LATTER-DAY LYRICS. 
 
UNIFORM WITH THB PRBSRNT VOLUME. 
 
 SECOND EDITION, crown 8vo, cloth extra, with 
 Photographic Portrait, 6s. 
 
 TOM HOOD'S POEMS, HUMOROUS AND 
 
 PATHETIC. Edited, with * Memoir, by his 
 Sister, FRANCES FKEBLING BRODKKM-. 
 " There re many poems in the volume which the 
 best judge might well mistake for his father's 
 
 THIRD EDITION, crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 BOUDOIR BALLADS: 
 
 Vers de Soci<t^ By J. ASHBY-STEKRY. 
 
 " Every requisite of poetry which plays with the 
 prose of life, every innate or acquired faculty of ease, 
 grace, delicacy, musical precision, airy playfulness, 
 unforced humour, and unstrained fancy, will be found 
 in * Boudoir Ballads.'" Daffy Telegraph. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, gilt edges, 78. 6d. 
 
 MUSES OF MAYFAIR: 
 
 Vers de SocieM of the Nineteenth Century. In- 
 cluding Poems by TENNYSON, BROWNING, SWIN- 
 
 BURNE, ROSSBTTI. JEAN INGBLPW, LOCKER, 
 
 Hoou, LVTTON. C. S. C., LANDOR, AUSTIN 
 DOBSON, &c. Edited by H. CHOI.MONDRLBY 
 PRNNELL. 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY, W. 
 
LATTER-DAY LYRICS 
 
 BEING 
 
 Poems of Sentiment and Reflection 
 By Living Writers 
 
 SrlrctrtJ anU 3rrangrtj foitlj fiotrs 
 BY W. DAVENPORT ADAMS 
 
 HY777 /I JW?7 CW .?0Jf FOREIGN FORMS OF VERSE 
 BY AUSTIN DOBSON 
 
 CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1878 
 [All rights reserved} 
 
9/a 
 
 A 2/9 
 
 BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
mg Wiift. 
 
 thou most dear, before thy feet 
 
 1 strew these flow' rets fair and sweet ; 
 
 These blossoms, latest from the tree 
 Of Britain's gold-branch d poesy, 
 Now lie where all the virtues meet. 
 
 Nor will they wither : neither heat 
 Nor chill of passing Time can cheat 
 The world of their rare fragrancy, 
 O thou most dear. 
 
 Nor will Time banish Love, or greet 
 Thy charms with shadow of defeat : 
 
 They bud and bloom, and still with me 
 Their scent and loveliness will be ; 
 Yes, Love will stay, though Time be fleet, 
 O thou most dear. 
 
 VV. D. A. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 SO far as the Editor is aware, this is the first attempt 
 that has been made to bring together in one 
 volume specimens of the serious poetry of living writers 
 only. Other collections have been partially indebted 
 to the aid of contemporary authors. The Editor was 
 himself largely assisted by them in the arrangement of 
 his " Lyrics of Love," and was wholly obliged to them 
 in his " Comic Poets of the Nineteenth Century." 
 But whereas the latter work was confined to the 
 poetry of wit and humour, the present is devoted 
 to the poetry of sentiment and reflection. It is there- 
 fore unique in aim and character, and will, it is hoped, 
 receive a proportionately hearty welcome. 
 
 The collection does not profess to be representative 
 of living poets in the sense of illustrating exhaustively 
 their peculiar powers. The Editor's desire has been 
 rather to avoid the poems which are generally 
 adduced as specimens of the writers' style of thought 
 and of expression, in favour of those which, whilst 
 still characteristic of their authors, have the merit of 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 being at least comparatively fresh and novel. To the 
 best of his belief, this volume does not contain more 
 than half a dozen poems which have appeared in any 
 previous collection. Some favourite pieces may con- 
 sequently be found absent from it, but, on the other 
 hand, the book is full of lyrics which, if not familiar 
 to the general reader, ought to be so, and need only 
 to be read to be admired. 
 
 In pursuance of this effort towards novelty and 
 freshness, the Editor has gone not only to the recent 
 works of our more celebrated poets, but to the pub- 
 lications of several writers who have only of late 
 years made their reputations. In consequence, many 
 names appear in this volume which have not hitherto 
 figured in such works, and the result, it is believed, 
 will be agreeable to the reader. 
 ' Another feature of the present work is the attention 
 paid, for the first time, to the late re-introduction 
 into English poetry of old French measures. Some 
 English specimens of these have been selected, and 
 form the third book of the " Lyrics." Mr. Austin 
 Dobson in whose " Proverbs in Porcelain " they first 
 attracted notice has, at the Editor's request, kindly 
 contributed a short "Note" in illustration and de- 
 scription of them, which will be found (the Editor 
 believes) both valuable and interesting, even by those 
 who may not altogether approve of the nationalisa- 
 tion in this country of the forms in question. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The arrangement of the poems is as follows. 
 In the first place, the songs and other lyrics have 
 been separated from the sonnets, which cannot 
 strictly be described as lyrical in character ; whilst 
 the foreign forms have been gathered together 
 in Book III., according to an order which enables 
 them to be read in easy connection with Mr. Dob- 
 son's "Note." Further, in placing the poems in 
 Books L and II., care has been exercised in bringing 
 together pieces which illustrate one another, either in 
 the way of similarity or contrast in idea or form. 
 
 A few Notes have been added, and will be found, 
 it is hoped, useful and suggestive ; they have obvi- 
 ously no pretensions to the character of exhaustive 
 criticisms. 
 
 The Editor has, in conclusion, to express his 
 gratitude to the poets who have so generously placed 
 their poems at his disposal, notably to those who have 
 permitted him to publish several hitherto unprinted 
 pieces (Nos. 182, 183, 206, 208, 210, 211, 213, 217, 
 219, 222). He has also to thank those publishers who 
 have" in like manner courteously waived their copy- 
 right in regard to certain of the poems quoted. 
 
 W. DAVENPORT ADAMS. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 DEDICATION 
 PREFACE 
 
 PACE 
 
 iii 
 
 Book I. 
 
 SONGS AND OTHER LYRICS. 
 
 NO. 
 
 1. Love, the Pilgrim 
 
 2. The Guest . 
 
 3. " Love is come " . 
 
 4. Love gives all Away . 
 
 5. Sweet love is dead 
 
 6. Love's Votary 
 
 7. Destiny 
 
 8. Rococo 
 
 9. Dorus to Lycoris 
 
 10. A Chain to Wear 
 
 11. " Hapless doom of woman " 
 
 12. Before Parting . 
 
 13. Parting at Morning 
 
 14. A Farewell . 
 
 15. "The Pity of It" 
 
 1 6. Auf Wiedersehen 
 
 1 7. Sudden Light 
 
 1 8. "I made another garden " 
 
 . Hamilton Aid* . . 3 
 
 . Thomas Ashe . . 5 
 
 . Alfred Tennyson . . 6 
 
 . Hon. y. Leicester Warren 7 
 
 . Alfred Austin . . 10 
 
 . George Augustus Simcox \ I 
 
 . Edwin Arnold . . 12 
 
 . Thomas Bailey Aldrich . 1 3 
 
 . E. Clarence Stedman . 1 4. 
 
 . Robert, Lord Lytton . 16 
 
 . Alfred Tennyson . . 18 
 
 . A. C. Swinburne . 19 
 
 . Robert Browning . . 21 
 
 . Coventry l\itmore . 22 
 
 . Hon. Roden Noel . . 24 
 
 . James Russell Lowell . 26 
 
 . Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 28 
 
 . Arthur 0* Shaughnessy . 29 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 19. "Oh, were I rich and mighty" 
 
 20. Misconceptions . 
 
 21. Ilicet 
 
 22. Gathered Roses . 
 
 23. A Worm within the Rose . 
 
 24. Love 
 
 25. " Stay me no more " . 
 
 26. "A sigh in the morning gray " 
 
 27. " Oh, love is like the rose " . 
 
 28. " Along the shore " . 
 
 29. She Came and Went . 
 
 30. Never Again 
 
 31. " What matter, O friend" . 
 Love and Friendship . 
 
 33. Dallying .... 
 
 34. Charmian .... 
 
 35. Not Love .... 
 
 36. Somewhere or other . 
 
 37. Outcry .... 
 
 38. If 
 
 39. A Smile and a Sigh 
 
 40. " If ever, dear " . 
 
 41. A Love-Thought . 
 Nocturne . 
 
 43. " Shame upon you, Robin " . 
 
 44. Pansie .... 
 
 45- 
 
 46. Serenade . 
 
 47. At Her Window . 
 
 48. Love- Lily . 
 
 49. "Give her but the least excuse" 
 
 50. The Oblation 
 
 51. " The bee to the heather " . 
 
 52. A Daisy Chain . 
 
 53. A Wild-wood Spell . 
 
 54. Reine d' Amour . 
 
 55. "Ithankthee, dear" . 
 
 Lewis Morris . . 31 
 
 Robert Browning . . 32 
 
 Edmund IV. Gosse . 33 
 
 F. IV. Bourdillon . . 35 
 
 Alfred Tennyson . . 36 
 
 Robert Browning . . 37 
 
 Ernest M^ers . . 38 
 
 Aubrey de Vere . . 39 
 
 Philip James Bailey . 40 
 
 Dinah Maria Craik . 41 
 
 James Russell Lo^vell . 43 
 
 Augusta Webster . . 45 
 
 Alfred Domett . . 46 
 
 Sir Noel Paton . . 47 
 
 Thomas Ashe . . 48 
 
 Robert Buchanan . . 49 
 
 Augusta Webster . . 52 
 
 Christina Rossetti . . 54 
 
 Arthur O 1 Shaughnessy . 55 
 
 Christina Rossetti . . 58 
 
 Christina Rossetti. . 60 
 
 Lewis A f orris . . 6 1 
 
 Richard, Lord Houghton 63 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich . 64 
 
 Alfred Tennyson . . 65 
 
 Thomas Ashe . . 66 
 
 William Allingham . 67 
 
 Alfred Austin . . 69 
 
 Frederick Locker . ..71 
 
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 73 
 
 Robert Browning . . 75 
 
 A. C. Swinburne . 76 
 
 Sir Henry Taylor . 77 
 
 //. Cholmondeley-Pennell 78 
 
 Earl of ' Southesk . . 80 
 
 Francis Turner Palgrave 82 
 
 Frederick Myers . . 84 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 NO. 
 
 
 PACK 
 
 56. My Neighbour 
 
 Gerald Massey 
 
 85 
 
 57. Blanche .... 
 
 James Hedderwick 
 
 87 
 
 58. No and Yes ... 
 
 Thomas Ashe 
 
 89 
 
 59. " Love within " . 
 
 George Meredith . 
 
 90 
 
 60. " Like an island " 
 
 Philip James Bailey 
 
 91 
 
 61. The Treasure-Ship 
 
 Richard, Lord Houghton 
 
 92 
 
 62. " Seek not the tree " . 
 
 Aubrey de Vere . 
 
 94 
 
 63. "In long enchanted weather" 
 
 Arthur Cf Shaughnessy . 
 
 96 
 
 64. A Song of the Four Seasons Austin Dobson 
 
 99 
 
 65. Wild Rose .... 
 
 Thomas Woolner . 
 
 101 
 
 66. Daisy's Dimples . 
 
 J. Ashby-Sterry . 
 
 103 
 
 67. Gertrude's Glove 
 
 Frederick Locker . 
 
 104 
 
 68. Angelica .... 
 
 William Sawyer . 
 
 105 
 
 69. A Garden Idyll . 
 
 Frederick Locker . 
 
 107 
 
 70. November Snow . 
 
 Earl of Southesk . 
 
 109 
 
 71. Dawn 
 
 Thomas Woolner . 
 
 no 
 
 72. The Tryst .... 
 
 E. Clarence Stedman . 
 
 III 
 
 73. In a Gondola 
 
 Robert Browning . 
 
 112 
 
 74. The Dial .... 
 
 Edwin Arnold 
 
 "3 
 
 75. A Kiss .... 
 
 Alfred Domett 
 
 114 
 
 76. The Mountain Fir 
 
 Earl of Southesk . 
 
 116 
 
 77 The Letter .... 
 
 Alfred Tennyson . 
 
 118 
 
 78. Marriage Morning 
 
 Alfred Tennyson . 
 
 119 
 
 79. " One so fair none so fair " . 
 
 Gerald Massey 
 
 121 
 
 80. John Anderson's Answer 
 
 Hon. J. Isicester Warren 
 
 123 
 
 81. Renunciation 
 
 W. W. Story 
 
 I2S 
 
 82. Windle-straws . 
 
 Ed-ward Dowdtn . 
 
 I2 7 
 
 83. Bagatelles .... 
 
 Theophile Marzials 
 
 129 
 
 84. Tragedies .... 
 
 Theophile Marzials 
 
 UO 
 
 85. Majolica and Rococo . 
 
 Theophile Marzials 
 
 132 
 
 86. Baby 
 
 George Macdonald 
 
 17-1 
 
 87. To a Child .... 
 
 Francis Turner PaJgrave 
 
 * J J 
 135 
 
 88. Paris 4 Ma9on . 
 
 Frederick Myers . 
 
 136 
 
 89. Unreflecting Childhood 
 
 Frederick Locker . 
 
 138 
 
 90. Naturrc Reparatrici 
 
 Francis Turner Palgrave 
 
 140 
 
 91. Flowers without Fruit . 
 
 John Henry Newman . 
 
 142 
 
 92. Pleasure and Pain 
 
 Richard^ Lord Houghton 
 
 '43 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 KO. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 93. The Hidden Self 
 
 Levris Morris 
 
 '45 
 
 94. " A genial moment " . 
 
 RichardChenevix Trench 
 
 H7 
 
 9$. The Toys .... 
 
 Coventry Patmore 
 
 148 
 
 96. Loss and Gain . 
 
 Richard, Lord Honghton 
 
 ISO 
 
 97. February . . . 
 
 William Morris . 
 
 152 
 
 98. March .... 
 
 William Morris . 
 
 154 
 
 99- April .... 
 
 William Morris . 
 
 I 5 6 
 
 loo. Spring b Coming 
 
 F. W. Bourdillon . 
 
 I 5 8 
 
 101. A Spring Evening 
 
 F. W. Bourdillon . 
 
 59 
 
 102. In Spring .... 
 
 Francis Turner Palgravc 
 
 1 60 
 
 103. " The year's at the spring " 
 
 Robert Browning . 
 
 162 
 
 104. " It was in the prime " 
 
 George Eliot . 
 
 163 
 
 105. A Glee for Winter . 
 
 Alfred Domett 
 
 164 
 
 106. My Star .... 
 
 Robert Browning . 
 
 1 66 
 
 107. " I would thou might'st not " 
 
 Lewis Morris 
 
 167 
 
 108. The Unrealized Ideal 
 
 Frederick Locker . 
 
 168 
 
 109. " Warm whispering " 
 
 George Eliot . 
 
 170 
 
 no. After-Thought . 
 
 Jean Inge[ow 
 
 171 
 
 in. Isolation .... 
 
 MatthcM Arnold . 
 
 172 
 
 112. The Solitude of Life . 
 
 Richard, Lord Houghton 
 
 174 
 
 113. Not to Be . 
 
 Augusta Webster . 
 
 177 
 
 114. "Too soon" 
 
 Augusta Webster . 
 
 178 
 
 115. Nothing Lost . 
 
 Lewis Morris 
 
 1 80 
 
 1 1 6. " Life knows no dead " 
 
 Joaquin Miller 
 
 182 
 
 117. Changed .... 
 
 H. W. Longfellow 
 
 'S3 
 
 1 1 8. "Like to the moan" . 
 
 Sir. F. ff. Doyle . 
 
 184 
 
 119. Leafless Hours . 
 
 Robert, Lord Lytton . 
 
 186 
 
 120. "Oh roses" 
 
 Christina Rossetti . 
 
 187 
 
 121. " For me no roseate garlands Aubrey de Vere and Sir 
 
 twine". 
 
 Henry Taylor 
 
 1 88 
 
 122. "I bring a garland " . 
 
 Edmund W. Gosse 
 
 189 
 
 123. The Falling Rose 
 
 William Cox Bennett . 
 
 190 
 
 124. The Rose in October. 
 
 Mary Townley 
 
 191 
 
 125. Dover Beach 
 
 Matthew Arnold . 
 
 192 
 
 126. Burdens .... 
 
 Edward Dowden . 
 
 194 
 
 127. On the Shore . 
 
 Augusta Webster . 
 
 195 
 
 128. " The waters are rising" . 
 
 George Macdonald 
 
 196 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 129. " O life, O death " . . RichardChenevix Trench 197 
 
 130. Oasis .... Edward Dowden . .198 
 
 131. The Epicurean . . . Sir F. H. Doyle . .199 
 
 132. Departure .... Coventry Pat more . 201 
 
 133. Before Sedan . . . Austin Dobson . . 203 
 
 134. " O bairn, when I am dead " Robert Buchanan . 205 
 
 135. " Girls, when I am gone " . Edward Dowden . . 207 
 
 136. "Passing away" . . Christina Rossetli . 209 
 
 137. " Push off the boat ". . George Eliot . . .211 
 
 138. The Undiscovered Country E. C. Stedman . .212 
 
 139. Not Yet .... Beatrix TolUmache . 213 
 
 140. By-and-By . . . Augusta Webster . .214 
 
 141. After .... Philip Bourke Afarston . 215 
 
 142. The Sick Man and the Birds A us fin Dobson . .217 
 
 143. Rest James Rhoades . . 220 
 
 144. A Voice from Afar . . John Henry Newman . 221 
 
 145. " The world is great " . George Eliot . . . 223 
 
 146. " If but thy heart " . . Ernest Myers . . . 224 
 
 147. The Sea-Limits . . . Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 226 
 
 148. Violets .... George Meredith . . 228 
 
 149. The Apology . . . Ralph Waldo Emerson . 229 
 
 150. L'Envoi .... Dora Green-well . .231 
 
 Book e. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 151. The Singer's Plea . . Edward Dowden . . 235 
 
 152. Shakspeare . . . Matthew Arnold . . 236- 
 
 153. Letty's Globe . . . C. Tennyson Turner . 237 
 ^54. Love the Musician . . Edmund W. Gosse . 238 
 
 155. Love Passing . . . J. W. Inchbold . . 239 
 
 156. Love's Quest . . . Philip Bourke Marston . 240 
 
 157. Love's Answer . . . Philip Bourke Marston . 241 
 
 158. Winged Hours . . . Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 242 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 159. Broken Music . 
 
 1 60. Nightingales 
 
 161. Lilith . 
 
 162. Love-Sweetness 
 
 163. The Bridesmaid 
 
 164. Spring Love 
 
 165. Why? . 
 
 1 66. Remembrance . 
 
 167. " Let not our lips " . 
 
 1 68. " I would not have ". 
 
 169. " Our love is not " . 
 
 170. After Death 
 
 171. Love, Time, and Death . 
 
 172. Hoarded Joy 
 
 1 73. Rural Nature . 
 
 174. " When man alone" . 
 
 175. '* There never yet" . 
 
 176. " It maybe" . 
 
 177. "I saw in dream" . 
 
 178. Below the Old House 
 
 179. Projected Shadows . 
 
 180. "Count each affliction" 
 
 181. " Blessed is he " 
 
 182. Now or When? 
 
 183. Hawthorn and Wild Rose . 
 
 184. The Sound of the Sea 
 
 185. " I ask not " . 
 
 186. "I grieve not" . 
 
 187. To Helen . 
 
 1 88. Autumn . 
 
 189. October . 
 
 190. Worldly Place . 
 
 191. Good Shepherd with the Kid 
 
 192. East London 
 
 193. The Better Part 
 
 194. Immortality 
 
 195. Development in Nature 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 243 
 
 C. Tennyson Turner . 244 
 
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 245 
 
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 246 
 
 Alfred Tennyson . . 247 
 
 William Bell Scott . 248 
 
 John Godfrey Saxe . 249 
 
 John Godfrey Saxe . 250 
 
 James Hedderwick . 25 1 
 
 James Russell Lowell . 252 
 
 James Russell Lowell . 253 
 
 Christina Rossetti . . 254 
 
 Frederick Locker . .255 
 
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 256 
 
 William Barnes . .257 
 
 James Hedderwick . 258 
 
 James Russell Lowell . 259 
 
 RichardChenevixTrench 260 
 
 James Rhoades . .261 
 
 William Bell Scott . 262 
 
 John Payne . . . 264 
 
 Aubrey de Vere . . 265 
 
 Aubrey de Vere . . 266 
 
 Richard Wilton . . 267 
 
 Richard Wilton . . 268 
 
 H. W. Longfellow . 269 
 
 James Russell Lowell . 270 
 
 James Russell Lowell . 271 
 
 Sir F. Hastings Doyle . 272 
 
 William Allingham . 273 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 274 
 
 Matthew Arnold . .275 
 
 Matthew Arnold . . 276 
 
 Matthew Arnold . . 277 
 
 Matthew Arnold . . 278 
 
 Matthew Arnold . . 279 
 
 William Bell Scott 280 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 NO. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 196. Science Abortive 
 
 . William Bell Scott 
 
 . 28l 
 
 197. Self- Deception . 
 
 . William Bell Scott 
 
 . 282 
 
 198. Past and Future 
 
 . Emily Pfeiffer 
 
 . 283 
 
 199. Faith 
 
 . William Bell Scott 
 
 . 284 
 
 200. The Footprints . g . 
 
 . Robert Buchanan 
 
 285 
 
 330ofc HE 
 
 ENGLISH EXAMPLES OF FRENCH FORMS OF VERSE. 
 
 TRIOLETS. 
 
 201. " When first we met " . Robert Bridges . . 289 
 
 202. A Kiss .... Austin Dobson . . 290 
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 203. "Kiss me, sweetheart " . John Payne . . .291 
 
 RONDEAUX. 
 
 204. "His poisoned shafts " . Robert Bridges . . 292 
 
 205. "With pipe and flute" . Austin Dobson . . 293 
 
 206. "If love should faint " .Edmund W. Gosse . 294 
 
 207. "Life lapses by " . . John Payne . . . 295 
 
 208. The Coquette . . . SamueJ Waddington . 296 
 
 209. Carpe Diem . . . Theophile Marzials . 297 
 
 RONDEAUX REDOUBLES. 
 
 210. " My day and night " . John Payne . . . 298 
 
 211. " My soul is sick " . . W. Cosmo Monklwuse . 300 
 
 KYRIELLE. 
 
 212. "A lark in the mesh " . John Payne . . . 302 
 
xvi CONTENTS. 
 
 NO. PAGE 
 VlRELAI. 
 
 213. Spring SadftesS . . . John Payne . . .304 
 
 VlLLANELLES. 
 
 214. "When I saw you last, Rose" Austin Dobson . . 308 
 
 215. " O summer time " . . Emily Pfeiffer . . 310 
 
 2 1 6. " Wouldst thou not" . Edmund W. Gosse . 312 
 
 217. "The air is white" . . John Payne . . . 314 
 
 BALLADES. 
 
 218. The Prodigals . . . Austin Dobson . .316 
 
 219. " What do we here " . John Payne . . .318 
 
 BALLADE X DOUBLE REFRAIN. 
 
 220. Prose and Rhyme . . Austin Dobson . . 320 
 
 CHANTS ROYAL. 
 
 221. The God of Wine . . Edmund W. Gosse . 322 
 
 222. The God of Love . . John Payne . . . 326 
 
 A NOTE ON SOME FOREIGN FORMS- OF VERSE. By 
 
 Austin Dobson 331 
 
 NOTES TO THE POEMS. By the Editor . . . .351 
 
 INDEX OF WRITERS 380 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 383 
 
BOOK I. 
 
 ongg anD otfjer 
 
LOVE, THE PILGRIM. 
 
 VERY day a Pilgrim, blindfold, 
 
 When the night and morning meet, 
 Entereth the slumbering city, 
 
 Stealeth down the silent street ; 
 Lingereth round some battered doorway, 
 
 Leaves unblest some portal grand, 
 And the walls, where sleep the children, 
 Toucheth, with his warm young hand. 
 Love is passing I Love is passing ! 
 
 Passing while ye lie asleep : 
 In your blessed dreams, O children, 
 Give him all your hearts to keep ! 
 
 Blindfold is this Pilgrim, Maiden ; 
 
 Though to-day he touch'd thy door, 
 He may pass it by to-morrow 
 
 Pass it to return no more. 
 Let us then with prayers entreat him, 
 
 Youth 1 her heart, whose coldness grieves, 
 
LOVE, THE PILGRIM. 
 
 May one morn by Love be softened ; 
 Prize the treasure that he leaves. 
 Love is passing ! Love is passing ! 
 
 All, with hearts to hope and pray, 
 Bid this pilgrim touch the lintels 
 Of your doorways every day. 
 
 HAMILTON AII>. 
 
II. 
 
 THE GUEST. 
 
 IGHTS Love, the timorous bird, to dwell, 
 
 While summer smiles, a guest with you ? 
 Be wise betimes, and use him well, 
 And he will stay in winter, too : 
 For you can have no sweeter thing 
 Within the heart's warm nest to sing. 
 
 The blue-plumed swallows fly away, 
 Ere autumn gilds a leaf ; and then 
 
 Have wit to find, another day, 
 The little clay-built house again : 
 
 He will not know, a second spring, 
 
 His last year's nest, if Love take wing. 
 
 THOMAS ASHE. 
 
III. 
 
 >OVE is come with a song and a smile, 
 Welcome Love with a smile and a song 
 Love can stay but a little while. 
 Why cannot he stay ? They call him away : 
 Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong ; 
 Love will stay for a whole life long. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 

 IV. 
 
 LOVE GIVES ALL AWAY. 
 
 ND what is Love by nature ? " 
 My pretty true-love sighs ; 
 And I reply, In feature 
 A child with pensive eyes ; 
 
 An infant, forehead shaded 
 With many ringlet rings, 
 
 And pearly shoulders faded 
 In the colour of his wings. 
 
 His ways are those of children 
 Who come to be caressed ; 
 
 Or, as a little wild wren 
 Who fears to leave her nest. 
 
 He is shy ; if one shall beckon, 
 He hides, will not obey ; 
 
 He spends, and will not reckon, 
 For Love gives all away. 
 
 He hoards to lavish only, 
 And lives in miser way, 
 
LOVE GIVES ALL AWAY. 
 
 Now hermit-like is lonely, 
 Now gallant-like is gay. 
 
 Slay Love, he is not broken ; 
 
 Wound him, his hurt will heal. 
 More than his lips have spoken 
 
 His cunning eyes reveal. 
 
 His sighs the still air sweeten, 
 As primrose woods do May ; 
 
 His locjcs are pale, as wheaten 
 Fields in the wan moon-ray. 
 
 His palm is always tender, 
 His eyes are rainy grey ; 
 
 His wage-return is slender, 
 For Love gives all away. 
 
 His aspect, as he muses, 
 Is paler than .the dead ; 
 
 He weeps more when he loses, 
 Than he laughs when he is fed. 
 
 Love at a touch will falter, 
 Love at a nod will stay ; 
 
 But armies cannot alter 
 One hairbreadth of his way. 
 
 He trembles at a rose-leaf, 
 And rushes on a spear ; 
 
 A thorn-prick and he shows grief, 
 But Death he cannot fear. 
 
LOVE GIVES ALL AWAY. 
 
 The tyrant may not quench him, 
 
 He laughs at prison bars ; 
 The water-floods may drench him, 
 
 The fire may give him scars. 
 
 Though thou lay chain and fetter 
 
 On ankle, wrist, and hands, 
 He will not serve thee better, 
 
 But soar to unknown lands. 
 
 He follows shadow faces 
 
 Into graveyards unawares ; 
 He reaps in sterile places, 
 
 And brings home sheaves of tares. 
 
 One tear will heal his anger ; 
 
 He will wait and watch all day ; 
 He scoffs at toil and danger, 
 
 His last crust gives away. 
 
 He will strip off his raiment 
 
 To make his dear one gay ; 
 And will laugh at any payment, 
 
 Having given all away. 
 
