In some quaint Nürnberg maler-atelier
Uprummaged. When and where was never clear,
Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom
'T was painted, who shall say? itself a gloom
Resisting inquisition. I opine
It is a Dürer. Humph? that touch, this line
Are not deniable; distinguished grace
In the pure oval of the noble face;
The color badly tarnished. Half in light
Extend it, so; incline; the exquisite
Expression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn,
Imperial beauty; icy, each a thorn
Of light - disdainful eyes and ... well! no use!
Effaced and but beheld, a sad abuse
Of patience. Often, vaguely visible,
The portrait fills each feature, making swell
The soul with hope: avoiding face and hair
Alive with lively warmth; astonished there
"Occult substantial!" y...

I sat by the granite pillar, and sunlight fell
    Where the sunlight fell of old,
And the hour was the hour my heart remembered well,
    And the sermon rolled and rolled
As it used to roll when the place was still unhaunted,
And the strangest tale in the world was still untold.

And I knew that of all this rushing of urgent sound
    That I so clearly heard,
The green young forest of saplings clustered round
    Was heeding not one word:
Their heads were bowed in a still serried patience
Such as an angel's breath could never have stirred.

For some were already away to the hazardous pitch,
    Or lining the parapet wall,
And some were in glorious battle, or great and rich,
    Or throned in a college hall:
And among the rest was one like my own you...

Helen, in her silent room,
Weaves upon the upright loom,
Weaves a mantle rich and dark,
Purpled over-deep. But mark
How she scatters o'er the wool
Woven shapes, till it is full
Of men that struggle close, complex;
Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks
Arching high; spear, shield, and all
The panoply that doth recall
Mighty war, such war as e'en
For Helen's sake is waged, I ween.
Purple is the groundwork: good!
All the field is stained with blood.
Blood poured out for Helen's sake;
(Thread, run on; and, shuttle, shake!)
But the shapes of men that pass
Are as ghosts within a glass,
Woven with whiteness of the swan,
Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan
From the garment's purple fold
Where Troy's tale is twined and told.
Well may Helen...

Oh, dear to old Dunolly's heart
His darling daughter seemed,
Yet when she fled, how pitiless
His bitter curse was deemed.

To death he doomed her lover true,
And swore his lowly blood
Should stain the land, whose soil would blush
At wanton womanhood.

But leaves were thick, and woods were green,
Where summer saw their love,
And none could tell Dunolly where
Was nesting his wild dove.

Two years had sped, and all unchanged
Dunolly's mood remained;
When tired with hunting, late at eve
A forest hut he gained.

A cheerful scene! for hung on trees
On either side the door
A stag and roe, and salmon there
Lay strewn the hut before.

There pausing silently he heard
Light laughter, O well known;
And, looking throug...

    They faced each other: Topaz-brown
    And lambent burnt her eyes and shot
    Sharp flame at his of amethyst. -
    "I hate you!    Go, and be forgot
    As death forgets!" their glitter hissed
    (So seemed it) in their hatred.    Ho!
    Dared any mortal front her so? -
    Tempestuous eyebrows knitted down -
    Tense nostril, mouth - no muscle slack, -
    And black - the suffocating black -
    The stifling blackness of her frown!

    Ah! but the lifted face of her!
    And the twitched lip and tilted head!
    Yet he did neither wince nor stir, -
    Only - his hands clenched; and, instead
    Of words, he answered with a stare
    That stammered not in aught it said,
    As might his voice if trusted there.

    ...

    Below this marble monument is laid
    All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.
    Preserve, O sacred tomb! thy trust consign'd;
    The mould was made on purpose for the mind:
    And she would lose, if, at the latter day,
    One atom could be mix'd of other clay.
    Such were the features of her heavenly face,
    Her limbs were form'd with such harmonious grace:
    So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
    Had been an emanation of the soul:
    Which her own inward symmetry reveal'd
    And like a picture shone, in glass anneal'd.
    Or like the sun eclipsed, with shaded light:
    Too piercing, else, to be sustain'd by sight.
    Each thought was visible that roll'd within:
    As through a crystal case the figured hours are seen.
    A...

A dark, tempestuous night; the stars shut in
    With shrouds of fog; an inky, jet-black blot
The firmament; and where the moon has been
    An hour agone seems like the darkest spot.
The weird wind - furious at its demon game -
Rattles one's fancy like a window-frame.

A care-worn face peers out into the dark,
    And childish faces - frightened at the gloom -
Grow awed and vacant as they turn to mark
    The father's as he passes through the room:
The gate latch clatters, and wee baby Bess
Whispers, "The doctor's tummin' now, I dess!"

The father turns; a sharp, swift flash of pain
    Flits o'er his face: "Amanda, child! I said
A moment since - I see I must AGAIN -
    Go take your little sisters off to bed!
There, Effie, Rose, and CLARA MUSTN'T C...

Bright summer comes, all bloom and flowers,
To garland o'er her faded bowers;
There's balm and sunshine on her wing,
But where's the friend she used to bring?
One heart is sad 'mid all the glee,
And only asks, "Oh, where is he?"

He comes not now, he comes not now,
To chase the gloom from off my brow,
He comes not with his wonted smile
The weary moments to beguile.
There's joy in every look I see,
But mine is sad, for "Where is he?"

Closed is the book we used to read;
There's none to smile, there's none to heed;
Our 'customed walk's deserted, too;
It charms not as it used to do;
The fav'rite path, the well-known tree,
All, all are whispering, "Where is he?"

This faithful heart is now a shrine
For each dear look and...

