Eternally the choking steam goes up
From the black pools of seething oil....
    How merry
Those little devils are! They've stolen the pitchfork
From Bel, there, as he slept... Look! -- oh look, look!
They've got at Nero! Oh it isn't fair!
Lord, how he squeals! Stop it... it's, well -- indecent!
But funny!... See, Bel's waked. They'll catch it now!

... Eternally that stifling reek arises,
Blotting the dome with smoky, terrible towers,
Black, strangling trees, whispering obscene things
Amongst their branches, clutching with maimed hands,
Or oozing slowly, like blind tentacles
Up to the gates; higher than that heaped brick
Man piled to smite the sun. And all around
Are devils. One can laugh... but that hunched shape
The face one stone, like those Assyrian ...

Two roadways lead from this land to That, and one is the road of Prayer;
And one is the road of Old-time Songs, and every note is a stair.

A shabby old man with a music machine on the sordid city street;
But suddenly earth seemed Arcady, and life grew young and sweet.
For the city street fled, and the world was green, and a little house stood by the sea;
And she came singing a martial air (she who was peace itself);
She brought back with her the old, strange charm, of mingled pathos and glee -

With her eyes of a child in a woman's face, and her soul of a saint in an elf.
She had been gone for many a year.    They tell us it is not far -
That silent place where the dear ones go, but it might as well be a star.
Yes, it might as well be a distant star as a beautiful Near-by Land,<...

Dawn

On skies still and starlit
White lustres take hold,
And grey flushes scarlet,
And red flashes gold.
And sun-glories cover
The rose shed above her,
Like lover and lover
They flame and unfold.

-    -    -    -    -

Still bloom in the garden
Green grass-plot, fresh lawn,
Though pasture lands harden
And drought fissures yawn.
While leaves not a few fall,
Let rose leaves for you fall,
Leaves pearl-strung with dew-fall,
And gold shot with dawn.

Does the grass-plot remember
The fall of your feet
In autumn’s red ember,
When drought leagues with heat,
When the last of the roses
Despairingly closes
In the lull that reposes
Ere storm winds wax fleet?

Love’s melodies languish
...

    The fluttering leaves above his grave,
    The grasses creeping toward the light,
    The flowers fragile, sweet, and brave,
    That hide the earth clods from our sight,

    The swelling buds on shrub and tree,
    The golden gleam of daffodil,
    The violet blooming fair and free
    Where late the winds blew harsh and chill,

    The lily lifting up its breath
    Where snowdrifts spread but yesterday -
    All cry: "Where is thy sting, O death?
    O grave, where is thy victory?"

    Each Eastertide the old world sings
    Her anthem sweet and true and strong,
    And all the tender growing things
    Join in her resurrection song.

Sound! sound! sound!
O colossal walls and crown'd
In one eternal thunder!
Sound! sound! sound!
O ye oceans overhead,
While we walk, subdued in wonder,
In the ferns and grasses, under
And beside the swift Merced!
Fret! fret! fret!
Streaming, sounding banners, set
On the giant granite castles
In the clouds and in the snow!
But the foe he comes not yet,
We are loyal, valiant vassals,
And we touch the trailing tassles
Of the banners far below.
Surge! surge! surge!
From the white Sierra's verge,
To the very valley blossom.
Surge! surge! surge!
Yet the song-bird builds a home,
And the mossy branches cross them
In the clouds of falling foam.
Sweep! sweep! sweep!
O ye heaven-born and deep,
In one dread, unbroken chorus!

Come, walk with me and Memory;
And let us see what we shall see:
A wild green lane of stones and weeds
That to a wilder woodland leads.
An old board gate, the lichens crust,
Whose ancient hinges croak with rust.
A vale; a creek; and a bridge of planks,
And the wild sunflowers that wall its banks:
A path that winds through shine and shade
To a ferned and wildflowered forest glade;
Where, out of a grotto, a voice replies
With a faint hollo to your voice that cries:
And every wind that passes seems
A foot that follows from Lands o' Dreams.
A voice, a foot, and a shadow, too,
That whispers of things your childhood knew:
A girl that waited, a boy that came,
And an old beech tree where he carved her name;
Where still he sees her, whom still he hears
B...

Arm me, Lord, my strength redouble,
Heaven open, heed my trouble!
God, if my cause Thine shall be,
Grant a day of victory!
Fell all Thy foes now!
Fell all Thy foes now!
Roll forth Thy thunders, Thy lightning affright them,
Into the pit, the bottomless, smite them,
        Their seed uproot,
        Tread under foot!
Send then Thy snowy white dove peace-bringing,
Unto Thy faithful Thy token winging,
Olive-branch fair of Thy summer's fruition
After the deluge of sin's punition!

For some forty years, and over,
Poets had with me their way;
And they made me think that Sorrow
Owned the Night and owned the Day;
And the corpse beneath the clover
Had a hopeful word to say.

And they made me think that Sorrow
Was the Shadow in the Sun;
And they made me think To-morrow
Was a gift to everyone:
And the days I used to borrow,
Till my credit now is done.

And they told me softly, sweetly,
That, when Life had lost its glee,
I could be consoled completely

By the Forest or the Sea;
And they wrote their rhymes so neatly
That they quite deluded me.

But when Sorrow is at sorest,
And the heart weeps silently,
Is there healing in the Forest?
Is there solace in the Sea?
And the God whom thou adorest

The summer webs that float and shine,
    The summer dews that fall,
Tho' light they be, this heart of mine
    Is lighter still than all.
It tells me every cloud is past
    Which lately seemed to lour;
That Hope hath wed young Joy at last,
    And now's their nuptial hour!