 When care his heart engages, 
 And his rose-leaf gathers grey, 
 
 He will claim a kiss for wages, 
 And demand a smile for pay. 
 
 HON. JOHN LEICESTER WARREN. 
 
V. 
 
 SWEET LOVE IS DEAD. 
 
 WEET Love is dead : 
 
 Where shall we bury him ? 
 
 In a green bed, 
 
 With no stone at his head, 
 And no tears nor prayers to worry him. 
 
 Do you think he will sleep 
 Dreamless and quiet ? 
 
 Yes, if we keep 
 
 Silence, nor weep 
 O'er the grave where the ground-worms riot. 
 
 By his tomb let us part ; 
 But hark ! he is waking ; 
 
 He hath winged a dart, 
 
 And the mock-cold heart 
 With the woe of want is aching. 
 
 Feign we no more 
 Sweet Love lies breathless ; 
 
 All we forswore 
 
 Be as before ! 
 Death may die, but Love is deathless. 
 
 ALFRED AUSTIN. 
 
VI. 
 
 LOVE'S VOTARY. 
 
 THERS have pleasantness and praise, 
 And wealth ; and hand and glove 
 They walk with worship all their days, 
 But I have only Love. 
 
 And therefore if Love be a fire, 
 
 Then he shall burn me up ; 
 If Love be water out of mire, 
 
 Then I will be the cup. 
 
 If Love come worn with wayfaring, 
 
 My breast shall be his bed ; 
 If he come faint and hungering, 
 
 My heart shall be his bread. 
 
 If Love delight in vassalage, 
 
 Then I will be his thrall, 
 Till, when I end my pilgrimage, 
 
 Love give me all for all. 
 
 GEORGE AUGUSTUS SIMCOX. 
 
VII. 
 
 DESTINY. 
 
 OMEWHERE there waiteth in this world of 
 
 ours 
 For one lone soul another lonely soul, 
 
 Each chasing each througli all the weary 
 
 hours, 
 
 And meeting strangely at one sudden goal. 
 Then blend they, like green leaves with golden flowers, 
 
 Into one beautiful and perfect whole ; 
 And life's long night is ended, and the way 
 Lies open onward to eternal day. 
 
 EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
VIII. 
 
 ROCOCO. 
 
 Y studying my lady's eyes 
 
 I've grown so learne'd day by day, 
 So Machiavelian in this wise, 
 That when I send her flowers, I say 
 
 To each small flower (no matter what ; 
 
 Geranium, pink, or tuberose, 
 Syringa, or forget-me-not, 
 
 Or violet) before it goes : 
 
 " Be not triumphant, little flower, 
 When on her haughty heart you lie, 
 
 But modestly enjoy your hour : 
 She'll weary of you by and by." 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY AI.DRICH. 
 
IX. 
 
 DOR US TO LYCORIS, 
 
 WHO REPROVED HIM FOR INCONSTANCY. 
 
 >HY should I constant be? 
 The bird in yonder tree, 
 This leafy summer, 
 Hath not his last year's mate, 
 Nor dreads to venture fate 
 With a new-comer. 
 
 Why should I fear to sip 
 The sweets of each red lip ? 
 
 In every bower 
 The roving bee may taste 
 (Lest aught should run to waste) 
 
 Each fresh-blown flower. 
 
 The trickling rain doth fall 
 Upon us one and all ; 
 
 The south wind kisses 
 The saucy milkmaid's cheek, 
 The nun's, demure and meek, 
 
 Nor any misses. 
 
DOR US TO L YCORIS. 1 5 
 
 Then ask no more of me 
 That I should constant be, 
 
 Nor eke desire it ; 
 Take not such idle pains 
 To hold our love in chains, 
 
 Nor coax, nor hire it. 
 
 Rather, like some bright elf, 
 Be all things in thyself 
 
 For ever changing, 
 So that thy latest mood 
 May ever bring new food 
 
 To fancy ranging. 
 
 Forget what thou wast first, 
 And, as I loved thee erst 
 
 In soul and feature, 
 I'll love thee out of mind 
 When each new morn shall find 
 
 Thee a new creature. 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
X. 
 
 A CHAIN TO WEAR. 
 
 , v WAY ! away ! The dream was vain ; 
 
 We meet too soon, or meet too late : 
 Still wear, as best you may, the chain 
 Your own hands forged about your fate, 
 Who could not wait ! 
 
 n. 
 
 What ! you had given your life away 
 Before you found what most life misses ? 
 
 Forsworn the bridal dream, you say, 
 Of that ideal love, whose kisses 
 
 Are vain as this is ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Well, I have left upon your mouth 
 The seal I know must burn there yet ; 
 
 My claim is set upon your youth ; 
 My sign upon your soul is set ; 
 Dare you forget ? 
 
A CHAIN TO WEAK. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And you'll haunt, I know, where music plays, 
 
 Yet find a pain in music's tone ; 
 You'll blush, of course, when others praise 
 
 That beauty scarcely now your own. 
 
 What's done, is done ! 
 
 v. 
 
 For me, you say, the world is wide 
 Too wide to find the grave I seek ! 
 
 Enough ! whatever now betide, 
 No greater pang can blanch my cheek. 
 Hush ! do not speak. 
 
 ROBERT, LORD LYTTOX. 
 
 I. i 
 
XI. 
 
 ^APLESS doom of woman happy in betrothing! 
 Beauty passes in a breath and love is lost 
 
 in loathing : 
 Low, my lute ; speak low, my lute, but say 
 the world is nothing 
 Low, lute, low ! 
 
 Love will hover round the flowers when they first 
 
 awaken ; 
 
 Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken ; 
 Low, my lute ! Oh, low my lute ! we fade and are 
 
 forsaken- 
 Low, dear lute, low ! 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
XII. 
 
 BEFORE PARTING. 
 
 MONTH or twain to live on honeycomb 
 Is pleasant ; but one tires of "scented time, 
 Cold sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme, 
 And that strong purple under juice and foam 
 
 Where the wine's heart has burst ; 
 
 Nor feel the latter kisses like the first 
 
 Once yet, this poor one time, I will not pray 
 
 Even to change the bitterness of it, 
 
 The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, 
 
 To make your tears fall where your soft hair lay, 
 
 All blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise 
 
 Over my face and eyes. 
 
 And yet who knows what end the scythed wheat 
 Makes of its foolish poppies' mouths of red ? 
 These were not sown, these are not harvested, 
 They grow a month and are cast under feet, 
 And none has care thereof, 
 As none has care of a divided love. 
 
20 BEFORE PART/KG. 
 
 I know each shadow of your lips by rote, 
 Each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows, 
 The fashion of fair temples tremulous 
 With tender blood, and colour of your throat ; 
 I know not how Love is gone out of this, 
 Seeing that all was his. 
 
 Love's likeness there endures upon all these, 
 
 But out of these one shall not gather love. 
 
 Day hath not strength, nor the night shade enough 
 
 To make Love whole, and fill his lips with ease, 
 
 As some bee-builded cell 
 
 Feels at filled lips the heavy honey swell. 
 
 I know not how this last month leaves your hair 
 Less full of fmrple colour and hid spice, 
 And that luxurious tremble of closed eyes 
 Is mixed with meaner shadow and waste care : 
 And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet 
 Worth patience to regret. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
XIII. 
 
 PARTING AT MORNING. 
 
 OUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, 
 And the sun looked over the mountain's rim 
 And straight was a path of gold for him, 
 And the need of a world of men for me. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
XIV. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 >ITH all my will, but much against my 
 
 heart, 
 
 We two now part. 
 My Very Dear, 
 
 Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. 
 It needs no art, 
 With faint, averted feet 
 And many a tear, 
 In our opposed paths to persevere. 
 Go thou to East, I West. 
 We will not say 
 
 There's any hope, it is so far away. 
 But, O my Best, 
 
 When the one darling of our widowhood, 
 The nursling Grief, 
 Is dead, 
 
 And no dews blur our eyes 
 To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, 
 Perchance we may, 
 Where now this night is day, 
 
A FAREWELL. 23 
 
 And even through faith of still averted feet, 
 Making full circle of our banishment, 
 Amazed meet ; 
 
 The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet 
 Seasoning the termless feast of our content 
 With tears of recognition never dry. 
 
 COVENTRY PATMORE. 
 
XV. 
 
 " THE PITY OF IT. " 
 
 OTpF OUR love may fail, Lily, 
 *j ? If our love may fail, 
 
 What will mere life avail, Lily, 
 
 Mere life avail ! 
 
 
 
 Seed that promised blossom, 
 Withered in the mould, 
 Pale petals overblowing, 
 Failing from the gold ! 
 
 When the fervent fingers 
 Listlessly unclose, 
 May the life that lingers 
 Find repose, Lily, 
 Find repose ! 
 
 Who may dream of all the music 
 
 Only a lover hears, 
 
 Hearken to hearts triumphant 
 
 Bearing down the years ? 
 
 Ah ! may eternal anthems dwindle 
 
 To a low sound of tears ? 
 
THE PITY OF IT. 25 
 
 Room in all the ages 
 For our love to grow 
 Prayers of both demanded 
 A little while ago : 
 
 And now a few poor moments, 
 Between life and death, 
 May be proven all too ample 
 For love's breath ! 
 
 Seed that promised blossom, 
 Withered in the mould, 
 Pale petals overblowing, 
 Failing from the gold ! 
 
 I well believe the fault lay 
 More with me than you, 
 But I feel the shadow closing 
 Cold about us two. 
 
 An hour may yet be yielded us, 
 Or a very little more ; 
 Then a few tears, and silence 
 For evermore, Lily, 
 For evermore ! 
 
 HON. RODEN NOEL. 
 
XVI. 
 
 AUF WIEDERSEHEN! 
 
 >HE little gate was reached at last, 
 
 Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
 She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
 A watchful look she backward cast, 
 And said ".*// Wicdersthen!" 
 
 With hand on latch, a vision white 
 
 Lingered reluctant, and again 
 Half doubting if she did aright, 
 Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
 
 She said" Auf Wicderschen I " 
 
 The lamp's dear gleam flits up the stair ; 
 
 I linger in delicious pain ; 
 Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
 To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 
 
 Thinks she " Auf Wiedersehen!" 
 
 'Tis thirteen years ; once more I press 
 The turf that silences the lane ; 
 
AUF WIEDERSEHEN. 27 
 
 I hear the rustle of her dress, 
 I smell the lilacs, and ah, yes, 
 I hear " Auf Wiedersehen ! " 
 
 Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 
 
 The English words had seemed too fain, 
 But these they drew us heart to heart, 
 Yet held us tenderly apart ; 
 
 She said" Auf Wiedersehen ! " 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
XVII. 
 
 SUDDEN LIGHT. 
 
 HAVE been here before, 
 But when or how I cannot tell : 
 I know the grass beyond the door, 
 
 The sweet keen smell, 
 
 The sighing sound, the lights around the 
 shore. 
 
 You have been mine before, 
 
 How long ago I may not know : 
 But just when at that swallow's soar 
 
 Your neck turned so, 
 Some veil did fall, I knew it all of yore. 
 
 Has this been thus before ? 
 
 And shall not thus time's eddying flight 
 Still with our lives our love restore 
 
 In death's despite, 
 And day and night yield one delight once more ? 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
XVIII. 
 
 Gfg MADE another garden, yea, 
 3 jj> For my new love : 
 
 I left the dead rose where it lay 
 
 And set the new above. 
 Why did the summer not begin ? 
 Why did my heart not haste ? 
 My old love came and walked therein, 
 And laid the garden waste. 
 
 She entered with her weary smile, 
 
 Just as of old; 
 She looked around a little while, 
 
 And shivered at the cold. 
 Her passing touch was death to all, 
 
 Her passing look a blight ; 
 She made the white rose-petals fall, 
 
 And turned the red rose white. 
 
/ MADE ANOTHER GARDEN. 
 
 Her pale robe, clinging to the grass, 
 
 Seemed like a snake 
 That bit the grass and ground, alas ! 
 
 And a sad trail did make. 
 She went up slowly to the gate ; 
 
 And there, just as of yore, 
 She turned back at the last to wait, 
 
 And say farewell once more. 
 
 ARTHUR o'SHAVGUNtSSY. 
 
XIX. 
 
 H ! were I rich and mighty, 
 With store of gems and gold, 
 And you, a beggar at my gate, 
 Lay starving in the cold ; 
 I wonder, could I bear 
 To leave you pining there ? 
 
 Or, if I were an angel, 
 And you an earth-born thing, 
 Beseeching me to touch you 
 In rising with my wing ; 
 I wonder should I soar 
 Aloft, nor heed you more ? 
 
 Or, dear, if I were only 
 A maiden cold and sweet, 
 And you, a humble lover, 
 Sighed vainly at my feet ; 
 I wonder if my heart 
 Would know no pain or smart ? 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 
XX. 
 
 MISCONCEPTIONS. 
 
 [IS is a spray the Bird clung to, 
 
 Making it blossom with pleasure, 
 Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, 
 Fit for her nest and her treasure. 
 Oh, what a hope beyond measure 
 Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,- 
 So to be singled out, built in, and sung to ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 This is the heart the Queen leant on, 
 
 Thrilled in a minute erratic, 
 Ere the true bosom she bent on, 
 
 Meet for love's regal dalmatic, 
 
 Oh what a fancy ecstatic 
 
 Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on, 
 Ix)ve to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on ! 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
XXI. 
 
 ILICET. 
 
 HEN first the rose-light creeps into my room 
 
 And stirs the liquid gloom, 
 My heart awakes, and sighs with its old pain, 
 Its ringing pulses jar with their old strain, 
 And Love, my lord and bane, 
 Renews that wild desire that is my doom. 
 
 To free myself from him, I rise and go, 
 
 Down terrace-paths below, 
 
 Whence watered gardens lead by winding ways 
 To that green haunt and bay-environed maze, 
 Where, in these summer days, 
 
 She early walks whose soul attracts me so. 
 
 Fool and forgetful 1 Shall I cool desire 
 By looking at those lovely eyes of hers, 
 That passionate Love prefers 
 
 To his own brand for setting hearts on fire ? 
 
I LICET. 
 
 O fool ! -to dream that what began with pain 
 Could end it ! Rather, noiseless, let me fly 
 Out of her world, and die, 
 
 Where hopeless longing knows that all is vain. 
 
 EDMUND W. GOSSE. 
 
XXII. 
 
 GATHERED ROSES. 
 
 NLY a bee made prisoner, 
 
 Caught in a gathered rose ! 
 Was he not 'ware, a flower so fair 
 For the first gatherer grows ? 
 
 Only a heart made prisoner, 
 
 Going out free no more ! 
 Was he not 'ware, a face so fair 
 
 Must have been gathered before ? 
 
 F. W. BOURDILLON. 
 
x\m. 
 A WORM WITHIN THE ROSE. 
 
 ROSE, but one, none other rose had I, 
 A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair, 
 One rose, a rose that gladdened earth and 
 
 sky, 
 
 One rose, my rose, that sweetened all my air 
 I cared not for the thorns ; the thorns were there. 
 
 One rose, a rose to gather by and by, 
 One rose, one rose, to gather and to wear, 
 No rose but one what other rose had I ? 
 One rose, my rose ; a rose that will not die, 
 He dies who loves it, if the worm be there. 
 
 ALFRED TENS', 
 
XXIV. 
 
 L O VE. 
 
 O, the year's done with ! 
 (Love me for ever !) 
 All March begun with, 
 
 April's endeavour ; 
 May-wreaths that bound me 
 
 June needs must sever ; 
 Now snows fall round me, 
 Quenching June's fever 
 (Lwe me for ever ! ) 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
XXV. 
 
 k TAY me no more ; the flowers have ceased to 
 blow, 
 
 The frost begun ; 
 Stay me no more ; I will arise and go, 
 My dream is done. 
 
 My feet are set upon a sterner way, 
 
 And I must on ; 
 Jx>ve, thou hast dwelt with me a summer day, 
 
 Now, Love, begone. 
 
 ERNEST MYERS. 
 
XXVI. 
 
 SIGH in the morning gray ! 
 And a solitary tear, 
 
 Slow to gather, slow to fall j 
 And a painful blush of shame 
 At the mention of thy name 
 
 This is little, this is all, 
 False one, that remains to say, 
 
 That thy love of old was here 
 That thy love hath passed away ! 
 
 AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
XXVII. 
 
 H ! love is like the rose, 
 And a month it may not see, 
 Ere it withers where it grows 
 Rosalie ! 
 
 I loved thee from afar ; 
 
 Oh ! my heart was lift to thee 
 
 Like a glass up to a star 
 
 Rosalie 1 
 
 Thine eye was glassed in mine 
 As the moon is in the sea, 
 And its shine was on the brine 
 Rosalie 1 
 
 The rose hath lost its red, 
 And the star is in the sea, 
 And the briny tear is shed 
 Rosalie ! 
 
 PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 
 
XXVIII. 
 
 JLONG the shore, along the shore 
 I see the wavelets meeting ; 
 But thee I see ah, never more, 
 
 For all my wild heart's beating. 
 The little wavelets come and go, 
 The tide of life ebbs to and fro, 
 
 Advancing and retreating : 
 But from the shore, the steadfast shore, 
 
 The sea is parted never : 
 And mute I hold thee evermore, 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 Along the shore, along the shore, 
 
 I hear the waves resounding, 
 But thou will cross them never more 
 
 For all my wild heart's bounding : 
 The moon comes out above the tide, 
 And quiets all the waters wide, 
 
 Her pathway bright surrounding : 
 
42 ALONG THE SHORE. 
 
 While on the shore, the dreary shore, 
 I walk with weak endeavour, 
 
 I have thy love's light evermore, 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 DINAH MARIA CRAIK. 
 
XXIX. 
 
 SHE CAME AND WENT. 
 
 , S a twig trembles which a bird 
 
 Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, 
 So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; 
 I only know she came and went. 
 
 As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 
 The blue dome's measureless content, 
 
 So my soul held that moment's heaven ; 
 I only know she came and went. 
 
 As, at one bound, our swift Spring heaps 
 The orchards full of bloom and scent, 
 
 So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; 
 I only know she came and went. 
 
 An angel stood and met my gaze, 
 
 Through the low doorway of my tent ; 
 
 The tent is struck, the vision stays ; 
 I only know she came and went. 
 
44 SffE CAME AND WENT. 
 
 Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, 
 And life's last oil is nearly spent, 
 
 One gush of light these eyes will brim, 
 Only to think she came and went. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
XXX. 
 
 NEVER AGAIN. 
 
 (EVER again. This shivering rose, that sees 
 Its dwindled blossoms droop and fall to earth 
 Before the chillness of the autumn rain, 
 Will bud next summer with more fair than these 
 But when have love's waned smiles a second birth ? 
 Never again, never again. 
 
 Never again. Oh, dearest, do you know 
 All the long mournfulness of such a word ? 
 And even you who smile now on my pain 
 May seek some day for love lost long ago, 
 And sigh to the long echo faintly heard 
 Never again, never again. 
 
 Never again. The love we break to-day 
 May linger in my heart unto the last ; 
 And even with you some memory must remain, 
 But ah ! no more. The sunlight died away 
 Will wake again, but never wakes the past 
 Never again, never again. 
 
 AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 
 
XXXI. 
 
 I . 
 
 HAT matter^what matter O friend, though 
 
 the Sea 
 
 In lines of silvery fire may slide 
 O'er the sands so tawny and tenderand wide, 
 Murmuring soft as a bee ? 
 
 " No matter, no matter, in sooth," said he : 
 " But the sunlit sand and the silvery play, 
 Are a trustful smile long past away : 
 No more to me ! " 
 
 n. 
 
 What matter what matter dear friend, can it be, 
 If a long blue stripe, dim-swelling and dark, 
 Beneath the lighter blue headland, may mark 
 All of the town we can see ? 
 
 " No matter, no matter, in truth," said he : 
 
 " But the streak that fades and fades as we part, 
 Is a broken voice and a breaking heart : 
 No more to me ! " 
 
 ALFRED DOMETT. 
 
XXXII. 
 
 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 VVEET ! in the flow'ry garland of our love, 
 Where fancy, folly, frenzy, interwove 
 Our diverse destinies, not all unkind, 
 A secret strand of purest gold entwined. 
 
 While bloomed the magic flowers we scarcely knew 
 The gold was there. But now their petals strew 
 Life's pathway ; and instead, with scarce a sigh, 
 We see the cold but fadeless circlet lie. 
 
 With scarce a sigh ! and yet the flowers were fair, 
 Fed by youth's dew and love's enchanted air. 
 Ay, fair as youth and love ; but doomed, alas ! 
 Like these and all things beautiful, to pass. 
 
 But this bright thread of unadulterate ore 
 Friendship will last though Love exist no more ; 
 And though it lack the fragrance of the wreath, 
 Unlike the flowers, it hides no thorn beneath. 
 
 SIR NOEL PATON. 
 
XXXIII. 
 
 DALLYING. 
 
 EAR love, I have not ask'd you yet ; 
 Nor heard you, murmuring low 
 As wood-doves by a rivulet, 
 Say if it shall be so. 
 
 The colour on your cheek, which plays 
 
 Like an imprison'd bliss, 
 To its unworded language, says, 
 
 "Speak, and I'll answer * Yes.' " 
 
 See, pluck this flower of wood-sorrel, 
 
 And twine it in your hair ; 
 Its woodland grace becomes you well, 
 
 And makes my rose more fair. 
 
 Oft you sit 'mid the daisies here, 
 
 And I lie at your feet ; 
 Yet day by day goes by ; I fear 
 
 To break a trance so sweet 
 
 As some first autumn tint looks strange, 
 
 And wakes a strange regret, 
 Would your soft " yes " our loving change ? 
 
 Love, I'll not ask you yet 
 
 THOMAS ASHE. 
 
XXXIV. 
 
 CHARMIAN. 
 
 the time when water-lilies shake 
 Their green and gold on river and lake, 
 When the cuckoo calls in the heart o' the 
 heat, 
 
 When the Dog-star foams and the shade is sweet ; 
 
 Where cool and fresh the River ran, 
 
 I sat by the side of Charmian, 
 
 And heard no sound from the world of man. 
 
 All was so sweet and still that day ! 
 The rustling shade, the rippling stream, 
 All life, all breath, dissolved away 
 Into a golden dream ; 
 Warm and sweet the scented shade 
 Drowsily caught the breeze and stirred, 
 Faint and low through the green glade 
 Came hum of bee and song of bird. 
 Our hearts were full of drowsy bliss, 
 And yet we did not clasp nor kiss, 
 Nor did we break the happy spell 
 With tender tone or syllable. 
 
50 CHARMIAN. 
 
 But to ease our hearts and set thought free 
 
 We pluckt the flowers of a red Rose-tree, 
 
 And leaf by leaf, we threw them, Sweet, 
 
 Into the river at our feet, 
 
 And in an indolent delight, 
 
 Watched them glide onward, out of sight. 
 
 Sweet, had I boldly spoken then, 
 How might my love have garner'd thee ! 
 But I had left the paths of men, 
 And sitting yonder dreamily, 
 Was happiness enough for me ! 
 Seeking no gift of word or kiss, 
 But looking in thy face, was bliss ! 
 Plucking the Rose-leaves in a dream, 
 Watching them glimmer down the stream, 
 Knowing that Eastern heart of thine 
 Shared the dim ecstasy of mine ! 
 
 Then, while we linger'd, cold and gray 
 Came twilight, chilling soul and sense ; 
 And you arose to go away, 
 Full of a sweet indifference ! 
 I missed the spell I watch'd it break, 
 And such come never twice to man : 
 In a less golden hour I spoke, 
 And did not win thee, Charmian ! 
 
 For wearily we turned away 
 Into the world of everyday, 
 
CHAR MI AN. 
 
 And from* thy heart the fancy fled 
 
 Like the Rose-leaves on the river shed ; 
 
 But to me that hour is sweeter far 
 
 Than the world and all its treasures are : 
 
 Still to sit on so close to thee, 
 
 Were happiness enough for me ! 
 
 Still to sit on in a green nook, 
 
 Nor break the spell by word or look ! 
 
 To reach out happy hands for ever, 
 
 To pluck the Rose-leaves, Charmian ! 
 
 To watch them fade on the gleaming River, 
 
 And hear no sound from the world of man ! 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
XXXV. 
 
 NOT LOVE. 
 
 5*B HAVE not, yet I would have loved thee, sweet . 
 Nor know I wherefore, thou being all thou 
 
 art, 
 The engrafted thought in me throve incomplete, 
 
 And grew to summer strength in every part 
 
 Of root and leaf, but hath not borne the flower : 
 Love hath refrained his fulness from my heart. 
 
 I know no better beauty, none with power 
 To hold mine eyes through change and change as 
 
 thine, 
 Like southern skies that alter with each hour 
 
 And yet are changeless, and their calm divine 
 From light to light hath motionlessly passed 
 With only different loveliness for sign. 
 
 I know no fairer nature, nor where, cast 
 
 On the clear mirror of thine own young truth, 
 The imaged things of heaven lie plainer glassed ; 
 
NOT LOVE. 53 
 
 Nor where more fit alike show tender ruth, 
 
 And anger for the right, and hopes aglow, 
 And joys and sighs of April-hearted youth. 
 
 But some day I, so wont to praise thee so, 
 
 With unabashed warm words for all to hear, 
 Shall scarcely name another, speaking low. 
 
 Some day, methinks, and who can tell how near, 
 
 I may, to thee unchanged, be praising thee 
 With one not worthier but a world more dear ; 
 
 With one I know not yet, who shall, may be, 
 
 Be not so fair, be not in aught thy peer ; 
 Who shall be all that thou art not to me. 
 
 AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 
 
XXXVI. 
 
 SOMEWHERE OR OTHER. 
 
 OMEWHERE or other there must surely be 
 The face not seen, the voice not heard, 
 The heart that not yet never yet ah me ! 
 Made answer to my word. 
 
 Somewhere or other, may be near or far ; 
 
 Past land and sea, clean out of sight ; 
 Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star 
 
 That tracks her night by night. 
 
 Somewhere or other, may be far or near ; 
 
 With just a wall, a hedge between ; 
 With just the last leaves of the dying year 
 
 Fallen on a turf grown green. 
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 
 
XXXVII. 
 
 O UTCR Y. 
 
 GpgN all ray singing and speaking, 
 ^ P I send my soul forth seeking ; 
 O soul of my soul's dreaming ; 
 
 When wilt thou hear and speak ? 
 Lovely and lonely seeming, 
 Thou art there in my dreaming, 
 Hast thou no sorrow for speaking? 
 Hast thou no dream to seek ? 
 
 In all my thinking and sighing, 
 
 In all my desolate crying, 
 I send my heart forth yearning, 
 
 O heart that may'st be nigh ! 
 Like a bird weary of flying, 
 My heavy heart, returning, 
 Bringeth me no replying, 
 
 Of word, or thought, or sigh. 
 
 In all my joying and grieving, 
 
 Living, hoping, believing, 
 I send my love forth flowing, 
 
 To find my unknown, love. 
 
56 OUTCRY. 
 
 O world, that I am leaving, 
 O heaven, where I am going, 
 Is there no finding and knowing, 
 Around, within, or above? 
 
 O soul of my soul's seeing, 
 
 heart of my heart's being, 
 O love of dreaming and waking 
 
 And living and dying for 
 Out of my soul's last aching, 
 Out of my heart just breaking 
 Doubting, falling, forsaking, 
 
 1 call on you this once more. 
 
 Are you too high or too lowly 
 To come at length unto me ? 
 Are you too sweet or too holy 
 For me to have and to see ? 
 Wherever you are, I call you, 
 Ere the falseness of life enthral you, 
 Ere the hollow of death appal you, 
 While yet your spirit is free. 
 
 Have you not seen, in sleeping, 
 
 A lover that might not stay, 
 And remembered again with weeping, 
 
 And thought of him through the day ?- 
 Ah ! thought of him long and dearly, 
 Till you seemed to behold him clearly, 
 
OUTCRY. 57 
 
 And could follow the dull time merely 
 With heart and love far away ? 
 
