blood from sin and hell;
Transformed by grace, God's love to tell;
And at His feet its homage pour.
Lordly are its endowments, too;

Superb its destiny, if true;
Only below, said one who knew,
Unfallen angels round God's throne.
Lord, may this gem be Thine alone.

To all my fond rhapsodies, Charley,
    You have wearily listened, I fear;
As yet not an answer you've given
    Save a shrug, or an ill-concealed sneer;
Pray, why, when I talk of my marriage,
    Do you watch me with sorrowing eye?
'Tis you, hapless bachelor, Charley,
    That are to be pitied - not I!

You mockingly ask me to tell you,
    Since to bondage I soon must be sold,
Have I wisely chosen my fetters,
    Which, at least, should be forged of pure gold.
Hem! the sole wealth my love possesses
    Are her tresses of bright golden hair,
Pearly teeth, lips of rosiest coral,
    Eyes I know not with what to compare.

Don't talk about all I surrender -
    My club, champagne dinners, cigars,
My hand at écarté, my harmless

At the wheel plied Mariline,
Beauteous and self-serene,
Never dreaming of that mien
Fit for lady or for queen.

Never sang she, but her words,
Music-laden, swept the chords

Of the heart, that eagerly
Stored the subtle melody,
Like the honey in the bee;
Never spake, but showed that she

Held the golden master-key
That unlocked all sympathy

Pent in souls where Feeling glows,
Like the perfume in the rose,
Like her own innate repose,
Like the whiteness in the snows.

Richly thoughted Mariline!
Nature's heiress! - nature's queen!


II.

By her side, with liberal look,
Paused a student o'er a book,
Wielder of a shepherd's crook,
Reveller by grove and brook:

Hunter-up of musty tomes,

We are what suns and winds and waters make us;
The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills
Fashion and win their nursling with their smiles.
But where the land is dim from tyranny,
There tiny pleasures occupy the place
Of glories and of duties; as the feet
Of fabled faeries when the sun goes down
Trip o’er the grass where wrestlers strove by day.
Then Justice, call’d the Eternal One above,
Is more inconstant than the buoyant form
That burst into existence from the froth
Of ever-varying ocean: what is best
Then becomes worst; what loveliest, most deform’d.
The heart is hardest in the softest climes,
The passions flourish, the affections die.
O thou vast tablet of these awful truths,
That fillest all the space between the seas,
Spreading from Venice’s des...

Who is your lady of love, O ye that pass
Singing? and is it for sorrow of that which was
That ye sing sadly, or dream of what shall be?
For gladly at once and sadly it seems ye sing.
Our lady of love by you is unbeholden;
For hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor lips, nor golden
Treasure of hair, nor face nor form; but we
That love, we know her more fair than anything.

Is she a queen, having great gifts to give?
Yea, these; that whoso hath seen her shall not live
Except he serve her sorrowing, with strange pain,
Travail and bloodshedding and bitterer tears;
And when she bids die he shall surely die.
And he shall leave all things under the sky
And go forth naked under sun and rain
And work and wait and watch out all his years.

Hath she on earth no pla...