With light thus round, within, above,
    With naught to wake one sigh,
Except the wish that all we love
    Were at this moment nigh,--
It seems as if life's brilliant sun
    Had stopt in full career,
To make this hour its brightest one,
And rest in radiance here.

    There are ghosts in the room.
As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there
    They come out of the gloom,
And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair.

    There's the ghost of a Hope
That lighted my days with a fanciful glow.
    In her hand is the rope
That strangled her life out.    Hope was slain long ago.

    But her ghost comes to-night,
With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes,
    And it stands in the light,
And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.

    There's the ghost of a Joy,
A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,
    And the hands that destroy
Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.

    There's the ghost of a Love,
Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain ...

Within a vale in distant Saxony,
    In time uncertain, though 'twas long ago.
There dwelt a woman, most unhappily,
    From borrowed trouble, and imagined woe.

Hers was a husband generous, and kind,
    Her children, three, were not of uncouth mold;
Hers was a thatch which mocked at rain and wind;
    Within her secret purse were coins of gold.

The drouth had ne'er descended on her field,
    Nor had distemper sore distressed her kine;
The vine had given its accustomed yield,
    So that her casks were filled with ruddy wine.

Her sheep and goats waxed fat, and ample fleece
    Rewarded every harvest of the shear;
Her lambs all bleated in sequestered peace,
    Nor prowling wolf occasioned nightly fear.

With all she fretted, pined, and ...

    There is no soul of anguish or repining,
        That doubts and trembles in the shades of gloom,
    But love can lead where softest suns are shining
        And fill his days with beauty and its bloom.
            Live life with love!

    There is no bosom dark with lonely caring,
        That sadly sorrows in the nights of woe,
    But love can soothe his torture and despairing,
        And scatter gladness where his feet may go.
            Live life with love!

    There is no scene of misery or sorrow
        That droops and withers in the dark of night,
    But love can bring fond yearnings for the morrow
        And heap the heart with hope's unfading light.
            Live life with love!

    There is in all the world no sinful creatu...

Now is the season of my youth,
Not thus shall I always be,
Listen, dear Lord, thou too art young,
Take thy pleasure with me.
My hair is straight as the falling rain,
And fine as morning mist,
I am a rose awaiting thee
That none have touched or kissed.

Do as thou wilt with mine and me,
    Beloved, I only pray,
Follow the promptings of thy youth.
    Let there be no delay!

A leaf that flutters upon the bough,
A moment, and it is gone, -
A bubble amid the fountain spray, -
Ah, pause, and think thereon;
For such is youth and its passing bloom
That wait for thee this hour,
If aught in thy heart incline to me
Ah, stoop and pluck thy flower!

Come, my Lord, to the temple shade,
    Where cooling fountains play,
If aught...

By his evening fire the artist
    Pondered o'er his secret shame;
Baffled, weary, and disheartened,
    Still he mused, and dreamed of fame.

'T was an image of the Virgin
    That had tasked his utmost skill;
But, alas! his fair ideal
    Vanished and escaped him still.

From a distant Eastern island
    Had the precious wood been brought
Day and night the anxious master
    At his toil untiring wrought;

Till, discouraged and desponding,
    Sat he now in shadows deep,
And the day's humiliation
    Found oblivion in sleep.

Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master!
    From the burning brand of oak
Shape the thought that stirs within thee!"
    And the startled artist woke,--

Woke, and from the smoking embers
  ...

        [Taken from MS. Douce, 357, fol. 124. See Echard's 'History of England,' book iii, chap. 1.]

    See saw, sack-a-day;
    Monmouth is a pretie boy,
        Richmond is another,
    Grafton is my onely joy,
    And why should I these three destroy,
        To please a pious brother!

Prompt transformation works the novel Lore;
The Council closed, the Priest in full career
Rides forth, an armed man, and hurls a spear
To desecrate the Fane which heretofore
He served in folly. Woden falls, and Thor
Is overturned; the mace, in battle heaved
(So might they dream) till victory was achieved,
Drops, and the God himself is seen no more.
Temple and Altar sink, to hide their shame
Amid oblivious weeds. "O come to me,
Ye heavy laden!" such the inviting voice
Heard near fresh streams; and thousands who rejoice
In the new Rite, the pledge of sanctity,
Shall, by regenerate life, the promise claim.

TO MY FRIEND CHARLES BOOTH NETTLETON

I

The young queen Nature, ever sweet and fair,
Once on a time fell upon evil days.
From hearing oft herself discussed with praise,
There grew within her heart the longing rare
To see herself; and every passing air
The warm desire fanned into lusty blaze.
Full oft she sought this end by devious ways,
But sought in vain, so fell she in despair.
For none within her train nor by her side
Could solve the task or give the envied boon.
So day and night, beneath the sun and moon,
She wandered to and fro unsatisfied,
Till Art came by, a blithe inventive elf,
And made a glass wherein she saw herself.


II

Enrapt, the queen gazed on her glorious self,
Then trembling with the thrill of sudden thoug...

Say, nature, on whose wond'rous reign
    Delighted fancy dwells,
Of all thy numerous brutal train
    What animal excells?

What quadruped most nobly vies
    In virtue with mankind,
Like man deliberately wise,
    And resolutely kind?

Beneath a form vast and uncouth
    Such excellence is found:
Sagacious Elephant! thy truth,
    Thy kindness is renown'd.

More mild than sanguinary man,
    Whose servant thou hast prov'd,
Oft in his frantic battle's van
    Thy bulk has stood unmoved:

There oft thy spirit griev'd, to see
    His murd'rous rage encrease,
'Till mad himself, he madden'd thee.
    Thou nobler friend to peace!

Acts of thy courage might occur
    To grace heroic song;
But I thy gentle deeds...