 Have you not known him kneeling 
 
 To a deathless vision of you, 
 Whom only an earth was concealing, 
 
 Whom all that was heaven proved true ? 
 Oh surely some wind gave motion 
 To his words like a wave of the ocean ; 
 Ay ! so that you felt his devotion, 
 
 And smiled, and wondered, and knew. 
 
 And what are you thinking and saying, 
 In the land where you are delaying ? 
 
 Have you a chain to sever ? 
 Have you a prison to break ? 
 
 O love ! there is one love for ever, 
 
 And never another love never ; 
 
 And hath it not reached you, my praying 
 And singing these years for your sake ? 
 
 We two, made one, should have power 
 
 To grow to a beautiful flower, 
 A tree for men to sit under 
 
 Beside life's flowerless stream ; 
 But I without you am only 
 A dreamer fruitless and lonely ; 
 And you without me, a wonder 
 
 In my most beautiful dream. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSV. 
 
XXXVIII. 
 
 IF. 
 
 (TgF he would come to-day, to-day, to-day, 
 , q 3) Oh, what a day to-day would be ! 
 ( ^ But now he's away, miles and miles away 
 From me across the sea. 
 
 little bird, flying, flying, flying, 
 To your nest in the warm west, 
 
 Tell him as you pass that I am dying, 
 As you pass home to your nest. 
 
 1 have a sister, I have a brother, 
 
 A faithful hound, a tame white dove ; 
 But I had another, once I had another, 
 And I miss him, my love, my love ! 
 
 In this weary world it is so cold, so cold, 
 
 While I sit here all alone ; 
 I would not like to wait and to grow old, 
 
 But just to be dead and gone. 
 
IF. 59 
 
 Make me fair when I lie dead on my bed, 
 
 Fair where I am lying \ 
 Perhaps he may come and look upon me dead . 
 
 He for whom I am dying. 
 
 Dig my grave for two, with a stone to show it, 
 And on the stone write my name ; 
 
 If he never comes, I shall never know it, 
 But sleep on all the same. 
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 
 
XXXIX. 
 
 A SMILE AND A SIGH. 
 
 SMILE because the nights are short ! 
 
 And every morning brings such pleasure 
 Of sweet love-making, harmless sport : 
 Love that makes and finds its treasure, 
 Love, treasure without measure. 
 
 A sigh because the days are long! 
 
 Lcng, long these days that pass in sighing, 
 A burden saddens every song : 
 
 While time lags which should be flying, 
 
 We live who would be dying. 
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 
 
XI- 
 
 GppF ever, dear, 
 
 ^ p I might at last the barren victory gain, 
 ( ^^ After long struggle and laborious pain, 
 And many a secret tear, 
 
 To think, since think I must of thee, 
 
 Not otherwise than thou of me. 
 
 Haply I might 
 
 Thy chilling coldness, thy disdain, thy pride, 
 Which draw me half reluctant to thy side, 
 
 With a like meed requite, 
 And I my too fond self despise, 
 Seeing with disenchanted eyes. 
 
 But now, alas, 
 
 So fast a prisoner am I to thy love, 
 No power there is that can my chains remove, 
 
 So sweet the caged hours pass, 
 That if it parted me from thee, 
 I would not willingly grow free. 
 
62 IF EVER, DEAR. 
 
 Nor would I dare 
 
 To ask for recompense of love again, 
 Who love thee for the height of thy disdain. 
 
 Thou wouklst not show so fair 
 If we should burn with equal fire, 
 Instinct with emulous desire. 
 
 Full well I know 
 
 That what I worship is not wholly thee, 
 But a fair dream, a pious fantasy, 
 
 Such as at times doth grow 
 On yearnings of the cloistered mind, 
 Or the rapt vision of the blind. 
 
 Scorn me then, sweet, 
 
 I would not thou shouldst leave thy lofty place ; 
 Thy lover should not see thee face to face, 
 
 But prostrate at thy feet 
 No recompense, no equal part I seek, 
 Only that thou be strong and I be weak. 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 
XLI. 
 
 A LOVE-THOUGHT. 
 
 LL down the linden-alley's morning shade 
 Thy form with childly raptures I pursue ; 
 No hazel-bowered brook can seek the glade 
 With steps more joyous or with course 
 more true. 
 
 But when all haste and hope I reach my goal, 
 And Thou at once thy full and earnest eyes 
 Turnest upon me, my encumbered soul 
 Bows down in shame and trembles with surprise. 
 
 I rise exalted on thy moving grace, 
 Peace and goodwill in all thy voice I hear ; 
 Yet if the sudden wonders of thy face 
 Fall on me, joy is weak and turns to fear. 
 
 RICHARD, LORD HOUGHTON. 
 
XLII. 
 
 NOCTURNE. 
 
 ITALY. 
 
 P to her chamber window 
 
 A slight wire trellis goes, 
 And up this Romeo's ladder 
 Clambers a bold white rose. 
 
 I lounge in the ilex shadows, 
 
 I see the lady lean, 
 Unclasping her silken girdle, 
 
 The curtain's folds between. 
 
 She smiles on her white-rose lover, 
 
 She reaches out her hand 
 And helps him at the window 
 
 I see it where I stand ! 
 
 To her scarlet lip she holds him, 
 And kisses him many a time 
 
 Ah, me ! it was he that won her, 
 Because he dared to climb ! 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALURICH. 
 
XLIII. 
 
 HAME upon you, Robin, 
 
 Shame upon you now ! 
 Kiss me would you ? with my hands 
 
 Milking the cow? 
 Daisies grow again, 
 Kingcups blow again, 
 And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 
 
 Robin came behind me, 
 
 Kissed me well, I vow ; 
 Cuff him could I ? with my hands 
 
 Milking the cow ? 
 
 Swallows fly again, 
 
 Cuckoos cry again, 
 And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 
 
 Come, Robin, Robin, 
 
 Come and kiss me now ; 
 Help it can I ? with my hands 
 
 Milking the cow? 
 
 Ringdoves coo again, 
 
 All things woo again. 
 Come behind and kiss me milking the cow. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 E 
 
XLIV. 
 
 PANSIE. 
 
 )AME, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, 
 
 In white, to find her lover. 
 The grass grew proud beneath her feet, 
 The green elm leaves above her 
 Meet we no angels, Pansie ? 
 
 She said, " We meet no angels now," 
 And soft lights streamed upon her ; 
 
 And with white hand she touched a bough, 
 She did it that great honour 
 What, meet no angels, Pansie ? 
 
 Oh sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, 
 Down-dropp'd brown eyes so tender ; 
 
 Then what, said I ? gallant replies 
 Seem flattery and offend her ; 
 But meet no angels, Pansie ? 
 
 THOMAS ASHE. 
 
XLV. 
 
 E VE Y. 
 
 UD and leaflet, opening slowly, 
 
 Woo'd with tears by winds of Spring, 
 Now, of June persuaded wholly, 
 
 Perfumes, flow'rs, and shadows bring. 
 
 Evey, in the linden-alley, 
 
 All alone I met to-day, ' 
 Tripping to the sunny valley 
 
 Spread across with new-mown hay. 
 
 Brown her soft curls, sunbeam-sainted, 
 Golden, in the wavering flush ; 
 
 Darker brown her eyes are, painted 
 Eye and fringe with one soft brush. 
 
 Through the leaves a careless comer, 
 
 Never nymph of fount or tree 
 Could have press'd the floor of summer 
 
 With a lighter foot than she. 
 
68 EVEY. 
 
 Can this broad hat, fasten'd under 
 With a bright blue ribbon's flow, 
 
 Change my pet so much, I wonder, 
 Of a month or two ago ? 
 
 Half too changed to speak I thought her, 
 
 Till the pictured silence broke, 
 Sweet and clear as dropping water, 
 
 Into words she sung or spoke. 
 
 Few her words ; yet, like a sister, 
 Trustfully she look'd and smiled ; 
 
 Twas but in my soul I kiss'd her 
 As I used to kiss the child. 
 
 Shadows, which are not of sadness, 
 Touch her 'eyes, and brow above. 
 
 As pale wild roses dream of redness, 
 Dreams her innocent heart of love. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
XLVI. 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 i. 
 
 f^ LEEP, lady fair ! 
 \ Oh but thy couch should be 
 k>^ The fleeciest cloudlet of the summer air, 
 The softest billow of the summer sea ; 
 Or that unforsaken rest 
 I keep warm in my true breast, 
 For thee, for thee ! 
 
 n. 
 
 Dream, lady sweet ! 
 
 The moon and planets bright 
 Now thread thy slumbers with unsounding feet, 
 Now drench thy fancies with unshaped delight : 
 As my spirit fain would steep 
 Thine, when only half asleep, 
 This night, this night ! 
 
70 SLEEP, LADY FA /A*. 
 
 III. 
 Wake, lady mine ! 
 
 See ! are awake the flowers, 
 Their opening cusps bright tipped with dewy wine, 
 And, buoyed on song, the moist lark trills and towers. 
 Wake ! If thou must be away 
 Nightly, let at least the day 
 Be ours, be ours ! 
 
 ALFRED AUSTIN. 
 
XLVII. 
 
 AT HER WINDOW. 
 
 EATING heart ! we come again 
 
 Where my Love reposes : 
 
 This is Mabel's window-pane ; 
 
 These are Mabel's roses. 
 
 Is she nested ? Does she kneel 
 
 In the twilight stilly; 
 Lily clad from throat to heel, 
 
 She, my virgin lily ? 
 
 Soon the wan, the wistful stars, 
 Fading, will forsake her; 
 
 Elves of light, on beamy bars, 
 Whisper then, and wake her. 
 
 Let this friendly pebble plead 
 At her flowery grating, 
 
 If she hear me will she heed ? 
 Mabel, I am waiting! 
 
72 AT HER WINDOW. 
 
 Mabel will be deck'd anon, 
 
 Zoned in bride's apparel ; 
 Happy zone ! oh hark to yon 
 
 Passion-shaken carol ! 
 
 Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush, 
 Pipe thy best, thy clearest ; 
 
 Hush, her lattice moves, oh hush 
 Dearest Mabel! dearest . . . 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
XLVIII. 
 
 LOVE- LILY. 
 
 ETWEEN the hands, between the brows, 
 
 Between the lips of Love-Lily, 
 A spirit is born whose birth endows 
 
 My blood with fire to burn through me ; 
 Who breathes upon my gazing eyes, 
 
 Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear, 
 At whose least touch my colour flies, 
 And whom my life grows faint to hear. 
 
 Within the voice, within the heart, 
 
 Within the mind of Love-Lily, 
 A spirit is born who lifts apart 
 
 His tremulous wings and looks at me ; 
 Who on my mouth his finger lays, 
 
 And shows, while whispering lutes confer, 
 That Eden of Love's watered ways 
 
 Whose winds and spirits worship her. 
 
74 LOVE-LILY. 
 
 Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice, 
 
 Kisses and words of Love-Lily, 
 Oh ! bid me with your joy rejoice, 
 
 Till riotous longing rest in me! 
 Ah ! let not hope be still distraught, 
 
 But find in her its gracious goal, 
 Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought 
 
 Nor Love her body from her soul. 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
XLIX. 
 I. 
 
 IVE her but a least excuse to love me ! 
 
 When where 
 How can this arm establish her above me, 
 
 If fortune fixed her as my lady there, 
 There already, to eternally reprove me ? 
 
 (" Hist ! " said Kate the queen ; 
 But " Oh," cried the maiden, binding her tresses, 
 
 "'Tis only a page that carols unseen, 
 Crumbling your hounds their messes ! ") 
 
 ii. 
 Is she wronged? To the rescue of her honour, 
 
 My heart ! 
 Is she poor? What costs it to become a donor ? 
 
 Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. 
 But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her ! 
 
 (" Nay, list ! "bade Kate the queen ; 
 And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, 
 
 " 'Tis only a page that carols unseen, 
 Fitting your hawks their jesses ! ") 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
THE OBLATION. 
 
 IK nothing more of me, sweet ; 
 All I can give you I give. 
 
 Heart of my heart, were it more, 
 More would be laid at your feet : 
 Love that should help you to live, 
 Song that should spur you to soar. 
 
 AH things were nothing to give 
 Once to have sense of you more, 
 
 Touch you and taste of you sweet, 
 Think you and breathe you and live, 
 Swept of your wings as they soar, 
 Trodden by chance of your feet. 
 
 I that have love and no more, 
 Give you but love of you, sweet : 
 
 He that hath more, let him give ; 
 He that hath wings, let him soar ; 
 Mine is the heart at your feet 
 Here, that must love you to live. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
LI. 
 
 HE bee to the heather, 
 
 The lark to the sky, 
 
 The roe to the greenwood, 
 
 And whither shall I ? 
 
 Oh, Alice ! ah, Alice ! 
 
 So sweet to the bee 
 Are the moorland and heather 
 
 By Cannock and Leigh ! 
 
 Oh, Alice ! ah, Alice ! 
 
 O'er Teddesley Park 
 The sunny sky scatters 
 
 The notes of the lark ! 
 
 Oh, Alice ! ah, Alice ! 
 
 In Beaudesert glade 
 The roes toss their antlers 
 
 For joy of the shade ! 
 
 But Alice, dear Alice ! 
 
 Glade, moorland, nor sky 
 Without you can content me, 
 
 And whither shall I ? 
 
 SIR HENRY TAYLOR. 
 
LI I. 
 
 A DAISY CHAIN. 
 
 >HE white rose decks the breast of May, 
 V The red rose smiles in June, 
 Yet autumn chills and winter kills 
 
 And leaves their stems alone ; 
 Ah, swiftly dies the garden's pride 
 
 Whose sleep no waking knows, 
 But my love she is the daisy 
 That all the long year grows. 
 
 The early woods are gay with green, 
 
 The fields are prankt with gold, 
 But fair must fade and green be greyed 
 
 Before the year is old ; 
 The blue-bell hangs her shining head, 
 
 No more the oxslip blows, 
 But my love she is the daisy 
 
 That all the long year grows. 
 
A DAISY CHAIN. 
 
 79 
 
 Still deck, wild woods, your mantle green, 
 
 All meads bright jewels wear, 
 Let showers of spring fresh violets bring 
 
 And sweetness load the air ; 
 Whilst summer boasts her roses red 
 
 And March her scented snows, 
 My love be still the daisy, 
 
 And my heart whereon she grows. 
 
 H. CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELI. 
 
LIII. 
 
 A WILD WOOD SPELL. 
 
 |OME to the woods, Medora, 
 Come to the woods with me ; 
 The leaves are green, the summer sheen 
 Is on the linden tree. 
 
 Up in the woods, Medora, 
 The thrushes warble free ; 
 Around, above, they sing of love, 
 So let me sing to thee i 
 
 On the low thorn, Medora, 
 The finch is fair to see, 
 A jewel bright, a heart's delight 
 Ah ! so art thou to me. 
 
 From the dark pines, Medora, 
 There flows a balmy sea ; 
 The air's soft kiss is heavenly bliss 
 How sweet art thou to me ! 
 
A WILD-WOOD SPELL. 
 
 Si 
 
 Through the wood-moss, Medora, 
 The emerald lizards flee, 
 Away, away, they will not stay ; 
 Oh, flee not thus from me ! 
 
 Come to the woods, Medora, 
 
 Come to the shade with me ; 
 
 The roses bloom in that sweet gloom 
 
 So bloom, dear rose, for me ! 
 
 EARL OF SOUTHESK. 
 
LIV. 
 
 REINE D* AMOUR. 
 
 l LOSE as the stars along the sky, 
 
 The flowers were in the mead, 
 The purple heart, and golden eye, 
 
 And crimson-flaming weed : 
 And each one sigh'd as I went by, 
 And touch'd my garment green, 
 And bade me wear her on my heart 
 And take her for my Queen 
 
 Of Love,- 
 And take her for my Queen. 
 
 And one in virgin white was drest 
 
 With lowly gracious head ; 
 And one unveird a burning breast 
 
 With Love's own ardour red ; 
 All rainbow bright, with laughter light, 
 
 They flicker'd o'er the green, 
 Each whispering I should pluck her there 
 
 And take her for my Queen 
 Of Love, 
 
 And take her for my Queen. 
 
REINE & AMOUR. 83 
 
 But sudden at my feet look'd up 
 
 A little star-like thing, 
 Pure odour in pure perfect cup, 
 
 That made my bosom sing. 
 Twas not for size, nor gorgeous dyes, 
 
 But her own self, I ween, 
 Her own sweet self, that bade me stoop 
 
 And take her for my Queen 
 Of Love, 
 
 And take her for my Queen. 
 
 Now all day long and every day 
 
 Her beauty on me grows, 
 And holds with stronger sweeter sway 
 
 Than lily or than rose ; 
 And this one star outshines by far 
 
 All in the meadow green ; 
 And so I wear her on my heart 
 
 And take her for my Queen 
 Of Love, 
 
 And take her for my Queen. 
 
 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. 
 
LV. 
 
 Gfg THANK thee, dear, for words that fleet, 
 
 iS For looks that lons endure 
 
 For all caresses simply sweet 
 And passionately pure ; 
 
 For blushes mutely understood, 
 
 For silence and for sighs, 
 For all the yearning womanhood 
 
 Of grey love-laden eyes. 
 
 Oh how in words to tell the rest ? 
 
 My bird, my child, my dove ! 
 Behold I render best for best, 
 
 I bring thee love for love. 
 
 Oh give to God the love again 
 Which had from Him its birth, 
 
 Oh bless Him, for He sent the twain 
 Together on the earth. 
 
 FREDERICK MYERS. 
 
LVI. 
 
 MY NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 OVE thou thy Neighbour," we are told, 
 " Even as thyself." That creed I hold ; 
 But love her more, a thousand-fold ! 
 
 My lovely Neighbour ; oft we meet 
 In lonely lane, or crowded street ; 
 1 know the music of her feet 
 
 She little thinks how, on a day, 
 
 She must have missed her usual way, 
 
 And walked into my heart for aye : 
 
 Or how the rustle of her dress 
 Thrills thro' me like a soft caress, 
 With trembles of deliciousness. 
 
 Wee woman, with her smiling mien, 
 
 And soul celestially serene, 
 
 She passes me, unconscious Queen ! 
 
 Her face most innocently good, 
 
 Where shyly peeps the sweet red blood : 
 
 Her form a nest of Womanhood ! 
 
86 MY NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 Like Raleigh for her dainty tread, 
 When ways are miry I could spread 
 My cloak, but, there's my heart instead. 
 
 Ah, Neighbour, you will neve,r know 
 Why 'tis my step is quickened so ; 
 Nor what the prayer I murmur low. 
 
 I see you *mid your flowers at morn, 
 Fresh as the rosebud newly born ; 
 I marvel, can you have a thorn ? 
 
 If so, 'twere sweet to lean one's breast 
 
 Against it, and, the more it prest, 
 
 Sing like the Bird that sorrow hath blest. 
 
 I hear you sing ! And thro* me Spring 
 Doth musically ripple and ring ; 
 Little you think I'm listening ! 
 
 You know not, dear, how dear you be ; 
 All dearer for the secrecy : 
 Nothing, and yet a world to me. 
 
 So near, too ! you could hear me sigh, 
 
 Or see my case with half an eye ; 
 
 But must not. There are reasons why. 
 
 GERALD MASSEY. 
 
LVII. 
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 ERE I a breath of summer air, 
 
 I'd wander over bank and lea, 
 And bring, from every wild-flower there, 
 Sweet messages of love to thee. 
 
 Were I a stream, with low soft song, 
 I'd woo thee to some green retreat, 
 
 And linger as I pass'd along, 
 In bliss to murmur at thy feet 
 
 Were I a bird with mellow throat, 
 I would forsake the pleasant grove, 
 
 And tune for thee the softest note 
 That music dedicates to love. 
 
 For thee my daily wishes burn ; 
 
 In dreams thy angel face I see ; 
 I bid my thoughts to others turn, 
 
 My thoughts unbidden turn to thee. 
 
88 
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 Such love thyself mayst live to prove ; 
 
 Yet thine will be unmixed with pain, 
 For never, surely, canst thou love, 
 
 But thou wilt be beloved again. 
 
 JXMES HEDDERWICK. 
 
LVIII. 
 
 NO AND YES. 
 
 GfgF I could choose my paradise, 
 ^J jo And please myself with choice of bliss, 
 Then I would have your soTt blue eyes 
 
 And rosy little mouth to kiss ; 
 Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, 
 As rose-leaves in a coppice wild. 
 
 If fate bade choose some sweet unrest, 
 To weave my troubled life a snare, 
 
 Then I would say " her maiden breast, 
 And golden ripple of her hair ; " 
 
 And weep amid those tresses, child, 
 
 Contented to be thus beguiled. 
 
 THOMAS ASHE. 
 
I IX. 
 
 >OVE within the lover's breast 
 
 Burns like Hesper in the West, 
 
 O'er the ashes of the sun, 
 
 Till the day and night are done ; 
 
 Then when dawn drives up his car 
 
 Lo ! it is the morning star. 
 
 Love ! thy love pours down on mine 
 As the sunlight on the vine, 
 As the snow rill on the vale, 
 As the salt breeze on the sail ; 
 As the song unto the bird 
 On my lips thy name is heard. 
 
 As a dewdrop on the rose 
 In thy heart my passion glows ; 
 As a skylark to the sky, 
 Up into thy breast I fly ; 
 As a sea-shell of the sea 
 Ever shall I sing of thee. 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH. 
 
LX. 
 
 fp IKE an island in a river, 
 
 Art thou, my love, to me ; 
 And I journey by thee ever 
 
 With a gentle ecstasie. 
 I arise to fall before thee, 
 I come to kiss thy feet ; 
 To adorn thee and adore thee, 
 Mine only one ! my sweet ! 
 
 And thy love hath power upon me, 
 
 Like a dream upon a brain ; 
 For the loveliness which won me, 
 
 With the love, too, doth remain. 
 And my life it beautifieth 
 
 Though love be but a shade, 
 Known of only ere it dieth, 
 
 By the darkness it hath made. 
 
 PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 
 
LXI. 
 
 THE TREASURE-SHIP. 
 
 heart is freighted full of love, 
 As full as any argosy, 
 With gems below and gems above, 
 And ready for the open sea ; 
 For the wind is blowing summerly. 
 
 Full strings of nature's beaded pearl, 
 Sweet tears ! composed in amorous ties 
 And turkis-lockets, that no churl 
 Hath fashioned out mechanic- wise, 
 But all made up of 'thy blue eyes. 
 
 And girdles wove of subtle sound, 
 And thoughts not trusted to the air, 
 Of antique mould, the same as bound, 
 In Paradise, the primal pair, 
 Before Love's art and niceness were. 
 
 And carcanets of living sighs ; 
 
 Gems that have dropped from Love's own stem, 
 
 And one small jewel that I prize 
 
THE TREASURE-SHIP. 93 
 
 The darling gaud of all of them 
 I wot, so rare and fine a gem 
 Ne'er glowed on Eastern anadem. 
 
 I've cased the rubies of thy smiles, 
 In rich and triply-plated gold ; 
 But this no other wealth defiles, 
 Itself, itself can only hold 
 The stealthy kiss on Maple-wold. 
 
 RICHARD, LORD HOUGHTON. 
 
LXII. 
 
 EEK not the tree of silkiest bark 
 
 And balmiest bud, 
 To carve her name while yet 'tis dark 
 
 Upon the wood. 
 The world is full of noble tasks, 
 
 And wreaths hard won : 
 
 Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, 
 Till day is done. 
 
 n. 
 
 Sing not that violet-veined skin, 
 
 That cheek's pale roses, 
 The lily of that form wherein 
 
 Her soul reposes : 
 Forth to the fight, true man, true knight; 
 
 The clash of arms 
 Shall more prevail than whispered tale 
 
 To win her charms. 
 
SEEK NOT THE TREE OF SILKIEST BARK. 95 
 
 111. 
 
 The warrior for the True, the Right, 
 
 Fight's in Love's name : 
 The love that lures thee from that fight 
 
 Lures thee to shame : 
 The love which lifts the heart, yet leaves 
 
 The spirit free, 
 That love, or none, is fit for one 
 
 Man-shaped, like thee. 
 
 AUBREY DE VEKE. 
 
LXIII. 
 
 fgN the long enchanted weather, 
 I p When lovers came together, 
 
 And fields were bright with blossoming, 
 And hearts were light with song; 
 
 When the poet lay for hours, 
 In a dream among the flowers, 
 And heard a soft voice murmuring 
 His love's name all day long ; 
 
 Or for hours stood beholding 
 The summer time unfolding 
 Its casket of rich jewelries, 
 And boundless wealth outpoured ; 
 
 Saw the precious-looking roses 
 Its glowing hand uncloses, 
 The pearls of dew and emeralds 
 Spread over grass and sward ; 
 
IN THE LONG ENCHANTED WEATHER. 97 
 
 When he heard besides the singing, 
 Mysterious voices ringing 
 With clear unearthly ecstasies 
 Through earth and sky and air ; 
 
 Then he wondered for whose pleasure 
 Some king made all that treasure 
 That bauble of the universe, 
 At whose feet it was laid : 
 
 Yea, for what celestial leman, 
 Bright saint or crowned demon, 
 Chimed all the tender harmonies 
 Of that rich serenade. 
 
 But his heart constrained him, sinking 
 Back, to its sweetest thinking, 
 His lady all to celebrate, 
 And tell her beauty's worth. 
 
 And he sought at length what tender 
 Love-verses he should send her : 
 Oh, the love within him overflowed, 
 And seemed to fill the earth ! 
 
 So he took, in his emotion, 
 A murmur from the ocean ; 
 He took a plaintive whispering 
 Of sadness from the wind ; 
 
98 AV THE LONG ENCHANTED WEATHER. 
 
 And a piteous way of sighing 
 From the leaves when they were dying, 
 And the music of the nightingales 
 With all his own combined ; 
 
 Yea, he stole indeed some phrases 
 Of mystic hymns of praises, 
 The heaven itself is perfecting 
 Out of the earthly things ; 
 
 And with these he did so fashion 
 The poem of his passion, 
 The lady still is listening, 
 And still the poet sings ! 
 
 ARTHUR O'SIIAUGHNESSY. 
 
LX1V. 
 
 A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS. 
 
 HEN Spring comes laughing 
 
 By vale and hill, 
 By wind-flower walking 
 
 And daffodil, 
 Sing stars of morning, 
 Sing morning skies, 
 Sing blue of speedwell, 
 And my Love's eyes. 
 
 AVhen comes the Summer, 
 
 Full-leaved and strong, 
 And gay birds gossip 
 
 The orchard long, 
 Sing hid, sweet honey 
 
 That no bee sips ; 
 Sing red, red roses, 
 
 And my Love's lips. 
 
ioo A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS. 
 
 When Autumn scatters 
 
 The leaves again, 
 And piled sheaves bury 
 
 The broad-wheeled wain, 
 Sing flutes of harvest 
 
 Where men rejoice ; 
 Sing rounds of reapers, 
 
 And my Love's voice. 
 
 But when comes Winter 
 
 With hail and storm, 
 And red fire roaring 
 
 And ingle warm, 
 Sing first sad going 
 
 Of friends that part ; 
 Then sing glad meeting 
 And my Love's heart. 
 
 ALSTIN DOBSON. 
 
WILD ROSE. 
 
 O call My Lady where she stood 
 
 "A Wild-Rose blossom of the wood," 
 Makes but a poor similitude. 
 
 For who by such a slight would reach 
 An aim, consumes the worth in speech, 
 And sets a crimson rose to bleach. 
 
 My Love, whose store of household sense 
 
 Gives duty golden recompense, 
 
 And arms her goodness with defence : 
 
 The sweet reliance of whose gaze 
 
 Originates in gracious ways, 
 
 And wins that trust the trust repays : 
 
 Whose stately figure's varying grace 
 
 Is never seen unless her face 
 
 Turn beaming toward another place ; 
 
 For such a halo round it glows, 
 Surprised attention only knows 
 A lively wonder in repose. 
 
102 ll'/LD ROSE. 
 
 Can flowers that breathe one little day 
 In odorous sweetness life away, 
 And wavering to the earth decay, 
 
 Have any claim to rank with her, 
 Warmed in whose soul impulses stir 
 Then bloom to goodness ; and aver 
 
 Her worth through spheral joys shall move 
 When suns and systems cease above, 
 And nothing lives but perfect Love ? 
 
