Not that dull spleen which serves i' the world for scorn,
Is hers I watch from far off, worshipping
As in remote Chaldaea the ancient king
Adored the star that heralded the morn.
Her proud content she bears as a flag is borne
Tincted the hue royal; or as a wing
It lifts her soaring, near the daylight spring,
Whence, if she lift, our days must pass forlorn.

The pure deriving of her spirit-state
Is so remote from men and their believing,
They shrink when she is cold, and estimate
That hardness which is but a God's dismay:
As when the Heaven-sent sprite thro' Hell sped cleaving,
Only the gross air checkt him on his way.

Star of the East, that long ago
Brought wise men on their way
Where, angels singing to and fro,
The Child of Bethlehem lay--
Above that Syrian hill afar
Thou shinest out to-night, O Star!

Star of the East, the night were drear
But for the tender grace
That with thy glory comes to cheer
Earth's loneliest, darkest place;
For by that charity we see
Where there is hope for all and me.

Star of the East! show us the way
In wisdom undefiled
To seek that manger out and lay
Our gifts before the child--
To bring our hearts and offer them
Unto our King in Bethlehem!

Star of the East, that long ago
Brought wise men on their way
Where, angels singing to and fro,
The Child of Bethlehem lay--
Above that Syrian hill afar
Thou shinest out to-night, O Star!

Star of the East, the night were drear
But for the tender grace
That with thy glory comes to cheer
Earth's loneliest, darkest place;
For by that charity we see
Where there is hope for all and me.

Star of the East! show us the way
In wisdom undefiled
To seek that manger out and lay
Our gifts before the child--
To bring our hearts and offer them
Unto our King in Bethlehem!

The noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse’s silent tide,
When, ‘scaped from literary cares,
I wander’d on his side.


My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree
(Two nymphs[1] adorn’d with every grace
That spaniel found for me),


Now wanton’d lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o’er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.


It was the time when Ouse display’d
His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent survey’d,
And one I wish’d my own.


With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.


Beau mark’d my unsuccessful pains
With fix’d considerate fac...

Fair is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore,
Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies;
The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore,
As clear and bluer still before thee lies.

Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire,
Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps;
And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire,
Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps.

Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue,
Heap her green breast when April suns are bright,
Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue,
Or like the mountain frost of silvery white.

Currents of fragrance, from the orange tree,
And sward of violets, breathing to and fro,
Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea,
Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow.

Yet even he...

        I

        I sat beside the glassy evening sea,
        One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre,
        And all its strings of laughter and desire
        Crushed in the rank wet grasses heedlessly;
        Nor did my dull eyes care to question how
        The boat close by had spread its saffron sails,
        Nor what might mean the coffers and the bales,
        And streaks of new wine on the gilded prow.
        Neither was wonder in me when I saw
        Fair women step therein, though they were fair
        Even to adoration and to awe,
        And in the gracious fillets of their hair
        Were blossoms from a garden I had known,
        Sweet mornings ere the apple buds were blown.


        II

        One gazed steadfas...

I value more than I despise
    My tendency to sin,
Because it helps me sympathise
    With all my tempted kin.

He who has nothing in his soul
    That links him to the sod,
Knows not that joy of self-control
    Which lifts him up to God.

And I am glad my heart can say,
    When others trip and fall
(Although I safely passed that way),
    'I understand it all.'

Spoken by Miss ADA REHAN at the Lyceum Theatre, July 23, 1890, at a performance on behalf of Lady Jeune's Holiday Fund for City Children.

Before we part to alien thoughts and aims,
Permit the one brief word the occasion claims:
- When mumming and grave projects are allied,
Perhaps an Epilogue is justified.

Our under-purpose has, in truth, to-day
Commanded most our musings; least the play:
A purpose futile but for your good-will
Swiftly responsive to the cry of ill:
A purpose all too limited! to aid
Frail human flowerets, sicklied by the shade,
In winning some short spell of upland breeze,
Or strengthening sunlight on the level leas.

Who has not marked, where the full cheek should be,
Incipient lines of lank flaccidity,
Lymphatic pallor where the p...

She heard the story of the end,
Each message, too, she heard;
And there was one for every friend;
For her alone, no word.

