High on a rocky cliff did once a gray old castle stand,
From whence rough-bearded chieftains led their vassals - ruled the land.
For centuries had dwelt here sire and son, till it befell,
Last of their ancient line, two brothers here alone did dwell.

The eldest was stern-visaged, but the youngest smooth and fair
Of countenance; both zealous, men who bent the knee in prayer
To God alone; loved much, read much His holy word,
And prayed above all gifts desired, that they might see their Lord.

For this the elder brother carved a silent cell of stone,
And in its deep and dreary depths he entered, dwelt alone,
And strove with scourgings, vigils, fasts, to purify his gaze,
And sought amidst these shadows to behold the Master's face.

And from the love of God that smiles...

'Oh life is wonderful,' she said,
'And all my world is bright;
Can Paradise show fairer skies,
Or more effulgent light?'
(Speak lower, lower, mortal heart,
The jealous gods may hear.)

She turned for answer; but his gaze
Cut past her like a lance,
And shone like flame on one who came
With radiant glance for glance.
(You spoke too loud, O mortal heart,
The jealous gods were near.)

They walked through green and sunlit ways;
And yet the earth seemed black,
For there were three, where two should be;
So runs the world, alack.
(The listening gods, the jealous gods,
They want no Edens here.)

Mark thou! a shadow crowned with fire of hell.
Man holds her in his heart as night doth hold
The moonlight memories of day's dead gold;
Or as a winter-withered asphodel
In its dead loveliness holds scents of old.
And looking on her, lo, he thinks 'tis well.

Who would not follow her whose glory sits,
Imperishably lovely on the air?
Who, from the arms of Earth's desire, flits
With eyes defiant and rebellions hair? -
Hers is the beauty that no man shall share.

He who hath seen, what shall it profit him?
He who doth love, what shall his passion gain?
When disappointment at her cup's bright brim
Poisons the pleasure with the hemlock pain?
Hers is the passion that no man shall drain.

How long, how long since Life hath touched her eyes,
Making ...

Frosty lies the winter-landscape,
    In the twilight golden-green.
Down the Park's deserted alleys,
    Naked elms stand stark and lean.


Dumb the murmur of the fountain,
    Birds have flown from lawn and hill.
But while yonder star's ascendant,
    Love triumphal reigneth still.


See the keen flame throb and tremble,
    Brightening in the darkening night,
Breathing like a thing of passion,
    In the sky's smooth chrysolite.


Not beneath the moon, oh lover,
    Thou shalt gain thy heart's desire.
Speak to-night!    The gods are with thee
    Burning with a kindred fire.

Mie venture al venir son tarde e pigre.

FEW ARE THE SWEETS, BUT MANY THE BITTERS OF LOVE.


    Ever my hap is slack and slow in coming,
Desire increasing, ay my hope uncertain
With doubtful love, that but increaseth pain;
For, tiger-like, so swift it is in parting.
Alas! the snow black shall it be and scalding,
The sea waterless, and fish upon the mountain,
The Thames shall back return into his fountain,
And where he rose the sun shall take [his] lodging,
Ere I in this find peace or quietness;
Or that Love, or my Lady, right wisely,
Leave to conspire against me wrongfully.
And if I have, after such bitterness,
One drop of sweet, my mouth is out of taste,
That all my trust and travail is but waste.

WYATT.


    Late ...

Giunto Alessandro alla famosa tomba.

HE FEARS THAT HE IS INCAPABLE OF WORTHILY CELEBRATING HER.


    The son of Philip, when he saw the tomb
Of fierce Achilles, with a sigh, thus said:
"O happy, whose achievements erst found room
From that illustrious trumpet to be spread
O'er earth for ever!"--But, beyond the gloom
Of deep Oblivion shall that loveliest maid,
Whose like to view seems not of earthly doom,
By my imperfect accents be convey'd?
Her of the Homeric, the Orphèan Lyre,
Most worthy, or that shepherd, Mantua's pride,
To be the theme of their immortal lays;
Her stars and unpropitious fate denied
This palm:--and me bade to such height aspire,
Who, haply, dim her glories by my praise.

CAPEL LOFFT.


    When Ale...

St. George, I learned to love thee in my youth
    When of thy deeds I read in deathless song;
    And now, when I behold the dragon Wrong
Hard by the castle-gates of Love and Truth,
I feel the world's great need of thee, forsooth,
    To strike the heavy blow delayed too long.
    Then turning from the mediæval throng,
Where thou wert bravest, yet the first in ruth,
I watch thy votaries by land and sea
    Armed with thy sacred sign go forth to fight
Anew the battle of humanity
    Beneath the flag of mercy and of right;
No holier band a holier realm e'er trod
Than this--the world's knight-errantry of God!

The Eastern day was well-nigh o'er
When, parched with thirst and travel sore,
Two of McPherson's flanking corps
Across the Desert were tramping.
They had wandered off from the beaten track
And now were wearily harking back,
Ever staring round for the signal jack
That marked their comrades camping.

The one was Corporal Robert Dick,
Bearded and burly, short and thick,
Rough of speech and in temper quick,
A hard-faced old rapscallion.
The other, fresh from the barrack square,
Was a raw recruit, smooth-cheeked and fair
Half grown, half drilled, with the weedy air
Of a draft from the home battalion.

Weary and parched and hunger-torn,
They had wandered on from early morn,
And the young boy-soldier limped forlorn,
Now stumbling and now fall...