 THOMAS WOOLS EK. 
 
LXVI. 
 
 DAISY'S DIMPLES. 
 
 i. 
 
 ITTLE dimples so sweet and soft, 
 Love the cheek of my love ; 
 The mark of Cupid's dainty hand, 
 Before he wore a glove. 
 
 n. 
 
 Laughing dimples of tender love, 
 
 Smile on my darling's cheek ; 
 Sweet hallowed spots where kisses lurk, 
 
 And play at hide and seek. 
 
 in. 
 
 Fain would I hide my kisses there 
 
 At morning's rosy light, 
 To come and seek them back again 
 
 In silver hush of night. 
 
 J. ASHBY-STERRY. 
 
LXVII. 
 
 GERTRUDE'S GLOVE. 
 
 LIPS of a kid-skin deftly sewn, 
 
 A scent as through her garden blown, 
 The tender hue that clothes her dove, 
 All these, and this is Getty's glove. 
 
 A glove but lately dofft, for look 
 
 It keeps the happy shape it took 
 
 Warm from her touch ! What gave the glow ? 
 
 And where's the mould that shaped it so ? 
 
 It clasp'd the hand, so pure, so sleek, 
 Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek, 
 The hand that when the light wind stirs, 
 Reproves those laughing locks of hers. 
 
 Your ringers four, you little thumb ! 
 Were I but you, in days to come 
 I'd clasp, and kiss, I'd keep her go ! 
 And tell her that I told you so. 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
LXVIII. 
 
 ANGELICA. 
 
 AIR is my Love, so fair, 
 
 I shudder with the sense 
 Of what a light the world would lose 
 
 Could she go hence. 
 
 Sweet is my Love, so sweet, 
 The leaves that, fold on fold,' 
 
 Swathe up the odours of the rose, 
 Less sweetness hold. 
 
 True is my Love, so true, 
 Her heart is mine alone, 
 
 The music of its rhythmic beat 
 Throbs through my own. 
 
 Dear is my Love, so dear, 
 
 If I but hear her name, 
 My eyes with tears of rapture swim, 
 
 My cheek is flame. 
 
106 ANGELICA. 
 
 Spare her, immortals, spare, 
 
 Till all our days are done 
 Your heaven is full of angel forms, 
 
 Mine holds but one. 
 
 WILLIAM SAWYER. 
 
LXIX. 
 
 A GARDEN IDYLL. 
 
 have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery 
 
 croft, 
 
 We have met under wintry skies ; 
 Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft 
 
 Is the light in her wistful eyes ; 
 It is sweet in the silent woods, among 
 
 Gay crowds, or in any place 
 To hear her voice, to gaze on her young 
 Confiding face. 
 
 For ever may roses divinely blow, 
 
 And wine-dark pansies charm 
 By the prim box-path where I felt the glow 
 
 Of her dimpled, tnisting arm ; 
 And the sweep of her silk as she turn'd and srail'd, 
 
 A smile as fair as her pearls ; 
 The breeze was in love with the darling child, 
 As it moved her curls. 
 
loS A GARDEN IDYLL. 
 
 She show'd me her ferns and woodbine sprays, 
 
 Foxglove and jasmine stars, 
 A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze 
 
 Of red in the celadon jars : 
 And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, 
 
 And roses of bountiful June 
 Oh, who would think that summer spells 
 Could die so soon ! 
 
 For a glad song came from the milking-shed, 
 
 On a wind of that summer south, 
 And the green was golden above her head, 
 
 And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth ; 
 Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt 
 
 And the wings of Time were fleet 
 As I gazed ; and neither spoke, for we felt 
 Life was so sweet ! 
 
 And the odorous limes were dim above 
 As we leant on a drooping bough ; 
 
 And the darkling air was a breath of love, 
 And a witching thrush sang " Now ! " 
 
 For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew 
 As we listen'd, and sigh'd, and leant 
 
 That day was the sweetest day and we knew 
 What the sweetness meant. 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
LXX. 
 
 NOVEMBER SNOW. 
 
 HE snow upon the rose-flow'r sits, 
 And whitens all the spray ; 
 Sweet Robin Redbreast o'er it flits, 
 And shakes the snow away. 
 
 The snow upon my life-bloom sits, 
 And sheds a dreary blight : 
 Thy spirit o'er my spirit flits, 
 And crimson comes for white. 
 
 EARL OF SOUTHESK. 
 
LXXI. 
 
 DA WN. 
 
 LILY, with the sun of heaven's 
 
 Prime splendour on thy breast ! 
 My scattered passions toward thee run, 
 Poising to awful rest. 
 
 The darkness of our universe 
 
 Smothered my soul in night ; 
 Thy glory shone ; whereat the curse 
 
 Passed molten into light 
 
 Raised over envy ; freed from pain ; 
 
 Beyond the storms of chance : 
 Blessed king of my own world I reign, 
 
 Controlling circumstance. 
 
 THOMAS WOOLNKR. 
 
LXXII. 
 
 THE TRYST. 
 
 LtEPING, I dreamed that thou wast mine, 
 In some ambrosial lover's shrine. 
 My lips against thy lips were pressed, 
 And all our passion was confessed ; 
 
 So near and dear my darling seemed, 
 
 I knew not that I only dreamed. 
 
 Waking, this mid and moonlight night, 
 I clasp thee close by lover's right. 
 Thou fearest not my warm embrace, 
 And yet, so like the dream thy face 
 And kisses, I but half partake 
 The joy, and know not if I wake. 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
LXX1II. 
 
 IN A GONDOLA. 
 
 SHE SINGS. 
 I. 
 
 f HE moth's kiss, first! 
 
 Kiss me as if you made believe 
 You were not sure, this eve, 
 How my face, your flower, had pursed 
 Its petals up ; so, here and there 
 You brush it, till I grow aware 
 Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. 
 
 n. 
 
 The bee's kiss, now ! 
 Kiss me as if you entered gay 
 My heart at some noonday, 
 A bud that dares not disallow 
 The claim, so all is rendered up, 
 And passively its shattered cup 
 Over your head to sleep I bow. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
LXXIV. 
 
 THE DIAL. 
 
 NLY when Summer's sun is high, 
 And the blue is broad in the summer sky, 
 The shadows on. the dial face 
 Tell of day's race. 
 
 Only when so we sit together, 
 
 And loving eyes make pleasant weather, 
 
 Live Imy soul in sunny blisses 
 
 Counts life by kisses. 
 
 EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
LXXV. 
 
 A KISS. 
 
 i. 
 WEET mouth ! Oh let me take 
 
 One draught from that delicious cup ! 
 The hot Sahara-thirst to slake 
 " That burns me up ! 
 
 n. 
 
 Sweet breath ! all flowers that are, 
 Within that darling frame must bloom ; 
 My heart revives so at the rare 
 
 Divine perfume ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Nay, 'tis a dear deceit, 
 A drunkard's cup that mouth of thine ; 
 Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet, 
 That fragrance fine ! 
 
A KISS. 115 
 
 IV. 
 
 I drank the drinlr betrayed me 
 Into a madder, fiercer fever ; 
 The scent of those love-blossoms made me 
 More faint than ever. 
 
 v. 
 
 Yet though quick death it were 
 That rich heart-vintage I must drain, 
 And quaff that hidden garden's air, 
 Again again ! 
 
 ALFRED DOMETT. 
 
LXXVI. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN FIR. 
 
 HEY sat beneath the mountain fir, 
 
 Beneath the evening, sun ; 
 With all his soul he looked at Her- 
 And so was love begun. 
 
 The tit-mice blue in fluttering flocks 
 
 Caressed the fir-tree spray ; 
 And far below, through rifted rocks, 
 
 The river went its way. 
 
 As stars in heavenly waters swim, 
 
 Her eyes of azure shone ; 
 With all her soul she looked at him 
 
 And so was love led on. 
 
 The squirrel sported on the bough, 
 
 And chuckled in his play ; 
 Above the distant mountain's brow 
 
 A golden glory lay. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN FIR. 
 
 117 
 
 The fir-tree breathed its balsam balm, 
 
 With heather scents united ; 
 The happy skies were hushed in calm 
 
 And so the troth was plighted. 
 
 EARL OF SOUTHESK. 
 
LXXVII. 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 HERE is another sweet as my sweet, 
 
 Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy ? 
 Fine little hands, fine little feet- 
 Dewy blue eye. 
 Shall I write to her ? shall I go ? 
 
 Ask her to marry me by and by ? 
 Somebody said that she'd say No ; 
 Somebody knows that she'll say Ay ! 
 
 Ay or no, if ask'd to her face ? 
 
 Ay or no, from shy of the shy ? 
 Go, little letter, apace, apace, 
 
 Fly; 
 Fly to the light in the valley below 
 
 Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye : 
 Somebody said that she'd say No ; 
 
 Somebody knows that she'll say Ay ! 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
LXXVIII. 
 
 MARRIAGE MORNING. 
 
 >IGHT, so low upon earth, 
 
 You send a flash to the sun. 
 Here is the golden close of love, 
 All my wooing is done. 
 
 Oh, the woods and the meadows, 
 Woods where we hid from the wet, 
 
 Stiles where we stay'd to be kind, 
 Meadows in which we met ! 
 
 Light, so low in the vale, 
 
 You flash and lighten afar, 
 For this is the golden morning of love, 
 
 And you are his morning star. 
 
 Flash, I am coming, I come, 
 By meadow and stile and wood ; 
 
 Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart, 
 Into my heart and my blood ! 
 
I 20 MARRIAGE MORNING. 
 
 Heart, are you great enough, 
 
 For a love that never tires ? 
 O heart, are you great enough for love ? 
 
 I have heard of thorns and briars. 
 
 Over the thorns and briars, 
 Over the meadows and stiles, 
 
 Over the world to the end of it 
 Flash for a million miles. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
LXXIX. 
 
 NE so fair none so fair. 
 
 In her eyes so true 
 Love's most inner heaven bare 
 To the balmiest blue ! 
 
 One so fair none so fair. 
 
 In the skies no Star 
 Like my Star of Earth so near 
 
 They but shine afar. 
 
 One so fair none so fair. 
 
 All too sweet it seems ; 
 Wake me not, O world of care, 
 
 If I walk in dreams. 
 
 One so fair none so fair. 
 
 O my bosom-guest, 
 Love ne'er smiled a happier pair 
 
 To the bridal-nest. 
 
122 
 
 A LOVER'S SOXG. 
 
 One so fair none so fair. 
 
 Lean to me, sweet Wife ; 
 Light will be the load we bear ; 
 
 Two hearts in one life. 
 
 GERALD MASSEY. 
 
LXXX. 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON'S ANSWER. 
 
 "g CANNOT kiss thee as I used to kiss ; 
 
 P Time, who is lord of love, must answer this. 
 
 Shall I believe thine eyes have grown less sweet? 
 
 Nay, but my life-blood fails on heavier feet. 
 Time goes, old girl, time goes. 
 
 I cannot hold as once I held thy hand ; 
 Youth is a tree whose leaves fall light as sand. 
 Hast thou known many trees that shed them so ? 
 Ay me, sweetheart, I know, ay me, I know. 
 Time goes, my bird, time goes. 
 
 I cannot love thee as I used to love. 
 Age comes, and little Love takes flight above. 
 If our eyes fail, have his the deeper glow? 
 I do not know, sweetheart, I do not know. 
 Time goes, old girl, time goes. 
 
1*4 JOHN ANDERSON'S ANSWER. 
 
 Why, the gold cloud grows leaden, as the eve 
 Deepens, and one by one its glories leave. 
 And, if you press me, dear, why this is so, 
 That this is worth a tear is all I know. 
 Time flows and .rows and goes. 
 
 In that old day the subtle child-god came; 
 Meek were his eyelids, but his eyeballs flame, 
 With sandals of desire his light feet shod, 
 With eyes and breath of fire a perfect god 
 He rose, my girl, he rose. 
 
 He went, my girl, and raised your hand and sighed, 
 " Would that my spirit always could abide." 
 And whispered " Go your ways and play your day, 
 Would I were god of time, but my brief sway 
 Is briefer than a rose." 
 
 Old wife, old love, there is a something yet 
 That makes amends, though all the glory set ; 
 The after-love that holds thee trebly mine, 
 Though thy lips fade, my dove, and we decline, 
 And time, dear heart, still goes. 
 
 HON. JOHN LEICESTER WARREN. 
 
LXXXI. 
 
 RENUNCIATION. 
 
 H no ! you shall not catch me in the snare 
 
 I will not love, I say ! 
 Life might become a terror, a despair, 
 If you were ta'en away. 
 
 Nothing is given here, 'tis only lent, 
 
 I will not, dare not, trust : 
 For joy might strike at once his heaven-built tent, 
 
 And leave me but its dust. 
 
 What horror, after all my life was given, 
 
 Adventured on one barque, 
 If that should go, even to the joy of heaven, 
 
 And I left in the dark ! 
 
 Left on a wreck of sorrow, with no power 
 
 My losses to repair ; 
 With death denied, and every torturing hour 
 
 By memory made a snare. 
 
1 26 RENUNCIA TfON. 
 
 Left with the dregs of life, its wine poured out ; 
 
 Left to the past a prey ; 
 From its sad ghosts that haunt my heart about, 
 
 Helpless to flee away. 
 
 No ! I renounce life's bliss love's perfect flower, 
 
 Sweet though it be ! I choose 
 The lower, lasting lot, and keep the power, 
 
 Without a pang, to lose. 
 
 \v. w. STORY. 
 
LXXXII. 
 
 WINDLE-STRA WS. 
 
 ERE life to la.st for ever, love, 
 
 We might go hand in hand, 
 And pause and pull the flowers that blow 
 
 In all the idle land ; 
 And we might lie in sunny fields 
 
 And while the hours away 
 With fallings-out and fallings-in 
 For half a summer day. 
 
 But since we two must sever, love, 
 
 Since some dim hour we part, 
 I have no time to give thee much 
 
 But quickly take my heart, 
 " For ever thine," and " thine my love," 
 
 O Death may come apace. 
 What more of love could life bestow, 
 
 Dearest, than this embrace ? 
 
128 IV/NDLE-STKAWS. 
 
 ii. 
 
 HK kissed me on the forehead, 
 She spake not any word, 
 The silence flowed between us, 
 And I nor spoke nor stirred. 
 
 So hopeless for my sake it was, 
 
 So full of ruth, so sweet, 
 My whole heart rose and blessed her, 
 Then died before her feet 
 
 BDWARD D0\\ 
 
LXXXIII. 
 
 BAGATELLES. 
 
 HE wanton bee that suck'd the rose 
 
 Has lured a leaf away ; 
 The love that in my bosom glows 
 Must stay, and stay, and stay. 
 
 And when the rose began to die, 
 
 The bee ran up away ; 
 But Kitty in my love shall lie 
 
 Beyond the dying day. 
 
 I'd like to be the lavender 
 
 That makes her linen sweet, 
 And swoon and sweeten in her breast, 
 
 And faint around her feet. 
 
 She'd hardly think of me at all, 
 And shake out lawn and sheet ; 
 
 And yet I'd be the lavender 
 And .make her linen sweet. 
 
 THEOPHILE MARZIALS. 
 
 I 
 
LXXXIV. 
 
 TRAGEDIES. 
 
 HE reach'd a rosebud from the tree, 
 And bit the tip and threw it by ; 
 My little rose, for you and me, 
 
 The worst is over when we die ! 
 
 For love is like the China-rose 
 That leafs so quickly from the tree ; 
 
 And life, though all the honey goes, 
 Lasts ever, like the pot pourri. 
 
 She was only a woman, famish'd for loving, 
 " Mad with devotion, and such slight things 
 And he was a very great musician, 
 And used to finger his fiddle-strings. 
 
 Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking 
 For a look, for a touch, for such slight things ; 
 
 But he's such a very great musician, 
 Grimacing and fing'ring his fiddie-strings. 
 
TRAGEDIES. 131 
 
 In the middle of my garden-bed, 
 
 There stands a tall rose-tree ; 
 1 took the stem, and shook and shook it, 
 
 Thick the flowers kept covering me. 
 
 And oh ! I said, you sweet large roses, 
 
 Red as rose can be, 
 Just drop into my bosom here, 
 
 And die along with me ! 
 
 THEOPHILE MARZIALS. 
 
I \\\\ 
 MAJOLICA AND ROCOCO. 
 
 I was by Chloe kiss'd, 
 Ceased or 'gan I to exist ? 
 If 'twas life before without her, 
 What is this to be about her ? 
 
 If angels love above in heaven, 
 Then death must be too oversweet, 
 
 For this dear love thy lips have given, 
 Has made this life, my love, replete. 
 
 The rose of her cheek may wane and die, 
 Her hair's gold fibre dull and decay ; 
 
 But love has a colour not fused to fly, 
 In the fabric that never shall wear away. 
 
 THEOPHILE MARZIALS. 
 
LXXXVI. 
 
 BABY. 
 
 HERE did you come from, baby dear? 
 Out of the everywhere into here. 
 
 Where did you get those eyes so blue ? 
 Out of the sky as I came through. 
 
 What makes the light in them sparkle and spin ? 
 Some of the starry spikes left in. 
 
 Where did you get that little tear ? 
 I found it waiting when I got here. 
 
 What makes your forehead so smooth and high ? 
 A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 
 
 What makes your cheek like a warm white rose ? 
 I saw something better than any one knows. 
 
 Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? 
 Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 
 
 Where did you get this pearly ear? 
 God spoke and it came out to hear. 
 
BABY. 
 
 Where did you get those arms and hands ? 
 Love made itself into bonds and bands. 
 
 Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ? 
 From the same box as the cherubs' wings. 
 
 How did they all just come to be you ? 
 God thought about me, and so I grew. 
 
 But how did you come to us, you dear ? 
 God thought about you, and so I am here. 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALI). 
 
LXXXVII. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 by any device or knowledge 
 
 The rosebud its beauty could know, 
 
 It would stay a rosebud for ever, 
 Nor into its fulness grow. 
 
 And if thou could'st know thy own sweetness, 
 
 O little one, perfect and sweet, 
 Thou would'st be a child for ever, 
 
 Completer whilst incomplete. 
 
 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. 
 
I XXXVIII. 
 
 PARIS A MA CON. 
 
 ^g SAW, I saw the lovely child, 
 i]< r I watched her by the way, 
 
 I learnt her gestures sweet and wild, 
 Her loving eyes and gay. 
 
 Her name ? I heard not, nay, nor care, 
 
 Enough it was for me 
 To find her innocently fair 
 
 And delicately free. 
 
 Oh cease and go ere dreams be done, 
 
 Nor trace the angel's birth, 
 Nor find the paradisal one 
 
 A blossom of the earth ! 
 
 Thus it is with our subtlest joys, 
 
 How quick the soul's alarm ! 
 How lightly deed or word destroys 
 
 That evanescent charm ! 
 
PARIS A MA CON. 
 
 137 
 
 It comes unbidden, comes unbought, 
 
 Unfettered flees away, 
 His swiftest and his sweetest thought 
 
 Can never poet say. 
 
 FREDERICK MYERS. 
 
I XXXIX. 
 
 VN'REFLECTING CHILDHOOD. 
 
 GTOT is, indeed, a little while 
 
 Since you were born, my happy pet ; 
 Your future beckons with a smile, 
 Your bygones don't exist as yet 
 Is all the world with beauty rife? 
 Are you a little bird that sings 
 Her simple gratitude for life, 
 And lovely things ? 
 
 The ocean, and the waning moons, 
 And starry skies, and starry dells, 
 And winter sport, and golden Junes, 
 . Art, and divinest Beauty-spells : 
 Festa and song, and frolic wit, 
 
 And banter, and domestic mirth, 
 They all are ours ! dear child, is it 
 A pleasant earth ? 
 
UNREFLECTING CHILDHOOD. 139 
 
 And poet friends, and poesy, 
 
 And precious books, for any mood : 
 
 And then that best of company, 
 Those graver thoughts in solitude 
 
 That hold us fast and never pall : 
 
 Then there is You, my own, my fair 
 
 And I ... soon I must leave it all, 
 And much you care. 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
xc. 
 
 NATURAE REPARATR1C1. 
 
 KAY cloud, gray veil 'twixt me and youth 
 
 And youth's unclouded weather, 
 Well mayst thou blot the golden days 
 And skies effaced for ever. 
 
 In vain the veil to silver melts, 
 And flakes of sun and shadow 
 
 Once more invite these alien steps 
 To chase them o'er the meadow. 
 
 Yet nature holds a gracious hand, 
 
 Her ancient way pursuing ; 
 And spreads the charms we loved of old, 
 
 To aid the heart's renewing. 
 
 Here her long crests of fringe' d crag 
 Allure the sky-ward swallows ; 
 
 Here the still dove's low love-note floats 
 Above her leafy hollows. 
 
NATUR/E REPARATRICI. 141 
 
 Here its calm strength her hillside rears 
 
 From heaving slopes of clover ; 
 Here still the pewit pipes and flits 
 
 Within his mrzy cover. 
 
 Here hums the wild-bee in the thyme, 
 
 Here glows the royal heather ; 
 And youth comes back upon the breeze, 
 
 And youth's unclouded weather. 
 
 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. j 
 
XCI. 
 
 FLOWEKS WITHOUT FRUIT. 
 
 RUNE thou thy words, the thoughts control 
 
 That o'er thee swell and throng ; 
 They will condense within thy soul, 
 And change to purpose strong. 
 
 But he who lets his feelings run 
 
 In soft luxurious flow, 
 Shrinks when hard service must be done, 
 
 And faints at every woe. 
 
 Faith's meanest deed more favour bears, 
 Where hearts and wills are weigh'd, 
 
 Than brightest transports, choicest prayers, 
 Which bloom their hour and fade. 
 
 * JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. 
 
XCII. 
 
 PLEASURE AND PAIN. 
 
 HO can determine the frontier of Pleasure? 
 Who can distinguish the limits of Pain ? 
 Where is the moment the feeling to 
 
 measure ? 
 Where is experience repeated again ? 
 
 Ye who have felt the delirium of passion 
 Say, can ye sever its joys and its pangs ? 
 
 Is there a power in calm contemplation 
 To indicate each upon each as it hangs ? 
 
 I would believe not ; for spirit will lanquish , 
 
 While sense is most blest and creation most bright ; 
 
 And life will be dearer and clearer in anguish 
 Than ever was felt in the throbs of delight. 
 
 See the Fakeer as he swings on his iron, 
 
 See the thin Hermit that starves in the wild ; 
 
 Think ye no pleasures the penance environ, 
 
 And hope the sole bliss by which pain is beguiled ? 
 
1 14 PLEASURE AND PAIN. 
 
 No ! in the kingdom those spirits are reaching, 
 Vain are our words the emotions to tell ; 
 
 Vain the distinctions our senses are teaching, 
 For Pain has its Heaven and Pleasure its Hell ! 
 
 RICHARD, LORD HOUGHTON. 
 
XCIII. 
 
 THE HIDDEN SELF. 
 
 *& KNOW not if a keener smart 
 
 p Can come to finer souls than his 
 
 JQ 
 
 Who hears men praise him, mind or heart, 
 For something higher than he is ; 
 
 Who fain would say : " Behold me, friends, 
 That which I am, not what you deem 
 
 A thing of low and narrow ends, 
 Sordid, not golden as I seem ; 
 
 " See here the hidden blot of shame, 
 
 The weak thought that you take for strong, 
 
 The brain too dull to merit fame, 
 The faint and imitative song \ " 
 
 But dares not, lest discovery foul 
 
 Not his name only, but degrade 
 Heights closed but to the soaring soul, 
 
 Names which scorn trembles to invade : 
 
 K 
 
1 46 THE HIDDEN SELF. 
 
 And doth his inner self conceal 
 From all men in his own despite, 
 
 Hiding what he would fain reveal, 
 And a most innocent hypocrite. 
 
 I I \\ IS MORRIS. 
 
XCIV. 
 
 GENIAL moment oft has given 
 What years of toil and pain, 
 Of long industrious toil, have striven 
 To win, and all in vain. 
 
 Yet count not, when thine end is won, 
 
 That labour merely lost ; 
 Nor say it had been wiser done 
 
 To spare the painful cost. 
 
 When heaped upon the altar lie 
 
 All things to feed the fire 
 One spark alighting from on high 
 
 The flames at once aspire ; 
 
 But those sweet gums and fragrant woods, 
 
 Its rich materials rare, 
 By tedious quest o'er lands and floods 
 
 Had first been gathered there. 
 
 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
THE TOYS. 
 
 little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes, 
 And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up 
 
 wise, 
 Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, 
 
 I struck him, and dismissed 
 
 With hard words and unkiss'd, 
 
 His Mother, who was patient, being dead. 
 
 Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, 
 
 I visited his bed, 
 
 But found him slumbering deep, 
 
 With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet 
 
 From his late sobbing wet. 
 
 And I, with moan, 
 
 Kissing away his tears, left others of my own ; 
 
 For, on a table drawn beside his head, 
 
 He had put, within his reach, 
 
 A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, 
 
 A piece of glass abraded by the beach, 
 
THh TOYS. 149. 
 
 And six or seven shells, 
 
 A bottle with bluebells 
 
 And two French copper coins, ranged there with 
 
 careful art, 
 
 To comfort his sad heart 
 So when that night I pray'd 
 To God, I wept, and said : 
 Ah, when at last we die with tranced breath, 
 Not vexing Thee in death, 
 And Thou rememberest of what toys 
 We made our joys, 
 How weakly understood, 
 Thy great commanded good, 
 Then, fatherly not less 
 
 Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, 
 Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 
 " I will be sorry for their childishness." 
 
 COVENTRY PATMORK. 
 
 ~, 
 
 
XCVI. 
 
 ZOS.S AND GAIN. 
 
 VRIAD Roses, unregretted, perish in their 
 
 vernal bloom, 
 
 That the essence of their sweetness ome 
 your beauty may perfume. 
 
 Myriad Veins of richest life-blood empty for their 
 
 priceless worth, 
 To exalt one Will imperial over spacious realms of 
 
 earth. 
 
 Myriad Hearts are pained and broken that one Poet 
 
 may be taught 
 To discern the shapes of passion and describe them 
 
 as he ought 
 
 Myriad Minds of heavenly temper pass as passes 
 
 moon or star, 
 That one philosophic Spirit may ascend the solar car. 
 
L OSS AND GAIN. 1 5 1 
 
 Sacrifice and Self-Devotion hallow earth and fill the 
 
 skies, 
 And the meanest life is sacred whence the highest 
 
 may arise. 
 
 RICHARD, LORD HOUGHTON. 
 
XCV1I. 
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 and the north-west sweeps the empty 
 
 road, 
 The rain-washed fields from hedge to hedge 
 
 are bare ; 
 
 Beneath the leafless elms some hind's abode 
 Ixx>ks small and void, and no smoke meets the air 
 From its poor hearth : one lonely rook doth dare 
 The gale, and beats above the unseen corn, 
 Then turns, and whirling down the wind is borne. 
 
 Shall it not hap that on some dawn of May 
 Thou shalt awake, and, thinking of days dead, 
 See nothing clear but this same dreary day, 
 Of all the days that have passed o'er thine head ? 
 Shalt thou not wonder, looking from thy bed, 
 Through green leaves on the windless east afire, 
 That this day too thine heart doth still desire ? 
 
FEBRUARY. 153 
 
 Shalt thou not wonder that it liveth yet, 
 
 The useless hppe, the useless craving pain, 
 
 That made thy face, that lonely noontide, wet 
 
 With more than beating of the chilly rain ? 
 
 Shalt thou not hope for joy new born again, 
 
 Since no grief ever born can ever die 
 
 Through changeless change of seasons passing by ? 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
XCVIII. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 LAYER of the winter, art thou here again ? 
 O welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh! 
 The bitter, wind makes not thy victory vain, 
 Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. 
 Welcome, O March ! whose kindly days and dry 
 Make April ready for the throstle's song, 
 Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong ! 
 