And shall she bear a heavier heart,
And deem his love was fled;
Because his soul from earth could part
Leaving her name unsaid?

No, No! Though neither sign nor sound
A parting thought expressed,
Not heedless passed the Homeward-Bound
Of her he loved the best.

Of voyage-perils, bravely borne,
He would not tell the tale;
Of shattered planks and canvas torn,
And war with wind and gale.

He waited, till the light-house star
Should rise against the sky;
And from the mainland, looming far,
The forest scents blow by.

He hoped to tell, assurance sweet!
That pain and grief were o’er,
What bl...

1.
Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die,
Perchance were death indeed! - Constantia, turn!
In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie,
Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn
Between thy lips, are laid to sleep;
Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour, it is yet,
And from thy touch like fire doth leap.
Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet.
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget!

2.
A breathless awe, like the swift change
Unseen, but felt in youthful slumbers,
Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange,
Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers.
The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven
By the enchantment of thy strain,
And on my shoulders wings are woven,
To follow its sublime career
Beyond ...

        The faint stars wake and wonder,
        Fade and find heart anew;
        Above us and far under
        Sphereth the watchful blue.

        Silent she sits, outbending,
        A wild pathetic grace,
        A beauty strange, heart-rending,
        Upon her hair and face.

        O spirit cries that sever
        The cricket's level drone!
        O to give o'er endeavor
        And let love have its own!

        Within the mirrored bushes
        There wakes a little stir;
        The white-throat moves, and hushes
        Her nestlings under her.

        Beneath, the lustrous river,
        The watchful sky o'erhead.
        God, God, that Thou should'st ever
        Poison thy children's bread!

I.

Friend of the dead, and friend of all my days
Even since they cast off boyhood, I salute
The song saluting friends whose songs are mute
With full burnt-offerings of clear-spirited praise.
That since our old young years our several ways
Have led through fields diverse of flower and fruit
Yet no cross wind has once relaxed the root
We set long since beneath the sundawn’s rays,
The root of trust whence towered the trusty tree,
Friendship this only and duly might impel
My song to salutation of your own;
More even than praise of one unseen of me
And loved the starry spirit of Dobell,
To mine by light and music only known.



II.

But more than this what moves me most of all
To leave not all unworded and unsped
The whole heart’...

The Minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand;

And who but listened? till was paid
Respect to every Inmate's claim:
The greeting given, the music played,
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "merry Christmas" wished to all!

O Brother! I revere the choice
That took thee from thy native hills;

    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...

April calling, April calling,
April calling me!
I hear the voice of April there
In each old apple tree:
Bee-boom and wild perfume,
And wood-brook melody,
O hark, my heart, and hear, my heart,
The April Ecstasy!

Hark to the hills, the oldtime hills,
That talk with sea and sky!
Or speak in murmurs with God's winds
Who on their bosoms lie:
Bird-call and waterfall
And white clouds blowing by,
O hark, my heart, O hear, my heart,
The April's cosmic cry!

There runs a whisper through the woods,
The word of bough to bough,
A sound of dead things donning green,
Of Beauty waking now:
Fern-bower and wilding flower,
Each like a prayer or vow,
O see, my heart, O look, my heart,
Where Earth crowns white her brow!

And ...

There’s something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed by sadness,
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,
And felt its very gladness.
And yet it is not in his play,
When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill,
His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I unheeding hear it all;
For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now.
But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops as if he music heard,

        The solemn Sea of Silence lies between us;
    I know thou livest, and them lovest me,
        And yet I wish some white ship would come sailing
    Across the ocean, beating word from thee.

        The dead calm awes me with its awful stillness.
    No anxious doubts or fears disturb my breast;
        I only ask some little wave of language,
    To stir this vast infinitude of rest.

        I am oppressed with this great sense of loving;
    So much I give, so much receive from thee;
        Like subtle incense, rising from a censer,
    So floats the fragrance of thy love round me.

        All speech is poor, and written words unmeaning;
    Yet such I ask, blown hither by some wind,
        To give relief to this too perfect knowledge,

One asked of regret,
And I made reply:
To have held the bird,
And let it fly;
To have seen the star
For a moment nigh,
And lost it
Through a slothful eye;
To have plucked the flower
And cast it by;
To have one only hope -
To die.