The heart of me's an empty thing, that never stirs at all
For Moon-shine or Spring-time, or a far bird's call.
I only know 'tis living by a grief that shakes it so,--
Like an East wind in Autumn, when the old nests blow.

Grey Eyes and Black Hair, 'tis never you I blame.
'Tis long years and easy years since last I spoke your name.
And I'm long past the knife-thrust I got at wake or fair.
Or looking past the lighted door and fancying you there.

Grey Eyes and Black Hair--the grief is never this;
I've long forgot the soft arms--the first, wild kiss.
But, Oh, girl that tore my youth,--'tis this I have to bear,--
If you were kneeling at my feet I'd neither stay nor care.

Yet once more, saith the fool, yet once, and is it not a little one?
Spare me this folly yet an hour, for what is one among so many?
And lie blindeth his conscience with lies, and stupifieth his heart with doubts; —
Whom shall I harm in this matter? and a little ill breedeth much good;
My thoughts, are they not mine own? and they leave no mark behind them;
And if God so pardoneth crime, how should these petty sins affect him? —
So he transgresseth yet again, and falleth by little and little,
Till the ground crumble beneath him, and he sinketh in the gulf despairing.
For there is nothing in the earth so small that it may not produce great things,
And no swerving from a right line, that may not lead eternally astray.
A landmark tree was once a seed; and the dust in the balance maketh a diffe...

STRANGER.
        Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty,
        Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task
        Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours.


OLD MAN.
        Why yes! for one with such a weight of years
        Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy,
        In this same parish, near the age of man
        For I am hard upon threescore and ten.
        I can remember sixty years ago
        The beautifying of this mansion here
        When my late Lady's father, the old Squire
        Came to the estate.


STRANGER.
            Why then you have outlasted
        All his improvements, for you see they're making
        Great alterations here.


OLD MAN.
            Aye-great indeed!...

I never shall forget thee - 'tis a word
    Thou oft must hear, for surely there be none
    On whom thy wond'rous eyes have ever shone
But for a moment, or who e'er have heard
Thy voice's deep impassioned melody,
    Can lose the memory of that look or tone.
But, not as these, do I say unto thee,
    I never shall forget thee: - in thine eyes,
Whose light, like sunshine, makes the world rejoice,
    A stream of sad and solemn splendour lies;
And there is sorrow in thy gentle voice.
Thou art not like the scenes in which I found thee,
Thou art not like the beings that surround thee;
    To me, thou art a dream of hope and fear;
Yet why of fear? - oh sure! the Power that lent
Such gifts, to make thee fair, and excellent;
Still watches one whom it has deigned to ...

Although our suffering meet with no relief,
An equal mind is the best sauce for grief.

O dear my Country, beautiful and dear,
Love cloth not darken sight.
God looketh through Love's eyes, whose vision clear
Beholds more flaws than keenest Hate hath known.
Nor is Love's judgment gentle, but austere;
The heart of Love must break ere it condone
One stain upon the white.

There comes an hour when on the parent turns
The challenge of the child;
The bridal passion for perfection burns;
Life gives her last allegiance to the best;
Each sweet idolatry the spirit spurns,
Once more enfranchised for its starry quest
Of beauty undefiled.

Love must be one with honor; yet to-day
Love liveth by a sign;
Allows no lasting compromise with clay,
But tends the mounting miracle of gold,
Content with service till the bud make way
To the rejoi...

    The harvest sun lay hot and strong
    On waving grain and grain in sheaf,
    On dusty highway stretched along,
    On hill and vale, on stalk and leaf.

    The wind which stirred the tasseled corn
    Came creeping through the casement wide,
    And softly kissed the babe new born
    That nestled at its mother's side.

    That mother spoke in tones that thrilled:
    "My firstborn's cradled in my arm,
    Upon my breast his cry is stilled,
    And here he lies so dear, so warm."

    To her had come a generous share
    Of worldly honors and of fame,
    Of hours replete with gladness rare,
    But no one hour seemed just the same

    As that which came when, white and spent
    With pain of travail great, she lay,
    T...

O, my feet have worn a track
Deep and old in going back.
Thought released turns to its home
As bees through tangling thickets come.
One way of thought leads to the vast
Desert of the mind, and there is lost,
But backward leads to a dancing light
And myself there, stiff with delight.
O, well my thought has trodden a way
From this brief day to that long day.

Vex not the Muse with idle prayers, -
She will not hear thy call;
She steals upon thee unawares,
Or seeks thee not at all.

Soft as the moonbeams when they sought
Endymion's fragrant bower,
She parts the whispering leaves of thought
To show her full-blown flower.

For thee her wooing hour has passed,
The singing birds have flown,
And winter comes with icy blast
To chill thy buds unblown.

Yet, though the woods no longer thrill
As once their arches rung,
Sweet echoes hover round thee still
Of songs thy summer sung.

Live in thy past; await no more
The rush of heaven-sent wings;
Earth still has music left in store
While Memory sighs and sings.

By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied:
One duty more, last stage of this ascent,
Brings to thy food, mysterious Sacrament!
The Offspring, haply, at the Parent's side;
But not till They, with all that do abide
In Heaven, have lifted up their hearts to laud
And magnify the glorious name of God,
Fountain of grace, whose Son for sinners died.
Ye, who have duly weighed the summons, pause
No longer; ye, whom to the saving rite
The Altar calls, come early under laws
That can secure for you a path of light
Through gloomiest shade; put on (nor dread its weight)
Armour divine, and conquer in your cause!