 Yea, welcome March ! and though I die ere June, 
 Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, 
 Striving to swell the burden of the tune 
 That even now I hear thy brown birds raise, 
 Unmindful of the past or coming days ; 
 Who sing : " O joy ! a new year is begun : 
 What happiness to look upon the sun ! n 
 
MARCH. 155 
 
 Ah, w,hat begetteth all this storm of bliss 
 
 But Death himself, who crying solemnly, 
 
 E'en from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness, 
 
 Bids us " Rejoice, lest treasureless ye die. 
 
 Within a little time must ye go by. 
 
 Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live 
 
 Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give." 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
XCIX. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 FAIR midspring, besung so oft and oft, 
 How can I praise thy loveliness enow ? 
 Thy sun that burns not, and thy breezes soft 
 That o'er the blossoms of the orchard blow, 
 The thousand things that 'neath the young leaves grow, 
 The hopes and chances of the growing year, 
 Winter forgotten long, and summer near. 
 
 When Summer brings, the lily and the rose, 
 She brings us fear ; her very death she brings 
 Hid in her anxious heart, the forge of woes ; 
 And, dull with fear, no more the mavis sings. 
 But thou! thou diest not, but thy fresh life clings 
 About the fainting autumn's sweet decay, 
 When in the earth the hopeful seed they lay. 
 
AP^IL. 157 
 
 Ah ! life of all the year, why yet do I 
 Amid thy snowy blossoms' fragrant drift, 
 Still long for that which never draweth nigh, 
 Striving my pleasure from my pain to sift, 
 Some weight from off my fluttering mirth to lift ? 
 Now, when far bells are ringing, " Come again, 
 Come back, past years ! why will ye pass in vain ? " 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 

 SPRIXG JS COMING. 
 
 > Y the bursting of the leaves, 
 By the lengthening of the eves, 
 
 Spring is coming ; 
 By the flowers that scent the air, 
 By the skies more blue and fair, 
 By the singing everywhere ; 
 Spring is coming. 
 
 All the woods and fields rejoice : 
 
 Spring is coming. 
 Only here and there a voice 
 Here of buds the worm has worn, 
 Here of birds whose nest is torn, 
 There *>f those whose life is pent 
 Far from pleasant sight and scent 
 Wails, as if their life's distress 
 Won a new wild bitterness ; 
 
 Spring is coming. 
 
 F. W. BOURDILLON. 
 
cr. 
 
 A SPRING EVENING. 
 
 'CROSS the glory of the evening skies 
 
 A veil is drawn of shadowed mists, that rise 
 From lavishness of God's late gift, the rain. 
 
 So after farewell said, fond memories 
 
 Of words and looks the sweetest come again 
 
 Across the glowing heart, a veil of pain. 
 
 . \v. BOUKDII.I.ON. 
 
CII. 
 
 IN SP/tfA'G. 
 
 WEET primrose-time ! when thou art here 
 
 I go by grassy ledges 
 Of long lane-side, and pasture-mead, 
 And m oss-en umgled hedges : 
 
 And all about her army gay 
 
 The primrose weather musters, 
 In single knots, and scatter'd files, 
 
 And constellated clusters. 
 
 And golden-headed children go 
 
 Among the golden blossoms, 
 And harvest a whole meadow's wealth, 
 
 Heap'd on their dainty bosoms. 
 
 Ah 1 play your play, sweet little ones, 
 
 Whose life is gladness only : 
 Nor ask an equal mirth from hearts 
 
 Which, e'en with you, are lonely. 
 
161 
 
 God to His flowers His flowers gives, 
 
 Pure happiness uncloying : 
 Whilst they, whose primrose time is past, 
 
 Enjoy in your enjoying. 
 
 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. 
 
cm. 
 
 HE year's at the spring, 
 And day's at the morn ; 
 Morning's at seven ; 
 The hill-side's dew-pearled ; 
 
 The lark's on the wing ; 
 
 The snail's on the thorn ; 
 
 God's in His heaven 
 
 All's right with the world. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
CIV. 
 
 3TgT was in the prime 
 *] p Of the sweet Spring-time. 
 In the linnet's throat 
 Trembled the love-note ; 
 And the love-stirred air 
 Thrilled the blossoms there. 
 Little shadows danced 
 
 Each a tiny elf, 
 Happy in large light 
 And the thinnest self. 
 
 It was but a minute 
 
 In a far-off Spring, 
 
 But each gentle thing, 
 Sweetly-wooing linnet, 
 Soft-thrilled hawthorn tree, 
 
 Happy shadowy elf 
 
 With the thinnest self, 
 Live still on in me. 
 Oh the sweet, sweet prime 
 Of the past Spring-time. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
cv. 
 
 A GLEE FOR WINTER. 
 
 FCE, rude Winter ! crabbed old fellow, 
 Never merry, never mellow ! 
 Well-a-day ! in rain and snow 
 What will keep one's heart aglow ? 
 
 Groups of kinsmen, old and young, 
 
 Oldest they old friends among ! 
 
 Groups of friends, so old and true, 
 
 That they seem our kinsmen too ! 
 
 These all merry all together, 
 
 Charm away chill Winter weather ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 What will kill this dull old fellow? 
 Ale that's bright, and wine that's mellow ! 
 Dear old songs for ever new ; 
 Sometimes love, and laughter too ; 
 Pleasant wit, and harmless fun, 
 And a dance when day is done ! 
 
A GLEE FOR WINTER. 
 
 165 
 
 Music-friends so true and tried 
 Whispered love by warm fireside 
 Mirth at all times all together 
 Make sweet May of Winter weather ! 
 
 ALFRED DOMETT. 
 
I \ I. 
 
 MY STAR. 
 
 that I know 
 Of a certain star 
 Is, it can throw 
 
 (Like the angled spar) 
 Now a dart of red, 
 
 Now a dart of blue ; 
 Till my friends have said 
 
 They would fain see, too, 
 My star that dartles the red and the blue! 
 Then it stops like a bird ; like a flower, hangs furled: 
 They must solace themselves with the Saturn 
 
 above it. 
 
 What matter to me if their star is a world ? 
 Mine has opened its soul to me ; therefore I love it. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
CVII. 
 
 OTp WOULD thou might'st not vex me with thine 
 Ollft 
 
 oJJb eye$> 
 
 Thou fair Ideal Beauty, nor would'st shame 
 All lower thoughts and visions as they rise, 
 As in mid-noon a flame. 
 
 For now thy presence leaves no prospect fair, 
 
 Nor joy in act, nor charm in any maid, 
 Nor end to be desired, for which men dare, 
 
 Thou making me afraid. 
 
 > 
 
 Because life seems through thee a thing too great 
 To spend on these, which else might grow to thee; 
 
 So that fast bound, I idly hesitate : 
 I prithee set me free ; 
 
 Or, hold me, if thou wilt, but come not near, 
 Let me pursue thee still in ghostly grace ; 
 
 Far off let me pursue thee, for I fear 
 To faint before thy face. 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 
cviu. 
 THE UNREALIZED IDEAL. 
 
 Y only love is always near, 
 
 In country or in town 
 I see her twinkling feet, I hear 
 The whisper of her gown. 
 
 She foots it ever fair and young, 
 Her locks are tied in haste, 
 
 And one is o'er her shoulder flung, 
 And hangs below her waist. 
 
 She ran before me in the meads ; 
 
 And down this world-worn track 
 She leads me on ; but while she leads 
 
 She never gazes back. 
 
 And yet her voice is in my dreams, 
 To witch me more and more ; 
 
 That wooing voice ! Ah me, it seems 
 Less near me than of yore. 
 
THE UNREALIZED IDEAL. 169 
 
 Lightly I sped when hope was high, 
 And youth beguiled the chase, 
 
 I follow, follow still ; but I 
 Shall never see her face. 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
en, 
 
 ARM whispering through the slender olive 
 leaves 
 
 Came to me a gentle sound, 
 Whispering of a secret found 
 In the clear sunshine 'mid the golden sheaves : 
 
 Said it was sleeping for me in the morn, 
 Called it gladness, called it joy, 
 Drew me on'* Come hither, boy " 
 
 To where the blue wings rested on the corn. 
 
 I thought the gentle sound had whispered true 
 Thought the little heaven mine, 
 Leaned to clutch the thing divine, 
 
 And saw the blue wings melt within the blue. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
ex. 
 AFTER-THO UGHT. 
 
 AN dwells apart, though not alone, 
 
 He walks among his peers unread ; 
 The best of thoughts which he hath known, 
 For lack of listeners are not said. 
 
 Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, 
 He saith, " They dwell not lone like men," 
 
 Forgetful that their sun-flecked smiles 
 Flash far beyond each other's ken. 
 
 He looks on God's eternal suns, 
 
 That sprinkle the celestial blue, 
 And saith, " Ah ! happy shining ones, 
 
 I would that men were grouped like you ! " 
 
 Yet this is sure : the loveliest star 
 That clustered with its peers we see, 
 
 Only because from us so far 
 
 Doth near its fellows seem to be. 
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 
 
CXI. 
 
 ISOLATION. 
 
 ES ! in the sea of life enisled, 
 With echoing straits between us thrown. 
 Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 
 \Ve mortal millions live alone. 
 The islands feel the enclasping flow, 
 And then their endless bounds they know. 
 
 But when the moon their billows lights, 
 And they are swept by balms of spring, 
 And in their glens, on starry nights, 
 The nightingales divinely sing ; 
 And lovely notes, from shore to shore, 
 Across the sounds and channels pour 
 
 Oh ! then a longing like despair 
 Is to their farthest caverns sent ; 
 For surely once, they feel, we were 
 Parts of a single continent ! 
 Now round us spreads the watery plain 
 Oh might our marges meet again ! 
 
ISOLATION. 173 
 
 Who order'd that their longing's fire 
 Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd ? 
 Who renders vain their deep desire ? 
 A God, a God their severance ruled ! 
 And bade betwixt their shores to be 
 The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
am, 
 
 THE SOLITUDE OF LIFE. 
 
 HEN Fancy's exhalations rise 
 From youth's delicious morn, 
 Our eyes seem made for others' eyes, 
 Spirit for spirit born : 
 
 But time the truthful faith controls, 
 
 We learn too soon, alas! 
 
 How wide the gulf between two souls, 
 
 How difficult to pass ! 
 
 In twilight and in fearfulness 
 
 We feel our path along 
 
 From heart to heart, yet none the less 
 
 Our way is often wrong. 
 
 And then new dangers must be faced, 
 
 New doubts must be dispelled, 
 
 For not one step can be retraced 
 
 That once the Past has held. 
 
THE SOLITUDE OF LIFE. 175 
 
 To some 'tis given to walk awhile 
 
 In Love's unshaded noon, 
 
 But clouds are gathering while they smile, 
 
 And night is coming soon ! 
 
 Most happy he whose journey lies 
 
 Beneath the starlight sheen 
 
 Of unregretful memories 
 
 Of glory that has been. 
 
 We live together years and years, 
 And leave unsounded still 
 Each other's springs of hopes and fears, 
 Each other's depths of will : 
 We live together day by day, 
 And some chance look or tone 
 Lights up with instantaneous ray 
 An inner world unknown. 
 
 Then wonder not that they who love 
 
 The longest and the best, 
 
 Are parted by some sudden move 
 
 Of passion or unrest : 
 
 Nor marvel that the wise and good 
 
 Should oft apart remain, 
 
 Nor dare, when once misunderstood, 
 
 To sympathise again. 
 
i;6 THE SOLITUDE OF LIFE. 
 
 Come, Death ! and match thy quiet gloom 
 
 With being's darkling strife, 
 
 Come, set beside the lonely Tomb, 
 
 The Solitude of Life ; 
 
 And henceforth none who see can fear 
 
 Thy hour, which some will crave, 
 
 Who feel their hearts, while beating here, 
 
 Already in the grave. 
 
 RICHARD, LORD HOUGIITON. 
 
CXIII. 
 
 NOT TO BE. 
 
 HE rose said, " Let but this long rain be past, 
 And I shall feel my sweetness in the sun, 
 And pour its fulness into life at last ; " 
 
 But when the rain was done, 
 But when dawn sparkled through unclouded air, 
 She was not there. 
 
 The lark said, " Let but winter be away, 
 
 And blossoms come, and light, and I will soar, 
 
 And lose the earth, and be the voice of day ;" 
 But when the snows were o'er, 
 
 But when spring broke in blueness overhead, 
 The lark was dead. 
 
 And myriad roses made the garden glow, 
 And skylarks carolled all the summer long 
 
 What lack of birds to sing and flowers to blow ? 
 Yet, ah, lost scent, lost song ! 
 
 Poor empty rose, poor lark that never trilled ! 
 Dead unfulfilled ! 
 
 AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 
 M 
 
CXIV. 
 
 OO soon so fair, fair lilies ; 
 To bloom is then to wane ; 
 The folded bud has still 
 
 To-morrows at its will, 
 Blown flowers can never blow again. 
 
 Too soon so bright, bright noontide ; 
 
 The sun that now is high 
 Will henceforth only sink 
 Towards the western brink ; 
 
 Day that's at prime begins to die. 
 
 Tqp soon so rich, ripe summer, 
 For autumn tracks thee fast ; 
 
 Lo, death-marks on the leaf! 
 
 Sweet summer, and my grief; 
 For summer come is summer past. 
 
TOO SOON SO FAIR, FAIR LILIES. 179 
 
 Too soon, too soon, lost summer ; 
 Some hours and thou art o'er. 
 
 Ah ! death is part of birth : 
 
 Summer leaves not the earth 
 But last year's summer lives no more. 
 
 AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 
 
cxv. 
 NOTHING LOST. 
 
 HERE are last year's snows, 
 Where the summer's rose, 
 Who is there who knows ? 
 
 Or the glorious note 
 Of some singer's throat 
 Heard In years remote? 
 
 Or the love they bore 
 Who, in days of yore, 
 Loved, but are no more ? 
 
 Or the faiths men knew 
 When, before mind grew, 
 All strange things seemed true ? 
 
 The snows are sweet spring rain, 
 The dead rose blooms again, 
 Young voices keep the strain. 
 
NOTHING LOST. 181 
 
 The old affection mild 
 
 Still springs up undefined 
 
 For love, and friend, and child. 
 
 The old faiths grown more wide, 
 
 Purer and glorified, 
 
 Are still our life-long guide. 
 
 Nothing that once has been, 
 Tho' ages roll between 
 And it be no more seen, 
 
 Can perish, for the Will 
 Which doth our being fulfil 
 Sustains and keeps it still. 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 
VI. 
 
 IKE knows no dead so beautiful 
 As is the white cold-coffin'd past ; 
 This I may love nor be betray'd : 
 The dead are faithful to the last. 
 
 I am not spouseless I have wed 
 
 A memory -a life that's dead. 
 
 JOAQUIN Mil I II . 
 
CXVII. 
 
 CHANGED. 
 
 ROM the outskirts of the town, 
 
 Where of old the milestone stood, 
 Now a stranger, looking down, 
 I behold the shadowy crown 
 Of the dark and haunted wood. 
 
 Is it changed, or am I changed ? 
 
 Ah, the oaks are fresh and green, 
 But the friends with whom I ranged 
 Through their thickets are estranged 
 
 By the years that intervene. 
 
 Bright as ever flows the 'sea, 
 
 Bright as ever shines the sun, 
 But, alas ! they seem to me 
 Not the sun that used to be, 
 
 Not the tides that used to run. 
 
 HENRY WADSVVORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
CXV11I. 
 
 IKE to the moan of buried rivers, 
 Heard faintly as they roam, 
 While the wild rock around them shivers 
 
 Through sheets of sunless foam ; 
 Beneath the life that weighs and presses, 
 
 With muffled undertone, 
 Throbs in the spirit's worn recesses, 
 The voice of years long flown. 
 
 If, in the tumult of existence, 
 
 It whisper soft and low, 
 Yea seem, scarce heard through depths of distance, 
 
 To melt away and go : 
 Yet oft, when stars more whitely glitter, 
 
 When moons are waning chill, 
 That tide unseen grows loud and bitter, 
 
 Tbe caverned heart to fill. 
 
LIKE TO THE MOAN OP BURIED RIVERS. 185 
 
 And, as the other night, unbroken 
 
 And starless, hangs around, 
 Old words, half thought, old thoughts, half spoken, 
 
 Pour in to swell the sound. 
 Though Death's dumb frost all else is hushing, 
 
 From that undying past, 
 The voice not lost, the stream still rushing, 
 
 Shall murmur to the last. 
 
 SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. 
 
CXIX. 
 
 LEAFLESS HOURS. 
 
 HE pale sun, through the spectral wood, 
 
 Gleams sparely, where I pass ; 
 My footstep, silent as my mood, 
 Falls in the silent grass. 
 
 Only my shadow points before me, 
 
 Where I am moving now ; 
 Only sad memories murmur o'er me 
 
 From every leafless bough : 
 And out of the nest of last year's Redbreast 
 
 Is stolen the very snow. 
 
 ROBERT, LORD LYTTON. 
 
cxx. 
 
 H roses for the flush of youth, 
 
 And laurel for the perfect prime ; 
 But pluck an ivy branch for me 
 Grown old before my time. 
 
 Oh violets for the grave of youth, 
 
 And bay for those dead ere their prime ; 
 
 Give me the withered leaves I chose 
 Before in the old time. 
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTJ. 
 
i XXI. 
 
 OR me no roseate garlands twine, ' 
 
 But wear them, Dearest, in my stead j 
 Time has a whiter hand than thine, 
 And lays it on my head. 
 
 n. 
 
 Enough to know thy place on earth 
 Is there where roses latest die ; 
 
 To know the steps of youth and mirth 
 Are thine, that pass me by. 
 
 AUBREY DE VERE. 
 SIR HENRY TAYLOR. 
 
CXXII. 
 
 Jpp BRING a garland for your head, 
 T ro Of blossoms fresh and fair, 
 
 My own hands wound their white and red 
 
 To ring about your hair ; 
 Here is a lily, here a rose, 
 A warm narcissus that scarce blows, 
 And fairer blossoms no man knows. 
 
 So crowned and chapleted with flowers, 
 
 I pray you be not proud ; 
 For after brief and summer hours 
 
 Comes autumn with a shroud ; 
 Though fragrant as a flower you lie, 
 You and your garland, by and by, 
 Will fade and wither up and die ! 
 
 EDMUND W. GOSSE. 
 
CXXIIT. 
 
 THE FALLING ROSE. 
 
 >ASS, falling rose ! 
 
 Not now the glory of the spring is round thee ; 
 Not now the air of summer round thee 
 
 blows ; 
 
 Pallid and chill the autumn's mists have found thee ; 
 Pass, falling rose ! 
 
 Pass, falling rose ! 
 Where are the songs that wooed thy glad unfolding ? 
 
 Only the south the wood-dove's soft wail knows ; 
 Far southern eaves the swallow's nest are holding ; 
 Pass, falling rose ! 
 
 Pass, 'falling rose ! 
 
 Linger the blooms to birth thy glory wooing ? 
 Linger the hues that lured thee to unclose ? 
 Long, long, their leaves the dark earth have been 
 strewing ; 
 
 Pass, falling rose ! 
 
 WILLIAM COX BENNETT. 
 
CXXIV. 
 
 THE ROSE IN OCTOBER. 
 
 LATE and sweet, too sweet, too late ! 
 What nightingale will sing to thee ? 
 The empty nest, the shivering tree, 
 The dead leaves by the garden gate, 
 And cawing crows for thee will wait, 
 O sweet and late ! 
 
 Where wert thou when the soft June nights 
 Were faint with perfume, glad with song ? 
 Where wert thou when the days were long 
 And steeped in summer's young delights ? 
 What hopest thou now but checks and slights, 
 Brief days, lone nights ? 
 
 Stay, there's a gleam of winter wheat 
 Far on the hill ; down in the woods 
 A very heaven of stillness broods ; 
 And through the mellow sun's noon heat, 
 Lo, tender pulses round thee beat, 
 O late and sweet ! 
 
 MARY TOWN LEY. 
 
cxxv. 
 
 DOVER BEACH. 
 
 )HE sea is calm to-night, 
 
 The tide is full, the moon lies fair 
 Upon the straits ; on the French coast, the 
 
 light 
 
 Gleams, and is gone ; the cliffs of England stand 
 Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 
 Come to the window, sweet is the night air ! 
 Only, from the long line of spray 
 Where the ebb meets the raoon-blanch'd sand, 
 Listen ! you hear the grating roar 
 Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 
 At their return, up the high strand, 
 Begin, and cease, and then again begin, 
 With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
 The eternal note of sadness in. 
 
 Sophocles long ago 
 
 Heard it on the ^Egaean, and it brought 
 
DOVER BEACH. 193 
 
 Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 
 Of human misery ; we 
 Find also in the sound a thought, 
 Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 
 
 The Sea of Faith 
 
 Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 
 Lay. like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd ; 
 But now I only hear 
 Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 
 Retreating to the breath 
 Of the night-wind down the vast edges drear 
 And naked shingles of the world. 
 
 Ah, love, let us be true 
 
 To one another ! for the world, which seems 
 
 To lie before us like a land of dreams, 
 
 So various, so beautiful, so new, 
 
 Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 
 
 Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain ; 
 
 And we are here as on a darkling plain 
 
 Swept with confused alarm of struggle and fight, 
 
 Where ignorant armies clash by night ! 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
BURDENS. 
 
 RE sorrows hard to bear, the ruin 
 
 Of flowers, the rotting of red fruit, 
 A love's decease, a life's undoing, 
 
 And summer slain, and song-birds mute, 
 And skies of snow and bitter air ? 
 These things, you deem, are hard to bear. 
 
 Hut ah the burden, the delight 
 Of dreadful joys ! Noon opening wide, 
 
 Golden and great ; the gulfs of night, 
 Fair deaths, and rent veils cast aside, 
 
 Strong soul to strong soul rendered up, 
 . silence filling like a cup. 
 
 EDWARD DOWDEN. 
 
CXXVII. 
 
 ON THE SHORE. 
 
 HE angry sunset fades from out the west, 
 
 A glimmering greyness creeps along the 
 
 sea; 
 Wild waves be hushed and moan into your 
 
 rest, 
 Soon will all earth be sleeping, why not ye ? 
 
 Far off the heavens deaden o'er with sleep, 
 The purple twilight darkens on the hill ; 
 
 Why will ye only ever wake and weep ? 
 I weary of your sighing, oh ! be sti'l. 
 
 But ever, ever, moan ye by the shore, 
 While all your trouble surges in my breast ; 
 
 Oh, waves of trouble surge in me no more, 
 Or be but still awhile and let me rest. 
 
 AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 
 
cxxvm. 
 
 HE waters are rising and flowing 
 
 Over the weedy stone- 
 Over it, over it going ; 
 It is never gone. 
 
 Over it joys go sweeping, 
 
 Tis there the ancient pain : 
 Yea, drowned in waves and waves of weeping, 
 
 It will rise again. 
 
 >KGE MACDON MI- 
 
CXXIX. 
 
 LIFE, O death, O world, O time, 
 O grave, where all things flow, 
 Tis yours to make our lot sublime 
 With your great weight of woe. 
 
 Though sharpest anguish hearts may wring, 
 
 Though bosoms torn may be, 
 Yet suffering is a holy thing ; 
 
 Without it what were we ? 
 
 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
cxxx. 
 OASIS. 
 
 ET them go by the heats, the doubts, the 
 
 strife; 
 
 I can sit here and care not for them now, 
 Dreaming beside the glimmering wave of life 
 Once more, I know not how. 
 
 There is a murmur in my heart, I hear 
 Faint, O so faint, some air I used to sing ; 
 It stirs my sense; and odours dim and dear 
 The meadow-breezes bring. 
 
 Just this way did the quiet twilights fade 
 Over the fields and happy homes of men, 
 While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade, 
 Ix>ng since, I know not when. 
 
 EDWARD DOWDEN. 
 
CXXXI. 
 
 THE EPICUREAN. 
 
 gently, beautiful, and calm, 
 The quiet river murmurs by ; 
 How soft the light, how full of balm, 
 The breeze that soothes the dark'ning sky! 
 
 In every clime, in every state, 
 We may be happy if we will ; 
 
 Man wrestles against iron fate, 
 And then complains of pain and ill. 
 
 The flowers, the beasts, the very heaven, 
 Calmly their destined paths pursue ; 
 
 All take the pleasures that are given, 
 We only find them short and few. 
 
 Oh that mankind, alive to truth, 
 
 Would cease a hopeless war to wage ; 
 
 Would reap in youth the joys of youth, 
 In age the peacefulness of age ! 
 
THE EPICUREAN. 
 
 Upon an everlasting tide 
 
 Into the silent seas we go ; 
 But verdure laughs along the side, 
 
 And roses on the margin blow. 
 
 Nor life, nor death, nor aught they hold, 
 Rate thou above their natural height ; 
 
 Yet learn that all our eyes behold, 
 Has value, if we mete it right 
 
 Pluck then the flowers that line the stream, 
 Instead of fighting with its power ; 
 
 Hut pluck as flowers, not gems, nor deem 
 That they will bloom beyond their hour. 
 
 Whate'er betides, from day to day, 
 
 An even pulse and spirit keep ; 
 And, like a child, worn out with play, 
 
 When wearied with existence, sleep. 
 
 SIR FRANCIS HASTING I"VI I 
 
CXXXII. 
 
 DEPARTURE. 
 
 was not like your great and gracious ways ! 
 
 Do you, that have naught other to lament, 
 
 Never, my Love, repent 
 
 Of how, that July afternoon, 
 You went, 
 
 With sudden, unintelligible phrase, 
 And frighten'd eye, 
 Upon your journey of so many days, 
 Without a single kiss or a good-bye ? 
 I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon ; 
 And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, 
 You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, 
 Your harrowing praise. 
 Well, it was well, my Wife, 
 To hear you such things speak, 
 And see your love 
 
 Make of your eyes a growing gloom of life, 
 As a warm South wind sombres a March grove. 
 And it was like your great and gracious ways 
 To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, 
 
202 DEPARTURE. 
 
 Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash 
 
 To let the laughter flash, 
 
 Whilst I drew near, 
 
 Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. 
 
 But all at once to leave me at the last, 
 
 More at the wonder than the loss aghast, 
 
 With huddled, unintelligible phrase, 
 
 And frighten'd eye, 
 
 And go your journey of all days 
 
 With not one kiss or a good-bye, 
 
 And the only loveless look the look with which you 
 
 pass'd, 
 Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways. 
 
 COVENTRY PATMORB. 
 
CXXXIII. 
 
 BEFORE SEDAN. 
 
 in this leafy place, 
 Quiet he lies, 
 Cold, with his sightless face 
 
 Turned to the skies ; 
 Tis but another dead ; 
 All you can say is said. 
 
 Carry his body hence, 
 
 Kings must have slaves ; 
 
 Kings climb to eminence 
 Over men's graves : 
 
 So this man's eye is dim ; 
 
 Throw the earth over him. 
 
 What was the white you touched, 
 
 There, at his side ? 
 Paper his hand had clutched 
 
 Tight e'er he died ; 
 Message or wish, may be ; 
 Smooth the folds out and see. 
 
20 4 BEFORE SEDAN. 
 
 Hardly the worst of us 
 
 Here could have smiled ! 
 
 Only the tremulous 
 
 Words of a child ; 
 
 Prattle, that has for stops 
 
 Just a few rudely drops. 
 
 Look. She is sad to miss, 
 Morning and night, 
 
 His her dead father's kiss ; 
 Tries to be bright, 
 
 Good to mamma, and sweet. 
 
 That is all. " Marguerite." 
 
 Ah, if beside the dead 
 Slumbered the pain ! 
 
 Ah, if the hearts that bled 
 Slept with the slain ! 
 
 If the grief died ; But no ; 
 
 Death will not have it so. 
 
 IVSTIM DOBSON, 
 
CXXXIV. 
 
 BAIRN, when I am dead, 
 
 How shall ye keep frae harm ? 
 What hand shall gie ye bread ? 
 What fire will keep ye warm ? 
 How shall ye dwell on earth awa' frae me ? "- 
 " O Mither, dinna dee!" 
 