LET mine eye the farewell say,

That my lips can utter ne'er;
Fain I'd be a man to-day,

Yet 'tis hard, oh, hard to bear!

Mournful in an hour like this

Is love's sweetest pledge, I ween;
Cold upon thy mouth the kiss,

Faint thy fingers' pressure e'en.

Oh what rapture to my heart

Used each stolen kiss to bring!
As the violets joy impart,

Gather'd in the early spring.

Now no garlands I entwine,

Now no roses pluck. for thee,
Though 'tis springtime, Fanny mine,

Dreary autumn 'tis to me!



[Probably addressed to his mistress Frederica.]

My maiden she proved false to me;

To hate all joys I soon began,

Then to a flowing stream I ran,
The stream ran past me hastily.

There stood I fix'd, in mute despair;

My head swam round as in a dream;

I well-nigh fell into the stream,
And earth seem'd with me whirling there.

Sudden I heard a voice that cried

I had just turn'd my face from thence

It was a voice to charm each sense:
"Beware, for deep is yonder tide!"

A thrill my blood pervaded now,

I look'd and saw a beauteous maid

I asked her name twas Kate, she said
"Oh lovely Kate! how kind art thou!

"From death I have been sav'd by thee,

'Tis through thee only that I live;

Little 'twere life alone to give,
My j...

I.

My life is full of weary days,
But good things have not kept aloof,
Nor wander’d into other ways:
I have not lack’d thy mild reproof,
Nor golden largess of thy praise.

And now shake hands across the brink
Of that deep grave to which I go:
Shake hands once more: I cannot sink
So far–far down, but I shall know
Thy voice, and answer from below.


II.

When in the darkness over me
The four-handed mole shall scrape,
Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree,
Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape,
But pledge me in the flowing grape.

And when the sappy field and wood
Grow green beneath the showery gray,
And rugged barks begin to bud,
And thro’ damp holts new-flush’d with may,
Ring sudden scritches of the jay,
...

O! lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O! lest your true love may seem false in this
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

I towered far, and lo! I stood within
The presence of the Lord Most High,
Sent thither by the sons of earth, to win
Some answer to their cry.

- "The Earth, say'st thou? The Human race?
By Me created? Sad its lot?
Nay: I have no remembrance of such place:
Such world I fashioned not." -

- "O Lord, forgive me when I say
Thou spak'st the word, and mad'st it all." -
"The Earth of men - let me bethink me . . . Yea!
I dimly do recall

"Some tiny sphere I built long back
(Mid millions of such shapes of mine)
So named . . . It perished, surely - not a wrack
Remaining, or a sign?

"It lost my interest from the first,
My aims therefor succeeding ill;
Haply it died of doing as it durst?" -
"Lord, it existeth still." -

"Dark,...

When insect wings are glistening in the beam
Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright,
Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream,
Wander amid the mild and mellow light;
And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay,
Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day.

Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now
Goest down in glory! ever beautiful
And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou
Colourest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool,
Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high
Climbest and streamest thy white splendours from mid-sky.

Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair,
Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues
That live among the clouds, and flush the air,
Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews.
Then softest gales are breat...

Who will say the world is dying?
    Who will say our prime is past?
Sparks from Heaven, within us lying,
    Flash, and will flash till the last.
Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken;
    Man a tool to buy and sell;
Earth a failure, God-forsaken,
    Anteroom of Hell.

Still the race of Hero-spirits
    Pass the lamp from hand to hand;
Age from age the Words inherits -
    'Wife, and Child, and Fatherland.'
Still the youthful hunter gathers
    Fiery joy from wold and wood;
He will dare as dared his fathers
    Give him cause as good.

While a slave bewails his fetters;
    While an orphan pleads in vain;
While an infant lisps his letters,
    Heir of all the age's gain;
While a lip grows ripe for kissing;
    While a moan from ...

Night creeps into the cellars, musty and dull.
Tuxedos totter through the rubble of the street.
Faces are moldy and worn out.
The blue morning burns coolly in the city.
How quickly music and dance and greed melted...
It smells of the sun.    And day begins
With trolleys, horses, shouts and wind.
Dull daily labor cloaks the people in dust.
Families silently wolf down lunch.
At times a hall still vibrates through a skull,
Much dull desire and a silken leg.

A sweat-dripping horse and a half-naked myall,
And a message: ‘Come out to the back of the run
Be out at the stake-yards by rising of sun!
Ride hard and fail not! there's the devil to pay:
For the men from Monkyra have mustered the run
Cows and calves, calves of ours, without ever a brand,
Fifty head, if there's one, on the camp there they stand.
Come out to the stake-yards, nor fail me, or by all
The saints they'll be drafted and driven away!'
Boot and saddle it was to the rolling of curses:
Snatching whip, snatching spurs, where they hung on the nail.
In his wrath old McIvor, head stockman, turned pale,
Spitting oaths with his head 'neath the flap of his saddle;
Taking up the last hole in the girth with his teeth;
Then a hand on the pommel, a quick catch of breath,

Thou shaking thy dark shadows down,
Like leaves before the first leaves fall,
Pourest upon the head of night
Her loveliest loveliness of all--
Dark leaves that tremble
When soft airs unto softer call.

O, darker, softer fall her thoughts
Upon the cold fields of my mind,
Weaving a quiet music there
Like leaf-shapes trembling in least wind:
Dark thoughts that linger
When the light's gone and the night's blind.

I see her there beneath your boughs.
Dark chestnut, though you see her not;
Her white face and white hands are clear
As the moon in your stretched arms caught;
But stranger, clearer,
The living shadows of her thought.