 " O bairn, by night or day 
 
 I hear nae sounds ava', 
 
 But voices of winds that blaw, 
 And the voices of ghaists that say, 
 
 ' Come awa ! come awa ! * 
 The Lord that made the wind, and made the sea, 
 
 Is sore on my son and me, 
 And I melt in His breath like snaw."- 
 
 " O Mither, dinna dee ! " 
 
206 " O BAIKX, ir/fEX I ./.I/ DEAD" 
 
 " O bairn, it is but closing up the een, 
 
 And lying down never to rise again. 
 Many a strong man's sleeping hae I seen, 
 
 There is nae pain ! 
 I'm wean-, weary, and I scarce ken why; 
 
 My summer has gone by, 
 And sweet were sleep, but for the sake o' thee."- 
 
 " O Mither, dinna dee : " 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
cxxxv. 
 
 * 
 
 (FROM "Tis PITY SHE'S A QUEEN," A.D. 1610^, 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE 2. 
 
 The LADY MARGARET, with SUSAN and LUCY ; LADY 
 M. at her embroidery frame, singing. 
 
 IRLS, when I am gone away, 
 
 On this bosom strew 
 Only flowers meek and pale, 
 And the yew. 
 
 Lay these hands down by my side, 
 
 Let my face be bare ; 
 Bind a kerchief round the face, 
 
 Smooth my hair. 
 
 Let my bier be borne at dawn, 
 Summer grows so sweet, 
 
 Deep into the forest green 
 Where boughs meet. 
 
GSA'LS, irHEN 1 AM GONE A\\ 
 
 Then pass away, and let me lie 
 
 One long, warm, sweet day 
 There alone with face upturn'd, 
 
 One sweet t; 
 
 When the morning light grows broad, 
 
 While noon sleepeth sound, 
 While the evening falls and faints, 
 
 While the world goes round. 
 
 i i. \\.\RI. IM.WIH-.X. 
 
CXXXVI. 
 
 fASSING away, saith the World, passing away : 
 Chances, beauty and youth sapped day by 
 day : 
 
 Thy life never continueth in one stay. 
 Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to 
 
 grey 
 
 That hath won neither laurel nor bay ? 
 I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May ; 
 Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay 
 On my bosom for aye. 
 Then I answered : Yea. 
 
 Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away : 
 
 With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play ; 
 
 Hearken what the past doth witness and say : 
 
 Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array, 
 
 A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay. 
 
 At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain 
 
 day 
 
 Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay : 
 Watch thou and pray. 
 Then I answered : Yea. 
 
2io PASSING AWAY, 
 
 v 
 
 Passing away, saith my God, passing away : 
 Winter passeth after the long delay : 
 New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray, 
 Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May. 
 Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray, 
 Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day. 
 My Love, My Sister, My Spouse, thou shah hear me 
 
 say. 
 Then I answered : Yea. 
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 
 
CXXXV1I. 
 
 >USH off the boat, 
 Quit, quit the shore, 
 
 The stars will guide us back : 
 O gathering cloud, 
 O wide, wide sea, 
 
 O waves that keep no track ! 
 
 On through the pines ! 
 The pillared woods, 
 
 Where silence breathes sweet breath : 
 O labyrinth, 
 
 O sunless gloom, 
 
 The other side of death ! 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
i XXXVIII. 
 
 "THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY:' 
 
 lOULD we but know 
 
 The land that ends our dark, uncer- 
 tain travel, 
 
 Where lie those happier hills and meadows low, 
 Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil, 
 
 ht of that country could we surely know, 
 Who would not go ? 
 
 Might we but hear 
 The hovering angels' high imagined chorus, 
 
 Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear, 
 One radiant vista of the realm before us, 
 With one rapt moment given to see and hear, 
 Ah, who would fear ? 
 
 Were we quite sure 
 
 To find the peerless friend who left us lonely, 
 
 Or there, by some celestial stream as pure, 
 
 To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only, 
 
 This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure, 
 
 Who would endure ? 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
CXXX1X. 
 
 NOT YET. 
 
 ^OTyet, not yet, the light; 
 
 Underground, out of sight, 
 
 Like moles, we blindly toil. 
 On, though we know not where ; 
 Some day the upper air, 
 The sun, and all things fair, 
 
 We reach through the dark soil. 
 
 BEATRIX TOLLEMACHE. 
 
CXL. 
 
 BY.AND-BY. 
 
 >AITING, waiting. Tis so far 
 
 To the day that is to come : 
 One by one the days that are 
 
 All to tell their countless sum ; 
 Each to dawn and each to die 
 What so far as by-and-by ? 
 
 Waiting, waiting. 'Tis not ours 
 
 This to-day that flies so fast : 
 l^et them go, the shadowy hours 
 
 Floating, floated, into Past 
 Our day wears to-morrow's sky, 
 What so near as by-and-by ? 
 
 AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 
 
CXLI. 
 
 AFTER. 
 
 LITTLE time for laughter, 
 A little time to sing, 
 A little time to kiss and cling, 
 And no more kissing after. 
 
 A little while for scheming 
 Love's unperfected schemes ; 
 A little time for golden dreams, 
 
 Then no more any dreaming. 
 
 A little while 'twas given 
 
 To me to have thy love ; 
 
 Now, like a ghost, alone I move 
 About a ruined heaven. 
 
 A little time for speaking, 
 
 Things sweet to say and hear ; 
 A time to seek, and find thee near, 
 
 Then no more any seeking. 
 
216 AF7EK. 
 
 A little time for saying 
 
 Words the heart breaks to say, 
 
 A short, sharp time wherein to pray, 
 
 Then no more need for praying ; 
 
 But long, long years to weep in, 
 And comprehend the whole 
 Great grief that desolates the soul, 
 
 And eternity to sleep in. 
 
 HULIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
CXLII. 
 
 THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS. 
 
 THE SICK MAN. 
 
 PRING, art thou come, O Spring ! 
 
 I am too sick for words ; 
 How hast thou heart to sing, 
 O Spring, with all thy birds ? 
 
 THE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 I sing for joy to see again 
 
 The merry leaves along the lane, 
 
 The little bud grown ripe ; 
 And look, my love upon the bough ! 
 Hark, how she calleth to me now, 
 " Pipe ! Pipe ! " 
 
 THE SICK MAN. 
 
 Ah ! weary is the sun ; 
 
 Love is an idle thing : 
 But, Bird, thou restless one, 
 
 What ails thee, wandering ? 
 
THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS. 
 
 THE SWALLOW. 
 
 Hy shore and sea I come and go, 
 To seek I know not what and lo ! 
 
 On no man's eaves I sit 
 Hut voices bid me rise once more, 
 To flit again by sea and shore, 
 " Flit ! Flit ! " 
 
 THE SICK MAN. 
 
 This is Earth's bitter cup : 
 
 Only to seek, not know. 
 IJut Thou, that strivest up, 
 
 Why dost thou carol so ? 
 
 THE LARK. 
 
 A secret Spirit gifteth me 
 
 With song, and wing that lifteth me, 
 
 A Spirit for whose sake, 
 Striving amain to reach the sky, 
 Still to the old dark earth I cry 
 -Wake! Wake!" 
 
 THE SICK MAN. 
 
 My hope hath lost its wing. 
 
 Thou, that to Night dost call, 
 How hast thou heart to sing, 
 
 Thy tears made musical ? 
 
THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS. 219 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Alas for me ! a dry desire 
 Is all my song, a waste of fire 
 That will not fade or fail ; 
 To me, dim shapes of ancient crime 
 Moan through the windy ways of Time, 
 "Wail"! wail!" 
 
 THE SICK MAN. 
 
 Thine is the sick man's song, 
 
 Mournful, in sooth, and fit ; 
 Unrest that cries " How long ? " 
 
 And the Night answers it 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 
CXLIII. 
 
 REST. 
 
 \ \ KN the tumult of day is done, 
 
 And the winds are at rest, 
 When the glory is all but gone 
 In the wonderful west. 
 
 Why, heart, is thy trouble so deep ? 
 
 Why, spirit, thy care? 
 Full soon thou shalt quieter sleep 
 
 Than the quietest there. 
 
 JAMES RHOADES. 
 
CXLIV. 
 
 A VOICE FROM AFAR. 
 
 >EEP not for me : 
 
 Be blithe as wont, nor tinge 
 
 with gloom 
 The stream of love that circles home, 
 
 Light hearts and free ! 
 Joy in the gifts Heaven's bounty lends ; 
 Nor miss my face, dear friends ! 
 
 I still am near ; 
 
 Watching the smiles I prized on earth, 
 Your converse mild, your blameless mirth ; 
 
 Now too I hear 
 
 Of whisper'd sounds the tale complete, 
 Low prayers, and musings sweet. 
 
222 A VOICE FROM AFAK. 
 
 A sea before 
 
 The throne is spread ; its pure still glass 
 Pictures all earth-scenes as they pass. 
 
 We on its shore, 
 Share, in the bosom of our rest, 
 God's knowledge, and are blest. 
 
 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. 
 
CXLV. 
 
 HE world is great : the birds all fly from me, 
 The stars are golden fruit upon a tree 
 All out of reach : my little sister went, 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 The world is great : I tried to mount the hill 
 Above the pines, where the light lies so still, 
 But it rose higher : little Lisa went, 
 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 The world is great : the wind comes rushing by, 
 I wonder where it comes from ; sea-birds cry 
 And hurt my heart : my little sister went, 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 The world is great : the people laugh and talk, 
 And make loud holiday : how fast they walk ! 
 I'm lame, they push me : little Lisa went, 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
CXI.VI. 
 
 GfgF but thy heart were stone 
 
 Strong stone or steel 
 ( ^ It never had made this moan, 
 
 It never had learnt to feel. 
 
 The storm should never have swept 
 
 Over the place of- its rest ; 
 It never had listened and leapt 
 
 At the cry of a life opprest. 
 
 1 1 had never been shaken and torn 
 At the sight of a loved one's pain ; 
 
 It had never stood still, forlorn, 
 At the thought " Is there meeting again ? " 
 
 It had stood by itself secure, 
 
 Bound round and beneath and above, 
 Fenced from the plaint of the poor, 
 
 And free from the fires of love. 
 
IF BUT THY HEART WERE STONE. 225 
 
 Thou hadst smiled in god-like mirth, 
 
 Thou hadst lived serene, alone, 
 Thou hadst lived a lord of earth, 
 
 If but thy heart were stone. 
 
 ERNEST MYERS. 
 
CXLVII. 
 
 THE SEA-LIMITS. 
 
 [ONSIDER the sea's listless chime; 
 Tune's self it is, inaudible, 
 The murmur of the earth's own shell. 
 Secret continuance sublime 
 
 Is the sea's end : our sight may pass 
 No furlong further. Since time was, 
 This sound hath told the lapse of time. 
 
 No quiet, which is death's, it hath 
 
 The mournfulness of ancient life, 
 
 Enduring always at dull strife. 
 As the world's heart of rest and wrath, 
 
 Its painful pulse is in the sands. 
 
 Last utterly, the whole sky stands, 
 Grey and not known, along its path. 
 
 Listen alone beside the sea, 
 
 Listen alone among the woods ; 
 Those voices of twin's solitudes 
 
 Shall have one sound alike to thee : 
 
THE SEA-LIMITS. 227 
 
 Hark ! where the murmurs of thronged men 
 Surge and smile back, and surge again, 
 Still the one voice of wave and tree. 
 
 Gather a shell from the strown beach 
 
 And listen at its lips : they sigh 
 
 The same desire and mystery, 
 The echo of the whole sea's speech. 
 
 And all mankind is thus at heart 
 
 Not anything but what thou art : 
 And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
CXLV111. 
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 IOLETS, shy violets ! 
 
 How many hearts with thee compare ! 
 Who hide themselves in thickest green, 
 
 And thence unseen, 
 Ravish the enraptured air 
 With sweetness, dewy fresh and rare ! 
 
 Violets, shy violets ! 
 
 Human hearts to me shall be 
 Viewless violets in the grass, 
 And as I pass, 
 Odours and sweet imagery 
 Will wait on mine and gladden me ! 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH. 
 
CXLIX. 
 
 THE APOLOGY. 
 
 HINK me not unkind and rude 
 
 That I walk alone in grove and glen ; 
 I go to the god of the wood 
 To fetch his word to men. 
 
 Tax not my sloth that I 
 
 Fold my arms beside the brook ; 
 Each cloud that floated in the sky 
 
 Writes a letter in my book. 
 
 Chide me not, laborious band, 
 For the idle flowers I brought ; 
 
 Every aster in my hand 
 
 Goes home loaded with a thought. 
 
 There was never mystery 
 
 But 'tis figured in the flowers ; 
 Was never secret history 
 
 But birds tell it in the bowers. 
 
230 
 
 THE APOLOGY. 
 
 One harvest in thy field 
 
 Homeward brought the oxen strong ; 
 A second crop thine acres yield, 
 
 Which I gather in a song. 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
CL. 
 
 LENVOL 
 
 >pg HOLD within my hand a lute, 
 
 \ p A lute that hath not many strings. 
 
 A little bird above it sings, 
 
 And singing soars and claps its wings ; 
 Sing, little bird ; when thou art mute, 
 The music dies within my lute. 
 
 Sing on, thou little bird, until 
 
 I hear a voice expected long, 
 
 That bids an after-silence fill 
 
 The space that once was filled with song. 
 
 Then fold thy wings upon my breast, 
 
 Upon my heart, and give it rest 
 
 DORA GREENWELL. 
 
BOOK II. 
 
 o n n e t 0. 
 
CLI. 
 
 THE SINGER'S PLEA. 
 
 >HY do I sing ? I know not why, my friend ; 
 The ancient rivers, rivers of renown, 
 A royal largess to the sea roll down, 
 And on those liberal highways nations send 
 Their tributes to the world, stored corn and wine, 
 Gold-dust, the wealth of pearls, and orient spar, 
 And myrrh, and ivory, and cinnabar, 
 And dyes to make a presence-chamber shine. 
 But in the woodlands, where the wild flowers are, 
 The rivulets, they must have their innocent will 
 Who all the summer hours are singing still ; 
 The birds care for them, and sometimes a star, 
 And should a tired child rest beside the stream, 
 Sweet memories would slide into his dream. 
 
 EDWARD DOWDEN. 
 
CLII. 
 
 WAKSPEARE. 
 
 THERS abide our question Thou art free ! 
 We ask and ask Thou smilest and art still, 
 Out-topping knowledge ! So some sovran hill 
 Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, 
 
 Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 
 Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, 
 Spares but the border, often, of his base 
 To the foil'd searching of mortality ; 
 
 And thou, whose head did stars and sunbeams know, 
 Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, 
 Didst walk on earth unguess'd at. Better so ! 
 
 All pains the immortal spirit must endure, 
 
 All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, 
 
 Find their sole voice in that victorious brow. 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
CLIII. 
 
 LETTTS GLOBE. 
 
 'HEN Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad 
 
 year, 
 
 And her young artless words began to flow, 
 One day we gave the child a colour'd 
 
 sphere 
 
 Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know 
 By tint and outline all its sea and land. 
 She patted all the world ; old empires peep'd 
 Between her baby-fingers ; her soft hand 
 Was welcome at all frontiers ; how she leap'd, 
 And laugh'd, and prattled in her pride of bliss ! 
 But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye 
 On our own isle, she rais'd a joyous cry, 
 " Oh yes ! I see it, Letty's home is there ! " 
 And while she hid all England with a kiss, 
 Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. 
 
 CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER. 
 
CL1V. 
 
 LOVE THE MUSICIAN. 
 
 OVE is the Minstrel ; for in God's own sight, 
 The master of all melody, he stands, 
 And holds a golden rebeck in his hands, 
 And leads the chorus of the saints in light ; 
 But ever and anon those chambers bright 
 
 Detain him not, for down to these low lands 
 He flies, and spreads his musical commands, 
 And teaches men some fresh divine delight 
 For with his bow he strikes a single chord 
 Across a soul, and wakes in it desire 
 To grow more pure and lovely, and aspire 
 To that ethereal country where, outpoured 
 From myriad stars that stand before the Lord, 
 Love's harmonies are like a flame of fire. 
 
 EDMUND W. GOSSE. 
 
CLV. 
 
 LOVE PASSING. 
 
 H wherefore ever onward, Love ! Oh why 
 Not rest with me awhile, and bid me take 
 Thine own sweet flowers that everywhere grow 
 
 high* 
 
 In meadows glorious made by that deep lake, 
 Reflecting clear the heaven of thy sweet grace : . 
 Teach me, O Love, to pluck these flowers of thine, 
 Give me to see and know thy blessed face, 
 That everlasting wisdom may be mine : 
 I feel the charm of sweetest misery, 
 I know the mountain-land of quick extremes, 
 Thick flowers and deepest snows I also see, 
 I feel great sorrow mix with brightest dreams : 
 Sweet Love ! Oh rush not thus so quickly by, 
 But live with me that joy may never die. 
 
 j. w. INCHBOLD. 
 
 
 5b%s&, 
 
 . _-., 
 
cm. 
 LOVE'S QUEST. 
 
 >OVE walks with weary feet the upward way, 
 Love without joy and led by suffering ; 
 Love's unkissed lips have now no song to 
 
 sing, 
 
 Love's eyes are blind and cannot see the day. 
 Love walks in utter darkness, and I say : 
 
 "Oh, Love, 'tis summer;" or, "Behold the spring;" 
 Or, " Love, 'tis autumn, and leaves withering ; " 
 And " Now it is the winter bleak and gray ; " 
 And still Love heedeth not. " Oh, Love," I cry, 
 
 " Wilt thou not rest ? *the path is over steep : " 
 Love answers not, but passeth all things by ; 
 
 Nor will he stay, for those who laugh or weep. 
 I follow Love who follows Grief ; but lo, 
 Where the way ends, not Love himself can know. 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
CLVII. 
 
 LOVE'S ANSWER. 
 
 Gfg SAID to Love, " Lo one thing troubles me ! 
 3 P How shall I show the way in which I love ? 
 
 Is any word, or look, or kiss enough 
 To show to her my love's extremity ? 
 What is there I can say, or do, that she 
 
 May know the strength and utter depth thereof? 
 For words are weak, such love as mine to prove, 
 
 Though I should pour them forth unceasingly." 
 Then fell Love's smile upon me as he said, 
 
 " Thou art a child in love, not knowing this ; 
 
 That could she know thy love by word or kiss, 
 Or gauge it by its show, 'twere all but dead : 
 
 For not by bounds, but shoreless distances, 
 Full knowledge of the sea is compassed." 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
CLVIII. 
 
 WINGED HOURS. 
 
 ACH hour until we meet is as a bird 
 
 That wings from far his gradual way along 
 The rustling covert of my soul, his song 
 
 Still loudlier trilled through leaves more deeply 
 stirrM. 
 
 But at the hour of meeting, a clear word 
 
 Is every note he sings, in Love's own tongue ; 
 Yet, Love, thou know'st the sweet strain suffers 
 wrong, 
 
 Through our contending kisses oft unheard. 
 
 What of that hour at last, when for her sake 
 No wing may fly to me nor song may flow ; 
 When, wandering round my life unleaved, I know 
 
 The blooded feathers scattered in the brake, 
 
 And think how she, far from me, with like eyes 
 Sees through the tuneful bough the wingless 
 skies? 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTf. 
 
CLIX. 
 
 BROKEN MUSIC. 
 
 >HE mother will not turn, who thinks she hears 
 Her nursling's speech first grow articulate ; 
 But breathless with averted eyes elate 
 She sits, with open lips and open ears, 
 That it may call her twice. 'Mid doubts and fears 
 Thus oft my soul has hearkened ; till the song, 
 A central moan for days, at length found tongue. 
 ( And the sweet music welled and the sweet tears. 
 
 But now, whatever while the soul is fain 
 To list that wonted murmur, as it were 
 
 The speech-bound sea-shell's low importunate strain, 
 No breath of song, thy voice alone is there, 
 
 Oh bitterly beloved ! and all her gain 
 
 Is but the pang of unpermitted prayer. 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
CLX. 
 
 NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 HAT spirit moves the quiring nightingales 
 To utter forth their notes so soft and clear ? 
 What purport hath their music, which pre- 
 vails 
 
 At midnight, thrilling all the darkened air ? 
 'Tis said, some weeks before the hen-birds land 
 Upon our shores, their tuneful mates appear ; 
 And, in that space, by hope and sorrow spann'd, 
 Their sweetest melodies 'tis ours to hear ; 
 And is it so ? for solace till they meet, 
 Does this most perfect chorus charm the grove ? 
 Do these wild voices, round me and above, 
 Of amorous forethought and condolence treat ? 
 Well may such lays be sweetest of the sweet, 
 That aim to fill the intervals of Love ! 
 
 CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER. 
 
And 
 And 
 
 Till 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 LILITH. 
 (FOR A PICTURE.) 
 
 F Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told 
 
 (The witch he loved before the gift of Eve), 
 That, ere the snake's, her sweet tongue 
 
 could deceive, 
 
 her enchanted hair was the first gold, 
 still she sits, young, while the earth is old, 
 And, subtly of herself contemplative, 
 Draws men to watch the bright web she can 
 
 weave, 
 heart and body and life are in its hold. 
 
 The rose and poppy are her flowers ; for where 
 Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent 
 
 And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare ? 
 
 Lo ! as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went 
 Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck 
 bent, 
 
 And round his heart one strangling golden hair. 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
CLXII. 
 
 LOVE-SWEETNESS. , 
 
 VVEET dimness of her loosened hair's downfall 
 About thy face ; her sweet hands round thy 
 
 head 
 
 In gracious fostering union garlanded; 
 Her tremulous smiles ; her glances' sweet recall 
 Of love ; her murmuring sighs memorial ; 
 
 Her mouth's culled sweetness by thy kisses shed 
 On cheeks and neck and eyelids, and so led 
 Hack to her mouth which answers there for all ; 
 
 What sweeter than these things, except the thing 
 
 In lacking which all these would lose their 
 
 sweet : 
 
 The confident heart's still fervour ; the swift beat 
 And soft subsidence of the spirit's wing, 
 Then when it feels, in cloud-girt wayfaring, 
 
 The breath of kindred plumes against its feet ? 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
CLXIII. 
 
 THE BRIDESMAID. 
 
 BRIDESMAID, ere the happy knot was tied, 
 Thine eyes so wept that they could scarcely 
 
 see; 
 Thy sister smiled and said, " No tears for 
 
 me ! 
 
 A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride." 
 And then, the couple standing side by side, 
 
 Love lighted down between them full of glee, 
 And over his left shoulder laugh'd at thee, 
 "O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride." 
 And all at once a pleasant truth 1 learn'd, 
 
 For while the tender service made thee weep, 
 I loved thee for the tear thou couldst not hide, 
 And prest thy hand, and knew the press return'd, 
 
 And thought, " My life is sick of single sleep ; 
 O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride ! " 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
CLXIV. 
 
 SPXING LOVE. 
 
 |ROM morn to evening, this day, yesterday, 
 We've walked within the garden'd paths 
 
 of love, 
 Till the moon rose the darkening woods 
 
 above : 
 
 We've seen the blossoming apple's crimson spray, 
 And watched the hiving bees work lustily, 
 
 As if their time was short as it was sweet : 
 Along love's meadow-lands too, with glad feet, 
 We've welcomed all the wild flowers come with May* 
 
 Bend thy sweet head ; I've strung this long woodbine 
 With primroses and cowslips golden fringe 
 
 For golden hair, the flowers that best express 
 The opening of'the year, the mild sunshine, 
 
 And the frank clearness of those thoughtless eyes, 
 Through which there gleams scarce-trusted 
 blessedness. 
 
 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
CLXV. 
 
 WHY. 
 
 >HY do I love thee ? " Thus, in earnest wise, 
 I answer : Sweet ! I love thee for thy 
 
 face 
 
 Of rarest beauty ; and for every grace 
 That in thy voice and air and motion lies ; 
 I love thee for the love-look in thine eyes, 
 The melting glance which only one may see 
 Of all who mark how beautiful they be ; 
 I love thee for thy mind (which yet denies, 
 For modesty, how wonderful it is 1) 
 
 I love thee for thy heart so true and warm, 
 I love thee for thy bosom's hidden charm ; 
 I love thee for thy mouth so sweet to kiss ; 
 Because of these I love thee ; yet above 
 All else, because I cannot choose but love ! 
 
 JOHN GODFREY SAXK. 
 
 V 
 
CI XVI. 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 think of thee ! it was thy fond request 
 When yesterweek we parted Ah ! how well 
 I heed thy bidding only Love may tell 
 Beneath his roses. As, for welcome rest, 
 The bird, wing-weary, seeks her downy nest, 
 So oft, dear heart ! from toil and care I flee, 
 And, nestling in my happy thought of thee, 
 With sweet repose my weary soul is blest 
 To think of thee who evermore art near 
 My conscious spirit, like the halo spread 
 In altar-pictures round some stately head, 
 As 'twere of Heaven the golden atmosphere 
 What can I else, until in death I sink, 
 And, thinking of my darling, cease to think ? 
 
 JOHN GODFREY SA$E. 
 
CLXVII. 
 
 'ET not our lips pronounce the word Farewell 
 To those we cherish ; if one needs must part, 
 On hope's illusion let the fancy dwell, 
 Nor deem that distance can make cold the 
 
 heart ! 
 
 Though I should look threugh sorrow's dim eclipse, 
 And print warm partings on the loved one's lips 
 To speak the last sad word my tongue were dumb ; 
 Or, if it syllabled my soul's emotion, 
 'Twould be to tell how pilgrim steps have come 
 To worship at the shrine of love's devotion ! 
 So be the language of despair unspoken 
 By those whose hearts, nor time, nor space can sever 
 A fountain seal'd till hope be lost for ever, 
 And only gushing when the heart is broken. 
 
 JAMES HEDDERWICK. 
 
CLXVIII. 
 
 Gfg WOULD not have this perfect love of ours 
 *j P Grow from a single root, a single stem, 
 Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers 
 That idly hide life's iron diadem : 
 It should grow alway like that eastern tree 
 Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly ; 
 That love for one, from which there doth not spring 
 Wide love for all, is but a Worthless thing. 
 Not in another world, as poets prate, 
 Dwell we apart above the tide of things, 
 High floating o'er earth's clouds our faery wings : 
 But our pure love doth ever elevate 
 Into a holy bond of brotherhood 
 All earthly things, making them pure and good. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
CLXIX. 
 
 UR love is not a fading, earthly flower : 
 Its winged seed dropped down from Paradise, 
 And, nursed by day and night, by sun and 
 
 shower, 
 
 Doth momently to fresher beauty rise : 
 To us the leafless autumn is not bare, 
 Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green. 
 Our summer hearts make summer's fulness, where 
 No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be seen : 
 For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie, 
 Love, whose forgetfulness is beauty's death, 
 Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I 
 Into the infinite freedom openeth, 
 And makes the body's dark and narrow grate 
 The wide-flung leaves of Heaven's palace-gate. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
CLXX. 
 
 AFTER DEATH. 
 
 'HE curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept 
 And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may 
 Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, 
 Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept 
 He leaned above me, thinking that I slept 
 
 And could not hear him ; but I heard him say : 
 " Poor child, poor child ! " and as he turned away 
 Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept 
 He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold 
 That hid my face, or take my hand in his, 
 
 Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head : 
 He did not love me living ; but once dead 
 He pitied me ; and very sweet it is 
 To know he still is warm, though I am cold. 
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 
 
CLXXI. 
 
 LOVE, TIME, AND DEATH. 
 
 H me, dread friends of mine, Love, Time, 
 
 and Death : 
 
 Sweet Love, who came to me on sheeny wing, 
 And gave her to my arms her lips, her breath, 
 
 And all her golden ringlets clustering : 
 And Time, who gathers in the flying years, 
 
 He gave me all, but where is all he gave ? 
 He took my love and left me barren tears, 
 
 Weary and lone I follow to the grave. 
 There Death will end this vision half divine, 
 
 Wan Death, who waits in shadow evermore, 
 And silent, ere he gave the sudden sign ; 
 
 Oh, gently lead me thro' thy narrow door, 
 Thou gentle Death, thou trustiest friend of mine 
 
 Ah me, for Love will Death my love restore ? 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
CLXXIL 
 
 HOARDED JOY. 
 
 Gpg SAID : " Nay, pluck not, let the first fruit be j 
 
 ^j p Even as thou sayest, it is sweet and red, 
 
 But let it ripen still The tree's bent head 
 Sees in the stream its own fecundity 
 
 And bides the day of fulness. Shall not we 
 
 At the sun's hour that day possess the shade, 
 And claim our fruit before its ripeness fade, 
 
 And eat it from the branch and praise the tree ? " 
 
 I say : " Alas ! our fruit hath wooed the sun 
 
 Too long, 'tis fallen and floats adown the stream. 
 
 Lo, the last clusters ! Pluck them every one, 
 And let us sup with summer ; ere the gleam 
 
 Of autumn set the year's pent sorrow free, 
 
 And the woods wail like echoes from the sea." 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
CLXXIII. 
 
 RURAL NATURE. 
 
 'HERE art thou loveliest, O Nature, tell ! 
 
 Oh where may be thy Paradise? Where 
 
 grow 
 
 Thy happiest groves ? And down what woody dell 
 Do thy most fancy-winning waters flow? 
 Tell where thy softest breezes longest blow ? 
 And where thy ever blissful mountains swell 
 
 Upon whose sides the cloudless sun may throw 
 Eternal summer, while the air may quell 
 
 His fury. Is it 'neath his morning car, 
 
 Where jewelPd palaces, and golden thrones, 
 Have aw'd the eastern nations through all time ? 
 
 Or o'er the western seas, or where afar 
 
 Our winter sun warms up the southern zones 
 With summer ? Where can be the happy climes ? 
 
 WILLIAM BARNES. 
 R 
 
CLXXIV. 
 
 HEN man alone, or leagued in governments, 
 The works of Christian duty would fulfil, 
 His faltering steps defeat his anxious will. 
 As heights attain'd reveal but fresh ascents : 
 How poor his efforts to his high intents ! 
 Fain would he uproot every human ill ; 
 But fields neglected open to him still, 
 And woe on woe its piteous tale presents. 
 Nature alone succeeds in all she tries : 
 She drops her dews, and not a flower is miss'd ; 
 She bids the universal grass arise, 
 Till stony ways and wilds antagonist 
 Are into emerald beauty softly kiss'd, 
 To show the power in gentleness that lies. 
 
 JAMES HEDDF.RWICK. 
 
CLXXV. 
 
 *HERE never yet was flower fair in vain, 
 Let classic poets rhyme it as they will : 
 The seasons toil that it may blow again, 
 And summer's heart -doth feel its every ill ; 
 Nor is a true soul ever born for naught ; 
 Wherever any such hath lived and died, 
 There hath been something for true freedom wrought, 
 Some bulwark levelled on the evil side : 
 Toil on, then, Greatness ! thou art in the right, 
 However narrow souls may call thee wrong ; 
 Be as thou wouldst be in thine own clear sight 
 And so thou wilt in all the world's ere long ; 
 For worldlings cannot, struggle as they may, 
 From man's great soul one great thought hide away. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
CLXXYI. 
 
 GTOT may be that our homeward longings made 
 3 te That other lands were judged with partial eyes ; 
 But fairer in my sight the mottled skies, 
 With pleasant interchange of sun and shade, 
 And more desired the meadow and deep glade 
 Of sylvan England, green with frequent showers, 
 Than all the beauty which the vaunted bowers 
 Of the parched South have in mine eyes displayed ; 
 Fairer and more desired ! this well might be, 
 For let the South have beauty's utmost dower 
 And yet my heart might well have turned to thee, 
 My home, my country, when a delicate flower 
 Within thy pleasant borders was for me 
 Tended, and growing up thro' sun and shower. 
 
 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
CLXXVII. 
 
 GpjO SAW in dream where met proud rivers twain 
 ~J p From the East and West one without storm 
 
 or stain, 
 
 Clear-eyed and paved with crystal, as to glass 
 The merest speck that in the air might pass 
 Above it ; the other, from remoter springs, 
 Soil'd with long travel and passionate outgoings, 
 Full-vein'd and swoll'n with ore from the iron rock, 
 Impetuous sped to meet it : at the shock 
 Earth reeled, and heaven grew dark with sudden gloam 
 Above the unpenetrable spray. What wonder, 
 If men's eyes, baffled by the blinding foam, 
 Saw not beyond, where, 'scaped the smoke and thunder, 
 Through prosperous fields, bright blazon'd fold on fold, 
 One clear strong stream their glorious course they hold. 
 
 JAMES RHOADES. 
 
CLXXVIII. 
 
 BELOW THE OLD HOUSE. 
 
 ENEATH those buttressed walls with lichen 
 
 grey, 
 Beneath the slopes of trees whose flickering 
 
 shade 
 
 Darkens the pools by dun green velveted, 
 The stream leaps like a living thing at play, 
 In haste it seems; it cannot, cannot stay ! 
 
 The great boughs changing there from year to 
 
 year, 
 
 And the high jackdaw-haunted eaves, still hear 
 The burden of the rivulet, Passing away ! 
 
 And sometime certainly that oak no more 
 
 Will keep the winds in check ; his breadth of 
 beam 
 
BE LOW THE OLD HOUSE. 
 
 Will go to rib some ship for some far shore ; 
 
 Those coigns and eaves will crumble, while that 
 
 stream 
 
 Will still run whispering, whispering night and day, 
 That over-song of Father Time, Passing away ! 
 
 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
CLXXIX. 
 
 PROJECTED SHADOWS. 
 
 H, memory ! ah, ruthless memory ! 
 
 Shall I not have one hour unfilFd for thee ? 
 Why wilt thou thus usurp the days to be> 
 Unsatisfied with all thy realms that lie 
 Behind the Present ? why o'ercloud the sky, 
 Glad with gold star-scripts of Futurity ? 
 Hast thou not made the fleeting hours for me 
 Sunless enough, that thou must flicker by 
 
 The shrouding years, and hovering on the verge 
 Of my horizon's blue, blot out the forms 
 Of all my pleasant creatures of delight, 
 Won with much wrestling from the haggard 
 
 night, 
 And in their stead paint up a sky of storms 
 
 And the stern Fury sworded with the scourge ? 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 
CLXXX. 
 
 [OUNT each affliction, whether light or grave, 
 God's messenger sent down to thee ; do thou 
 With courtesy receive him ; rise and bow ; 
 And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave 
 
 Permission first his heavenly feet to lave ; 
 
 Then lay before him all thou hast ; allow 
 
 No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, 
 
 Or mar thy hospitality ; no wave 
 
 Of mortal tumult to obliterate 
 
 The soul's marmoreal calmness : Grief should be 
 
 Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate ; 
 
 Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free ; 
 
 Strong to consume small troubles ; to commend 
 
 Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the 
 end. 
 
 AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
.XXI. 
 
 LESSED is he who hath not trod the ways 
 Of secular delights, nor learned the lore 
 Which loftier minds are studious to abhor : 
 Blessed is he who hath not sought the praise 
 That perishes, the rapture that betrays ; 
 Who hath not spent in Time's vainglorious war 
 His youth ; and found, a schoolboy at fourscore, 
 How fatal are those victories which raise 
 Their iron trophies to a temple's height 
 On trampled Justice ; who desires not bliss, 
 But peace ; and yet when summoned to the fight, 
 Combats as one who combats in the sight 
 Of God and of His Angels, seeking this 
 Alone, how best to glorify the right 
 
 AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
CLXXXII. 
 
 NOW OR WHEN. 
 
 N the tall buttress of a Minster gray, 
 
 The glorious work of long-forgotten men, 
 I read this Dial-legend, " Now or When." 
 Well had these builders used their little day 
 Of service witness this sublime display 
 
 Of blossom'd stone, dazzling the gazer's ken. 
 These towers attest they knew 'twas there and then, 
 Not some vague morrow, they must work and pray. 
 Oh ! let us seize this transitory Now 
 
 From which to build a life-work that shall last : 
 In humble prayer and worship let us bow 
 
 Ere fleeting opportunity is past 
 When once Life's sun forsakes the Dial-plate, 
 For work and for repentance 'tis too late ! 
 
 RICHARD WILTON. 
 
CLXXXIII. 
 
 THE HAWTHORN AND THE WILD 
 ROSE. 
 
 LEARNT a lesson from the flowers to-day : 
 
 As o'er the fading hawthorn-blooms I sighed, 
 Whose petals fair lay scattered far and wide, 
 
 Lo, suddenly upon a dancing spray 
 I saw the first wild roses clustered gay. 
 
 What though the smile I loved, so soon had died 
 
 From one sweet flower there, shining at its side, 
 The blushing Rose surpassed the snowy May. 
 So, if as Life glides on, we miss some flowers 
 
 Which once shed light and fragrance on our way, 
 Yet still the kindly-compensating hours 
 
 Weave us fresh wreaths in beautiful array ; 
 
 And long as in the paths of peace we stay, 
 Successive benedictions shall be ours ! 
 
 RICHARD WILTON. 
 
CLXXXIV. 
 
 THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 
 
 'HE sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, 
 
 And round the pebbly beaches far and wide 
 I heard the first wave of the rising tide 
 Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep ; 
 A voice out of the silence of the deep, 
 A sound mysteriously multiplied 
 As of a cataract from the mountain's side, 
 Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep. 
 So comes to us at times, from the unknown 
 And inaccessible solitudes of being, 
 The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul ; 
 And inspirations, that we deem our own, 
 
 Are one divine foreshadowing and foreseeing 
 Of things beyond our reason and control. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
XXV. 
 
 <Tg ASK not for those thoughts, that sudden leap 
 ^ jo From being's sea, like the isle-seeming Kraken, 
 ^^ With whose great rise the ocean all is shaken 
 
 And a heart-tremble quivers through the deep ; 
 Give roe that growth which some perchance deem sleep, 
 Wherewith the steadfast coral-stems uprise, 
 Which, by the toil of gathering energies, 
 Their upward way into clear sunshine keep, 
 Until, by Heaven's sweetest influences, 
 Slowly and slowly spreads a speck of green 
 Into a pleasant island in the seas, 
 Where, 'mid tall palms, the cane-roofed home is seen, 
 And wearied men shall sit at sunset's hour, 
 Hearing the leaves and loving God's dear power. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL 'I/WELL. 
 
CLXXXVI. 
 
 GRIEVE not that ripe Knowledge takes away 
 The charm that Nature to my childhood wore, 
 For, with that insight, cometh, day by day, 
 A greater bliss than wonder was before ; 
 The real doth not clip the poet's wing, 
 To win the secret of a weed's plain heart 
 Reveals some clew to spiritual things, 
 And stumbling guess becomes firm-footed art : 
 Flowers are not flowers unto the poet's eyes, 
 Their beauty thrills him by an inward sense ; 
 He knows that outward seemings are but lies, 
 Or, at the most, but earthly shadows, whence 
 The soul that looks within for truth may guess 
 The presence of some wondrous heavenjiness. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
CLXXXVII. 
 
 TO HELEN. 
 
 MOMENTARY wish passed through my 
 
 brain, 
 
 To be the monarch of some magic place, 
 Thick-sown with burning gems, or to con- 
 strain 
 
 The uncouth help of some half-demon race, 
 Vexing the pearl-paved billows of the main 
 For thee, and starry caverns in far space. 
 It was a wish unwisely formed, and vain ; 
 
 Even in the humblest trifles, love can trace 
 That which no mine can give, no Geni's wing 
 From depths beneath or heights above can bring ; 
 The memories of each kind look and tone, 
 Gestures, and glancing smiles, into the gift 
 Pass like a living spirit, and uplift 
 Its value, to the level of their own. 
 
 SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOVI.i 
 
CLXXXVIII. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 ,OW Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, 
 And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, 
 And night by night the monitory blast 
 Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd 
 O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, 
 
 Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is felt 
 Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 
 
 Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. 
 Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, 
 Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise 
 The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes, 
 It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave 
 To walk with memory, when distant lies 
 Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve* 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGIIAM. 
 
CLXXXIX. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 r , thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath : 
 When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, 
 And suns grow meek, and the meek suns 
 
 grow brief, 
 
 And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 
 Wind of the sunny south ! oh, still delay 
 In the gay woods and in the golden air, 
 Like to a good old age released from care, 
 Journeying, in long serenity, away. 
 In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 
 
 Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and 
 
 brooks, 
 
 And, dearer yet, the sunshine of soft looks, 
 And music of kind voices ever nigh ; 
 And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, 
 Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
cxc. 
 WORLDLY PLACE. 
 
 VEN in a palace, life may be led well ! 
 So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men, 
 Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den 
 Of common life,\vhere, crowded up pell-mell, 
 
 Our freedom for a little bread we sell, 
 And drudge under some foolish master's ken, 
 Who rates us, if we peer outside our pen 
 Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell ? 
 
 Even in a palace I On his truth sincere, 
 
 Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came ; 
 
 And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame 
 
 Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, 
 
 I'll stop, and say : " There were no succour here ! 
 
 The aids to noble life are all within." 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
CXCI. 
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH 
 THE KID. 
 
 ^E saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save! 
 So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side 
 Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried : 
 " Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, 
 
 Who sins, once wash'd by the baptismal wave !" 
 So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sigh'd, 
 The infant Church ! of love she felt the tide 
 Stream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave. 
 
 And then she smil'd ; and in the Catacombs, 
 With eye suffused but heart inspired true, 
 On those walls subterranean, where she hid 
 
 Her head in ignominy, death, and tombs, 
 She her Good Shepherd's hasty image drew 
 And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid. 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
CXCII. 
 
 EAST LONDON. 
 
 'WAS August, and the fierce sun overhead 
 Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal 
 
 Green, 
 And the pale weaver, through his window 
 
 seen 
 In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited ; 
 
 I met a preacher there I knew, and said : 
 " 111 and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene? " 
 " Bravely ! " said he ; " for I of late have been 
 Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the Hring 
 bread." 
 
 O human soul ! as long as thou canst so 
 Set up a mark of everlasting light, 
 Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, 
 
 To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam, 
 Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night ! 
 Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home. 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
CXCIH. 
 
 THE BETTER PART. 
 
 ONG fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, 
 How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare ! 
 " Christ," some one says, " was human as we 
 
 are. 
 
 No judge eyes us from Heaven, our sin ^to 
 scan. 
 
 We live no more, when we have done our span." 
 Well, then, for Christ," thou answerest, " who can 
 
 care? 
 
 From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear ? 
 Live we like brutes our life without a plan ! " 
 
 So answerest thou ; but why not rather say : 
 
 " Hath man no second life ? Pitch this one high I 
 
 Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see?-r- 
 
 More strictly, then, the inward judge obey! 
 Was Christ a man like us ? Ah ! let us try 
 If we then, too, can be such men as He / " 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
CXCIV. 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 IL'D by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn, 
 We leave the brutal world to take its way, 
 And, Patience I in another life, we say, 
 The world shall be thrust down, and i 
 up-borne ! 
 
 And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn 
 The world's poor, routed leavings ? or will they, 
 Who faiFd under the heat of this life's day, 
 Support the fervours of the heavenly morn ? 
 
 No, no ! the energy of life may be 
 Kept on after the grave, but not begun ! 
 And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife, 
 
 From strength to strength advancing only he, 
 His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, 
 Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
cxcv. 
 DEVELOPMENT IN NATURE. 
 
 iLLED up in sense we know no general plan : 
 .-Kons long past creative power went on, 
 Evolving lights and forces round the 
 
 throne, 
 
 And in the ordered nucleus of The plan 
 Blossomed and brightened the umbrageous span 
 Of this our world, beneath the Fates' fell care, 
 The Tree of Life outspreading everywhere, 
 And seedling fruits from short-lived blooms began. 
 
 Have these old mysteries ceased ? from fiery steeps, 
 From deepening swamps the mute snake writhed 
 along; 
 
 Anon the bird screamed then the furred beast creeps 
 Growling ; then Adam speaks erect and strong. 
 
 Shall there not rise again from Nature's deeps 
 One more, whose voice shall be the perfect song ? 
 
 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
CXCVI. 
 
 SCIENCE ABORTIVE. 
 
 ITH what vain speculations do we slake 
 
 The mental thirst ! What matter, cycles 
 
 hence, 
 
 If Higher Creatures at mankind's expense 
 Start into life with senses broad awake 
 To truths we only dream of; hands to shake 
 The pillars of the temple we but grope 
 Feebly about, who will gain entrance, cope 
 With the daemon, and all prison -fetters break ? 
 
 The churchyard dust a thousand times blown wide 
 Would see them, hear them not ; the question men 
 Ten hundred various creeds and gods have raised 
 
 To answer, by Death's door we must abide ; 
 Blinded by life itself, by fears half-crazed, 
 We raise another god and ask again ! 
 
 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
CXCVII. 
 
 SELF-DECEPTION. 
 
 ^HERE'S a Seer's peak on Ararat, they say, 
 From which we can descry the better 
 
 world ; 
 Not that supernal kingdom whence were 
 
 hurled 
 
 The rebel-angels ere Creation's day, 
 But Eden-garden, Adam's first array, 
 
 Round which the Flood-waves stood back like a 
 
 wall. 
 
 And whither still are sent the souls of all 
 The good dead, where the cherubim sing and play. 
 
 Dear lovely land we wait for and desire, 
 
 Whence fondly-loved lost faces look back still, 
 
 Waiting for us, so distant and apart ; 
 But from the depths between what mists aspire 
 What wrinkled sea rolls severing hill from hill 
 Vision ! 'tis but the reflex of the heart ! 
 
 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
CXCVIII. 
 
 PAST AND FUTURE. 
 
 JAIR garden, where the man and woman dwelt, 
 And lov'd, and work'd, and where, in work's 
 
 reprieve, 
 
 The sabbath of each day, the restful eve, 
 They sat in silence, with lock'd hands, and felt 
 The voice which compass' d them, a-near, a-far, 
 
 Which murmured in the fountains and the breeze, 
 Which breathed in spices from the laden trees, . 
 And sent a silvery shout from each lone star. 
 Sweet dream of Paradise ! and if a dream, 
 
 One that has help'd us when our faith was weak ; 
 We wake, and still it holds us, but would seem 
 
 Before us, not behind, the good we seek, 
 The good from lowest root which waxes ever, 
 The golden age of science and endeavour. 
 
 EMILY PFEIFFER. 
 
FAITH. 
 
 >LLOW Me," Jesus said ; and they uprose, 
 Peter and Andrew rose and followed Him, 
 Followed Him even to heaven through 
 
 death most grim, 
 
 And through a long hard life without repose, 
 Save in the grand ideal of its close. 
 
 Take up your cross and come with Me," He 
 
 said; 
 
 And the world listens yet through all her dead, 
 And still would answer had we faith like those. 
 
 But who can light again such beacon-fire ! 
 With gladsome haste and with rejoicing souls 
 
 How would men gird themselves for the emprise ? 
 Leaving their black boats by the dead lake's mire, 
 leaving their slimy nets by the cold shoals, 
 Leaving their old oars, nor once turn their eyes. 
 
 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
cc. 
 
 THE FOOTPRINTS. 
 
 JOME to green under-glooms, and in your hair 
 Weave night-shade, foxglove red, and rank 
 
 wolf's-bane ; 
 And slumber and forget Him ; if in vain 
 Ye try to slumber off your sorrow there, 
 Arise once more and openly repair 
 
 To busy haunts where men and women sigh, 
 And if all things but echo back your care, 
 
 Cry out aloud, " There is no God ! " and die. 
 But if upon a day when all is dark, 
 Thou, stooping in the public ways, shalt mark 
 
 Strange luminous footprints as of feet that shine, 
 Follow them ! follow them ! O soul bereaven ! 
 God had a Son, He hath passed that way to heaven ; 
 
 Follow and look upon that Face divine ! 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 is!) (Examples 
 
 OF 
 
 JFrcnrf) JFonns of Fcrsr. 
 
CCI. 
 
 [TRIOLET.] 
 
 HEN first we met we did not guess 
 
 That Love would prove so hard a master; 
 Of more than common friendliness 
 When first we met we did not guess. 
 Who could foretell this sore distress, 
 
 This irretrievable disaster, 
 When first we met ? We did not guess 
 That Love would prove so hard a master. 
 
 ROBERT BRIDGES. 
 
ecu. 
 
 A KISS. 
 [TRIOLET.] 
 
 OSE kissed me to-day. 
 
 Will she kiss me to-morrow ? 
 Let it be as it may, 
 Rose kissed me to-day. 
 But the pleasure gives way 
 To a savour of sorrow ; 
 Rose kissed me to-day, 
 WWshc kiss me to-morrow? 
 
 AUSTIN DpBSON. 
 
CCIII. 
 
 [RONDEL.] 
 
 ISS me, sweetheart ; the Spring is here, 
 And Love is Lord of you and me ! 
 The blue-bells beckon each passing bee ; 
 The wild wood laughs to the flowered year 
 There is no bird in brake or brere, 
 
 But to his little mate sings he, 
 " Kiss me, sweetheart ; the Spring is here, 
 And Love is Lord of you and me ! " 
 
 The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear ; 
 The missel-thrush upon the tree 
 Pipes for sheer gladness, loud and free ; 
 
 And I go singing to my dear, 
 
 " Kiss me, sweetheart ; the Spring is here, 
 And Love is Lord of you and me ! " 
 
 JOHN PA\ 
 
CCIV. 
 
 [RONDEAU."] 
 
 ( IS poisoned shafts, that fresh he dips 
 In juice of plants that no bee sips, 
 
 He takes, and with his bow renown'd, 
 Goes out upon his hunting ground, 
 Hanging his quiver at his hips. 
 
 He draws them one by one, and clips 
 Their heads between his finger tips, 
 And looses with a twanging sound 
 HisjXMSoned shafts. 
 
 But if a maiden with her lips 
 
 Suck from the wound the blood that drips, 
 
 And drink the poison from the wound, 
 
 The simple remedy is found 
 That of their deadly terror strips 
 His poisoned shafts. 
 
 ROBERT BRIDGES. 
 
ccv. 
 
 [RONDEAU.] 
 
 ITH pipe and flute the rustic Pan 
 Of old made music sweet for man ; 
 And wonder hushed the warbling bird, 
 And closer drew the calm-eyed herd, 
 The rolling river slowlier ran. 
 
 Ah ! would, ah ! would, a little span, 
 Some air of Arcady could fan 
 
 This age of ours, too seldom stirred 
 With pipe and flute ! 
 
 But now for gold we plot and plan ; 
 
 And from Beersheba unto Dan, 
 
 Apollo's self might pass unheard, 
 
 Or find the night-jar's note preferred. . . 
 
 Not so it fared, when time began, 
 
 With pipe and flute ! 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 
ccvi. 
 [RONDEAU.] 
 
 Love should faint, and half decline 
 Below the fit meridian sign, 
 
 And, shorn of all his golden dress, 
 His regal state and loveliness, 
 Be no more worth a heart like thine, 
 
 Let not thy nobler passion pine, 
 But, with a charity divine, 
 
 Let Memory ply her soft address 
 If Love should faint. 
 
 And oh ! this laggard soul of mine, 
 Like some halt pilgrim stirred with wine, 
 
 Shall ache in pity's dear distress 
 
 Until the balms of thy caress 
 To work the finished cure combine, 
 If Love should faint. 
 
 EDMUND W. GOSSE. 
 
CCVII. 
 
 [RONDEAU.] 
 
 IFE lapses by for you and me ; 
 Our sweet days pass us by and flee ; 
 And evermore death draws us nigh ; 
 The blue fades fast out of our sky ; 
 The ripple ceases from our sea. 
 
 What would we not give, you and I, 
 The early sweet of life to buy ! 
 
 Alas ! sweetheart, that cannot we : 
 Life lapses by. 
 
 But though our young years burie'd lie, 
 Shall Love with Spring and Summer die ? 
 
 What if the roses faded be ? 
 
 We in each other's eyes will see 
 New Springs, nor question how or why 
 Life lapses by. 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 
ccvui. 
 
 THE COQUETTE. 
 [RONDEAU,] 
 
 >HIS pirate bold upon Love's sea 
 Will let no passing heart go free ; 
 
 No barque by those bright eyes espied 
 May sail away o'er life's blue tide 
 Till all its treasure yielded be. 
 
 Her craft, the Conquest, waits for thee 
 Where her swift rapine none may see ; 
 From shadowy coves on thee will glide 
 This pirate bold. 
 
 Yet thou, if thou her power wouldst flee, 
 
 Go, feign thyself love's refugee, 
 
 And crave sweet shelter ; she'll deride 
 Thy piteous suit with scornful pride ; 
 
 And thou, thou shalt escape in glee 
 This pirate bold! 
 
 SAMUEL WADDINGTON. 
 
CCIX. 
 
 CARPE DIEM. 
 
 [RONDEAU.] 
 
 O-DAY, what is there in the air 
 That makes December seem sweet May? 
 There are no swallows anywhere, 
 Nor crocuses to crown your hair, 
 And hail you down my garden way. 
 
 Last night the full moon's frozen stare 
 Struck me, perhaps ; or did you say 
 Really, you'd come, sweet friend and fair, 
 
 To-day ? 
 
 To-day is here ; come, crown to-day 
 
 With Spring's delight or Spring's despair ! 
 Love cannot bide old Time's delay 
 Down my glad gardens light winds play, 
 And my whole life shall bloom and bear 
 
 To-day. 
 
 THEOPHILE MARZIALS. 
 
ccx. 
 [RONDEAU REDOUBLE.] 
 
 Y day and night are in my lady's hand ; 
 >have no other sunrise than her sight ; 
 For me her favour glorifies the land ; 
 Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. 
 
 Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, 
 When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand ; 
 
 Whilst she is kind, I know of no affright ; 
 My day and night are in my lady's hand. 
 
 All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned ; 
 Her smile is softer than the Summer night, 
 
 Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand ; 
 I have no other sunrise than her sight. 
 
 Her silver speech is like the singing flight 
 Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand ; 
 
 Her kiss, a dream of delicate delight; 
 For me, her favour glorifies the land. 
 
RONDEAU REDOUBLE. 299 
 
 What if the Winter chase the Summer bland ! 
 The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright. 
 
 If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned ; 
 Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. 
 
 Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight, 
 And in her service every ill withstand ; 
 
 Love is my Lord in all the world's despite, 
 And holdeth in the hollow of his hand 
 My day and night. 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 
CCXI. 
 
 [RONDEAU REDOUBLE,] 
 
 |Y soul is sick of nightingale and rose, 
 
 The perfume and the darkness of the 
 
 grove; 
 
 I weary of the fevers and the throes, 
 And all the enervating dreams of love. 
 
 At morn I love to hear the lark, and rove 
 The meadows, where the simple daisy shows 
 
 Her guiltless bosom to the skies above 
 My soul is sick of nightingale and rose. 
 
 The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose, 
 But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move. 
 
 I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze, 
 The perfume and the darkness of the grove. 
 
 I love to hear at eve the gentle dove 
 Contented coo the day's delightful close. 
 
 She sings of joy and all the calm thereof, 
 I wear)' of the fevers and the throes. 
 
K ONDEA U RED O UBLE. 30 1 
 
 I love the night who like a mother throws 
 Her arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs 
 that strove, 
 
 As kind as Death, that puts an end to woes 
 And all the enervating dreams of Love. 
 
 Because my soul is sick of fancies wove 
 Of fervid ecstacies and crimson glows, 
 
 Because the taste of cinnamon and clove 
 Palls on my palate let no man suppose 
 My soul is sick. 
 
 W. COSMO MONKHOl >1 . 
 
CCXII. 
 
 [KYRIELLE.] 
 
 LARK, in the mesh of the tangled vine, 
 A bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine, 
 A fly in the sunshine, such is man. 
 All things must end, as all began. 
 
 A little pain, a little pleasure, 
 A little heaping up of treasure, 
 Then no more gazing upon the sun. 
 All things must end that have begun 
 
 Where is the time for hope or doubt 
 A puff of the wind, and life is out. 
 A turn of the wheel, and rest is won. 
 All things must end that have begun. 
 
 Golden morning and purple night, 
 Life that fails with the failing light ! 
 Death is the only deathless one. 
 All things must end that have begun. 
 
RYRIELLE. 303 
 
 Ending waits on the brief beginning ; 
 Is the prize worth the stress of winning ? 
 E'en in the dawning the day is done. 
 All things must end that have begun. 
 
 Weary waiting and weary striving, 
 Glad outsetting and sad arriving ; 
 What is it worth when the goal is won? 
 All things must end that have begun. 
 
 Speedily fades the morning glitter ; 
 Love grows irksome and wine grows bitter. 
 Two are parted from what was one. 
 All things must end that have begun. 
 
 Toil and pain and the evening rest ; 
 Joy is weary and sleep is best ; 
 Fair and softly the day is done. 
 All things must end that have begun. 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 
CVXIII. 
 
 SPXIXG SADNESS.. 
 
 [VIRELAI ] 
 
 >S I sat sorrowing 
 
 Love came and bade me sing 
 
 A joyous song and meet ; 
 For see (said he) each thing 
 Is merry for the Spring, 
 
 And every bird doth greet 
 The' break of blossoming, 
 That all the woodlands ring 
 
 Unto the young hours' feet. 
 
 Wherefore put off defeat, 
 And rouse thee to repeat 
 
 The chime of merles that go, 
 With flutings shrill and sweet, 
 In every green retreat, 
 
 The tune of streams that flow 
 And mark the fair hours' beat, 
 With running ripples fleet 
 
 And breezes soft and low. 
 
VIRELAL 305 
 
 For who should have, I trow, 
 Such joyance in the glow 
 
 And pleasance of the May, 
 In all sweet bells that blow, 
 In death of Winter's woe 
 
 And birth of Springtide gay, 
 When in woodwalk and row 
 Hand-linked the lovers go, 
 
 As he to whom alway 
 
 God giveth day by day 
 To set to roundelay 
 
 Life's sad and sunny hours, 
 To weave into a lay 
 Life's golden years and gray, 
 
 Its sweet and bitter flowers, 
 To sweep, with hands that stray 
 In many a devious way, 
 
 Its harp of sun and showers ? 
 
 Nor in this life of ours, 
 Whereon the sky oft lowers, 
 
 Is any lovelier thing 
 Than in the wild wood bowers 
 The cloud of green that towers, 
 
 The blithe birds welcoming 
 The vivid vernal hours 
 Among the painted flowers 
 
 And all the pomp of Spring. 
 
 u 
 
506 I'lRELAL 
 
 True, Life is on the wing, 
 And all the birds that sing, 
 
 And all the flowers that be 
 Amid the glow and ring, 
 The pomp and glittering 
 
 Of Spring's sweet pageantry, 
 Have here small sojourning, 
 And all our sweet hours bring 
 
 Death nearer, as they flee. 
 
 Yet this thing learn of me : 
 The sweet hours fair and free 
 
 That we have had of yore, 
 The fair things we did see, 
 The linked melody 
 
 Of waves upon the shore 
 That rippled in their glee, 
 Are not lost utterly, 
 
 Though they return no more. 
 
 But in the true heart's core 
 Thought treasures evermore 
 
 The tune of birds and breeze ; 
 And there the slow years store 
 The flowers our dead Springs wore 
 
 And scent of blossomed leas : 
 There murmur o'er and o'er 
 The sound of woodlands hoar 
 
 With newly burgeoned trees. 
 
VIRELAL 307 
 
 So for the sad soul's ease 
 Remembrance treasures these 
 
 Against Time's harvesting, 
 That so, when mild Death frees 
 The soul from Life's disease 
 
 Of strife and sorrowing, 
 In glass of memories 
 The new hope looks and sees 
 
 Through Death a brighter Spring. 
 
 JOHN PAYNE 
 
\IV. 
 
 [VILLA NELLE.] 
 
 HEN I saw you last, Rose, 
 
 You were only so high ;- 
 How fast the time goes ! 
 
 Like a bud ere it blows, 
 
 You just peeped at the sky 
 When I saw you last, Rose ! 
 
 Now your petals unclose, 
 
 Now your May-time is nigh ; 
 How fast the time goes ! 
 
 You would prattle your woes, 
 
 All the wherefore and wjiy, 
 When I saw you last, Rose ! 
 
 Now you leave me to prose, 
 
 And you seldom reply ; 
 How fast the time goes ! 
 
VILLANELLE. 309 
 
 And a life, how it grows ! 
 
 You were scarcely so shy 
 When I saw you last, Rose ! 
 
 In your bosom it shows 
 
 There's a guest on the sly ; 
 (How fast the time goes !) 
 
 Is it Cupid? Who knows ! 
 
 Yet you used not to sigh 
 When I saw you last, Rose ! 
 How fast the time goes ! 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 
ccxv. 
 
 [VILLANELLE.] 
 
 SUMMER-TIME, so passing sweet, 
 
 But heavy with the breath of flowers, 
 But languid with the fervent heat, 
 
 They chide amiss who call thee fleet, 
 
 Thee, with thy weight of daylight hours, 
 O Summer-time, so passing sweet ! 
 
 Young Summer, thou art too replete, 
 
 Too rich in choice of joys and powers, 
 But languid with the fervent heat. 
 
 Adieu ! my face is set to meet 
 
 Bleak Winter, with his pallid showers 
 O Summer-time, so passing^ sweet ! 
 
 Old Winter steps with swifter feet, 
 
 He lingers not in wayside bowers, 
 He is not languid with the heat ; 
 
VILLANELLE. 
 
 His rounded day, a pearl complete, 
 
 Gleams on the unknown night that lowers ; 
 O Summer-time, so passing sweet, 
 But languid with the fervent heat ! 
 
 EMILY PFEIFFER. 
 
CCXVL 
 
 [VILLANELLE.] 
 
 OULDST thou not be content to die 
 
 When low-hung fruit is hardly 
 
 clinging, 
 And golden Autumn passes by ? 
 
 If we could vanish, thou and I, 
 
 While the last woodland bird is singing, 
 Wouldst thou not be content to die ? 
 
 Deep drifts of leaves in the forest lie, 
 
 Red vintage that the frost is flinging, 
 And golden Autumn passes by. 
 
 Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky, 
 
 While sunset bells are faintly ringing, 
 Wouldst thou not be content to die ? 
 
 For wintry webs of mist on high 
 
 Out of the muffled earth are springing, 
 And golden Autumn passes by. 
 
VILLANELLE. 313 
 
 O now when pleasures fade and fly, 
 
 And Hope her southward flight is winging, 
 Wouldst thou not be content to die? 
 
 Lest Winter come, with wailing cry, 
 His cruel icy bondage bringing, 
 When golden Autumn hath passed by, 
 
 And thou with many a tear and sigh, 
 
 While Life her wasted hands is wringing, 
 Shalt pray in vain for leave to die 
 When golden Autumn hath passed by. 
 
 KDMUNU W. GOSSE. 
 
CCXVII. 
 
 [VILLANF.LLF.] 
 
 HE air is white with snow-flakes clinging ; 
 
 Between the gusts that come and go, 
 Methinks I hear the woodlark singing ; 
 
 Methinks I see the primrose springing 
 
 On many a bank and hedge, although 
 The air is white with snowflakes clinging. 
 
 Surely, the hands of Spring are flinging 
 
 Woodscents to all the winds that blow ; 
 Methinks I hear the woodlark singing; 
 
 Methinks I see the swallow winging 
 
 Across the woodlands sad with snow ; 
 The air is white with snowflakes clinging. 
 
 Was that the cuckoo's woodchime swinging ? 
 
 Was that the linnet fluting low ? 
 Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 
 
VILLANELLE. 31 5 
 
 Or can it be the breeze is bringing 
 
 The breath of violets ? Ah no ! 
 The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. 
 
 It is my lady's voice that's stringing 
 
 Its beads of gold to song and so 
 Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 
 
 The violets I see upspringing 
 
 Are in my lady's eyes, I trow : 
 The air is white with snow flakes clinging. 
 
 Dear, while thy tender tones are ringing, 
 
 Even though amidst the winter's woe 
 The air is white with snow-flakes clinging, 
 Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 
 
 JOHN PAYNE, 
 
CCXV1II. 
 
 THE PRODIGALS. 
 
 [BALLADE.] 
 
 CRINGES! and you, most valorous, 
 
 Nobles and barons of all degrees ! 
 Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, 
 Prodigals driven of destinies ! s - 
 Nothing we ask or of gold or fees : 
 Harry us not with the hounds we pray ; 
 
 Lo, for the surcote's hem we seize, 
 Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday." 
 
 'Dames most delicate, amorous ! 
 
 Damosels blithe as the belted bees ! 
 Beggars are we that pray thee thus, - 
 
 Beggars outworn of miseries ! 
 
 Nothing we ask of the things that please*; 
 Weary are we, and old, and gray ; 
 
 Lo, for we clutch and we clasp your knees,- 
 Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday ! " 
 
BALLADE. 317 
 
 "Damosels Dames, be piteous ! " 
 
 (But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) 
 "Hear us, O Knights, magnanimous! " 
 
 (But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.) 
 
 Nothing they gat of hope or ease, 
 But only to beat on the breast and say : 
 
 " Life we drank to the dregs and lees ; 
 Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday ! " 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Youth, take heed to the prayer of these ! 
 Many there be by the dusty way, 
 
 Many that cry to the rocks and seas 
 "Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday !" 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 
CCXIX. 
 
 [BALLADE.) 
 
 >HAT do we here who with reverted eyes 
 Turn back our longing from the modern 
 
 air 
 
 To the dim gold of long-evanished skies, 
 When other songs in other mouths were fair ? 
 Why do we stay the load of life to bear, 
 To measure still the weary worldly ways, 
 Waiting upon the still-recurring sun, 
 That ushers in another waste of days, 
 Of roseless Junes and unenchanted Mays, 
 Why but because our task is yet undone ? 
 
 n. 
 
 Were it not thus, could but our high emprise 
 Be once fulfilled, which of us would forbear 
 
 To seek that haven where contentment lies ? 
 
 Who would not doff at once life's load of care 
 To be at peace among the silence there ? 
 
BALLADE. 319 
 
 Ah, who alas ? Across the heat and haze 
 
 Death beckons to us in the shadow dun 
 
 Favouring and fair " My rest is sweet," he says : 
 
 But we, reluctantly, avert our gaze, 
 
 Why but because our task is yet undone ? 
 
 in. 
 Songs have we sung, and many melodies 
 
 Have from our lips had issue rich and rare : 
 But never yet the conquering chant did rise, 
 
 That should ascend the veiy heaven's stair, 
 
 To rescue life from anguish and despair. 
 Often and again, drunk with delight of lays, 
 
 " Lo ! " have we cried, " this is the golden one 
 That shall deliver us ! " Alas ! Hope's rays 
 Die in the distance, and Life's sadness stays, 
 
 Why but because our task is yet undone ? 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Great God of Love, thou whom all poets praise, 
 Grant that the aim of rest for us be won ; 
 
 Let the light shine upon our life that strays 
 
 Disconsolate within the desert maze ; 
 
 Why but because our task is yet undone ? 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 
DC, 
 
 THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND 
 RHYME. 
 
 [BALLADE X DOUBLE REFRAIN.] 
 
 >HEN the roads are heavy with mire and rut, 
 In November fogs, in December snows, 
 When the North Wind howls, and the 
 
 doors are shut, 
 
 There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; 
 But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, 
 And the jasmine-stars to the lattice climb, 
 
 And a Rosalind-face at the casement shows, 
 Then hey ! for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! 
 
 When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, 
 When the reason stands on its squarest toes. 
 
 When the mind (like a beard) has a " formal cut," 
 There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; 
 But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows, 
 
 And the young year draws to the " golden prime," 
 And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose, 
 
 Then hey ! for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! 
 
BALLADE A DOUBLE REFRAIN. 321 
 
 In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut, 
 In a changing quarrel of " 'Ayes " and " Noes," 
 
 In a starched procession of " If" and " But," 
 
 There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; 
 But whenever a soft glance softer grows, 
 
 And the light hours dance to the trysting time, 
 And the secret is told " that no one knows," 
 
 Then hey ! for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 In the work-a-day world, for its needs and woes, 
 There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; 
 But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, 
 Then hey ! for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 
i > \\;. 
 
 THE GOD OF WINE. 
 [CHANT ROYAL.] 
 
 ,EHOLD, above the mountains there is light, 
 A streak of gold, a line of gathering fire, 
 And the dim East hath suddenly grown 
 
 bright 
 
 With pale aereal flame, that drives up higher 
 The lurid airs that all the long night were 
 Breasting the dark ravines and coverts bare ; 
 Behold, behold ! the granite gates unclose, 
 And down the vales a lyric people flows, 
 Who dance to music, and in dancing fling 
 
 Their frantic robes to every wind that blows, 
 And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 
 
CHANT RO YAL. 323 
 
 II. 
 
 Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight, 
 Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir ; 
 
 Tossing on high the symbol of their rite, 
 The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire ; 
 
 Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair, 
 
 With ivy circling their abundant hair, 
 Onward, with even pace, in stately rows 
 With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows, 
 
 And all the while their tribute-songs they bring, 
 And newer glories of the past disclose, 
 
 And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 
 
 The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white, 
 And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher, 
 
 Bathed in an air of infinite delight, 
 Smooth without wound of thorn, or fleck of mire, 
 
 Borne up by song as by a trumpet's blare, 
 
 Leading the van to conquest, on they fare, 
 Fearless and bold, whoever comes and goes 
 These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close, 
 
 Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring, 
 And forests grim forget their ancient woes, 
 
 And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 
 
THE GOD OF II V 
 
 IV. 
 
 And youths are there for whom full many a night 
 Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt 
 and tire, 
 
 Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight, 
 And wandered forth through many a scourging brier, 
 
 And waited shivering in the icy air, 
 
 And wrapped the leopard-skin about them there, 
 Knowing, for all the bitter air that froze, 
 The time must come, that every poet knows, 
 
 When he shall rise and feel himself a king, 
 And follow, follow where the ivy grows, 
 
 And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 
 
 v. 
 
 But oh ! within the heart of this great flight, 
 Whose ivory arms hold up the golden lyre, 
 
 What form is this of more than mortal height ? 
 What matchless beauty, what inspired ire ! 
 
 The brindled panthers know the prize they bear, 
 
 And harmonise their steps with stately care ; 
 Bent to the morning, like a living rose, 
 The immortal splendour of his face he shows. 
 
 And, where he glances, leaf, and flower, and wing 
 Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, 
 
 And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 
 
CHANT ROYAL. 325 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes 
 Record the bounty that thy grace bestows, 
 
 But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling, 
 And with no frigid lips our songs compose, 
 
 And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 
 
 EDMUND W. GOSSE. 
 
CCXXII. 
 
 THE GOD OF LOVE. 
 
 [CHANT ROYAL.] 
 
 MOST fair God, O Love both new and old, 
 That wert before the flowers of morn- 
 ing blew, 
 Before the glad sun in his mail of gold 
 
 Leapt into light across the first day's dew ! 
 That art the first and last of our delight, 
 That in the blue day and the purple night 
 
 H oldest the hearts of servant and of king : 
 Lord of Hesse, sovran of sorrowing, 
 That in thy hand hast heaven's golden key, 
 
 And Hell beneath the shadow of thy wing, 
 Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! 
 
CHANT ROYAL. 327 
 
 II. 
 
 What thing rejects thy mastery ? who so bold 
 But at thine altars in the dusk they sue ? 
 
 Even the strait pale goddess, silver-stoled, 
 
 That kissed Endymion when the Spring was new, 
 
 To thee did homage in her own despite, 
 
 When in the shadow of her wings of white 
 
 She slid down trembling from her mooned ring 
 To where the Latmian boy lay slumbering, 
 
 And in that kiss put off cold chastity. 
 
 Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string, 
 
 " Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ?" 
 
 in. 
 
 Master of men and gods, in every fold 
 
 Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew 
 
 The labouring earth tranced with the winter's cold 
 Lie hid, the quintessential charms that woo 
 
 The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might 
 
 Of the dead year, and draw them to the light 
 Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling : 
 Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands 
 fling 
 
 Their spells of healing over land and sea, 
 
 One shout of homage makes the welkin ring, 
 
 " Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! " 
 
THE GOD OF LOVE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I see thee throned aloft : thy fair hands hold 
 
 Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue : 
 Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled, 
 
 And in thine eyes the royal heaven's hue : 
 But in thy lips' clear colour, ruddy bright, 
 The heartVblood shines of many a hapless wight. 
 
 Thou art not only fair and sweet as Spring ; 
 
 Terror and beauty, fear and wondering 
 Meet on thy brow, amazing all that see : 
 
 All men do praise thee, ay ! and everything ; 
 Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! 
 
 v. 
 
 I fear thee, though I love* Who can behold 
 The sheer sun burning in the orbed blue, 
 
 What while the noontide over hill and wold 
 Flames like a fire, except his mazed view 
 
 Wither and tremble ? So thy splendid sight 
 
 Fills me with mingled gladness and affright. 
 Thy visage haunts me in the wavering 
 Of dreams, and in the dawn awakening, 
 
 I feel thy radiance streaming full on me. 
 
 Both joy and fear unto thy feet I bring ; 
 
 Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! 
 
CHANT ROYAL. 329 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 God above gods, High and Eternal King, 
 To whom the spheral symphonies do sing, 
 
 I find no whither from thy power to flee, 
 Save in thy pinions' vast o'ershadowing. 
 
 Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 
A NOTE ON SOME FOREIGN FORMS 
 OF VERSE. 
 
 11 77igy are a school to win 
 The fair French daughter to learn English in : 
 
 Andy graced with her song. 
 To make the language sweet upon her tongue." 
 
 BEN JONSON, Underwoods. 
 
SOME FOREIGN FORMS OF VERSE. 
 
 BY way of Appendix to the foregoing selection 
 of later English lyrics, I have been asked by 
 the Editor to supply some brief notes as to the 
 rules for writing the old French forms, of which 
 the book contains sundry English examples. The 
 request is in a measure embarrassing, because the 
 pieces of this kind in our language are not very 
 numerous, and being few in number, can scarcely be 
 held to be fairly representative. They come, not 
 " in battalions," but rather as " single spies," with 
 something on them of the strangeness born of another 
 air and sun. They have, besides, a little of that 
 hesitation which betokens those who are not quite 
 sure of the welcome they will receive. To quit 
 metaphor, it has been urged, and by some whose 
 opinions are entitled to the utmost consideration, 
 that the austere and lofty spirit of our island Muse i 
 averse to the poetry of art pure and simple ;- that 
 genuine inspiration and emotion do not express or 
 exhibit themselves in stereotyped shapes and set 
 refrains; and it must be candidly admitted that it is 
 by no means easy to combat such objections. Then 
 
334 A NOTE OX 
 
 again, there are opponents of less weight, to whom 
 (it may be), in the words of the "great Author" in 
 Fielding's " Amelia," " Rhymes are difficult things, 
 they are stubborn things, Sir!" and to such, 
 committed (perchance) to the comfortable but 
 falsely-seductive immunities of blank verse, the intro- 
 duction of outlandish complications is a gratuitous 
 injury. To them it appears conclusive to say 
 "These forms are certainly not new: if they are 
 so excellent, why were they not introduced before ? " 
 Inhere is, at all events, one answer, which once held 
 equally good of not a few foreign products which 
 have since become domestic necessaries " Because 
 no one has introduced them." When the English 
 sonnet was in leading-strings, there were doubtless 
 contemporary critics who regarded it as a merely 
 new-fangled Italian conceit, suitable enough for the 
 fantastic gallantries of Provencal " Courts of Love," 
 but affording little or no room for earnest or serious 
 effort They could not foresee "Avenge, O Lord, 
 thy slaughtered saints," in the primitive essays of 
 Surrey and WyatL And who shall say that some 
 Shakespeare of the future (or the present) shall not 
 41 unlock his heart " with a Rondeau t Not that it is 
 for a moment proposed to put the Rondeau on a level 
 with the Sonnet. Still, it must not be forgotten that 
 the Sonnet, however deservedly popular with English 
 writers, is nevertheless a " foreign product " and an 
 "arbitrary form." 
 
 But without entering further into these considera- 
 tions, it may be conceded that the majority of the 
 forms now in question are not at present suited for, 
 
SOME FOREIGN FORMS OF VERSE. 335 
 
 nor are they intended to rival the more approved 
 national rhythms in, the treatment of grave or ele- 
 vated themes. What is modestly advanced for some 
 of them (by the present writer at least) is that they 
 may add a new charm of buoyancy, a lyric fresh- 
 ness, to amatory and familiar verse, already too 
 much condemned to faded measures and out-worn 
 cadences. Further, upon the assumption that merely 
 graceful or tuneful trifles may be sometimes written 
 (and even read), that they are admirable vehicles for 
 the expression of trifles m jeux <? esprit. * They have 
 also a humbler and obscurer use. If, to quote the 
 once-hackneyed, but now too-much-forgotten maxim 
 of Pope 
 
 " Those move easiest that have learned to dance," 
 
 what better discipline, among others, could possibly 
 be devised for " those about to versify " than a course 
 of Rondcaux, Triolets, and Ballades ? After all, it is 
 chiefly as an aid in this direction that the following 
 rules for writing the six principal forms, as given by 
 French authorities, are here reproduced. Into their 
 history and origin it is not proposed to enter min- 
 utely ; but those curious in these respects are referred 
 
 * Do we not just a little forget, now-a-days, that our 
 " nugtz" should be "tano>a" ? that one requisite, at least, of 
 a song is that it shall be musical ? 
 
 " Parnassus' peaks still catch the sun ; 
 
 But why O lyric brother ! 
 Why build a Pulpit on the one, 
 A Platform on the other ? " 
 
 We can never want for lectures or sermons, in their proper places. 
 
336 A NOT1 
 
 to an article in the Cornhill Magazine for July 1877,* 
 as also to the Odts Funambulesques, the Petit Traiti 
 de Potsie FranfaisC) and other works of M. Theodore 
 de Banville. To M. de Banville in particular, and to 
 the second French Romantic School in general, the 
 happy modernisation in France of the old measures 
 of Marot, Villon, and Charles of Orleans is mainly to 
 be ascribed. 
 
 TRIOLET, RONDEL, RONDEAU. These three are 
 classed together, because originally the names appear 
 to have been used indifferently. For example, in his 
 " History of English Rhythms/ 1 Dr. Guest quotes, 
 from an old French authority, the "Jardin de Plais- 
 ance? a poem of eight lines corresponding to the 
 modern Triolet^ but commencing thus : 
 
 " Ahui tefmt fommutts rondeaulx 
 A'tflus ne mains que cestuy <*'." 
 
 And Charles of Orleans seems to have called what 
 we now style his Rondels, Rondeaux or Chansons. 
 What is less intelligible is, that M. Gustave Masson 
 in "La Lyre Franfaise" (Macmillan) unaccountably 
 prints a pair of these as " Triolets." The fact would 
 appear to be, that the Rondel and the Triolet are the 
 earlier forms, and the Rondeau is an evolved product 
 of both. The natural tendency, in the first instance, 
 would be to somewhat overwork the refrain, then after- 
 wards to make it less prominent, and finally to enlarge 
 the field of operation. This is exactly what appears 
 to have taken place. 
 
 * By Mr. E. W. Go?se. 
 
SOME FOREIGN FORMS OF VERSE. 337 
 
 The modern TRIOLET consists of eight lines with 
 two rhymes. The first pair of lines are repeated as 
 the seventh and eighth, while the first is repeated 
 as the fourth. The order of rhymes is thus as 
 follows : a,b,a,a,a,b,a,b. The following example by, 
 of all persons in the world, a grave French magistrate, 
 Jacques Ranchin, has been christened by Me'nage 
 the " King of Triolets ; " 
 
 " Le premier jour du mots de mai 
 
 Fut U plus heureux de ma vie. 
 Le beau dessein que je format, 
 Le-premiei' jour du mois de mai, 
 ye vous vis etje vous aimai: 
 
 Sice dessein vous plut, Silvie, 
 Le premier jour du mois de mai 
 
 Fut leplus heureux de ma vif." 
 
 Here is another, and a less sentimental one, by M. 
 Alexis Piron "qui ne fut rien, Pas mbne acade- 
 micien" It is, in fact, addressed to the Academy, 
 against whom "semper ardentes acuens sagittas" 
 he discharged quite a quiver of arrowy little epi- 
 grams : 
 
 ' ' Grace & monsieur Fabbe 1 Stgiti, 
 
 Messieurs, vous revoilb quarante. 
 On dit que vous faites aussi 
 Grace a monsieur Fabbe 1 Stgui. 
 Par la mart deje ne sais qui, 
 
 Vous ri ttiez plus que neuf et trtnte: 
 Grace 3 monsieur Fabbt Stgui t 
 
 Messieurs, vous revoila quarante." 
 
 As far as can be ascertained, the Triolet has not 
 
 Y 
 
A NOTE ON 
 
 been written at all in English until quite recently. 
 Mr. Swinburne's admirable " Match " (" Poems and 
 Ballads," ist series, 1866), is apparently reminiscent 
 of this form ; but the pair of Triolets * by Mr. Robert 
 Bridges (" Poems," Pickering, 1873) seem the first of 
 their kind. The Triolet is perhaps best adapted for 
 Epigram. The weight of its raison d'etre rests upon 
 the fifth and sixth line, while the perfection of its 
 execution lies in the skill with which the third line is 
 connected with the fourth, and the final couplet 
 with the one preceding it. If, as in Piron's, the 
 writer is able to give a new sense to the fourth line, 
 the general effect is increased. 
 
 The modern RONDEL is a poem of fourteen lines 
 with two rhymes. As in the Triolet, the initial couplet 
 is repeated at the close. It is also repeated after the 
 sixth line, forming the seventh and eighth lines. 
 Thus the whole falls naturally into three groups or 
 stanzas, two of four lines and one of six. The usual 
 arrangement of the rhymes is aJ>J>,a ; a,b,a t b ; 
 aJ>J>,a,a,b, as in the following from Charles of 
 Orleans : 
 
 vous ftt, ok*, din, 
 Soussy, Soing, et Mfrtneolit, 
 Me cuidez sous (pensez-vous) toute ma vie 
 Gouvernfr, com me fait ova t 
 
 *' Je vous promtt* que nonfertz, . 
 Raison aura sur vous maistrie. 
 Ale* vous ftt, altz, ala, 
 
 Soussy, Soing, ft Merencolit. 
 
 Fift No. cci. [ED.] 
 
SOME FOREIGN FORMS OF VERSE. 339 
 
 " Se jamais plus vous retournez 
 
 Avecques vostre compaignie, 
 
 Je pri & Dieu qriil vous ntaudie y 
 Et ce par qui vous revendrez. 
 Alez vous en, alez, alez, 
 
 Soussy, Soing, ft Mtrencolie." 
 
 Mr. John Payne's " Kiss me, Sweetheart," which 
 appeared in the " Athenaeum " for August 18, 1877, 
 is a correct English example.* Some writers content 
 themselves with repeating one line only, the first, at 
 the Close, thus making the Rondel of thirteen lines. 
 But as M. de Banville gives the rule in one way, and 
 writes the poem in another, it may be assumed that 
 this is a matter in which his English followers are 
 also at liberty to use their discretion. 
 
 The beauty of the Rondel lies in the skilful man- 
 agement of the refrain. In the most successful speci- 
 mens it will be found to recur without effort, and 
 with a certain indefinable air of novelty at each 
 recurrence. Most of the masterpieces in this form 
 are contained in the works of Charles of Orleans, 
 although M. de Banville has written some graceful 
 examples. Beyond the English Rondels attributed to 
 the former writer, one of which is printed in Gary's 
 " Early French Poets," there would appear to be but 
 few antique Rondels in our language. Guest, it is 
 true, speaks of a " Roundle " by Lidgate ; and a very 
 clumsy one by Hoccleve is quoted by Professor Mor- 
 ley in his " Shorter English Poems." It is possible, 
 as Chaucer, in the " Legende of Good Women," ex- 
 pressly speaks to his own authorship of 
 
 * FnfcNo. cciii. [ED.] 
 
340 A NOTE ON 
 
 " Many a himpne for your holy daies 
 That highten balades, roundtls % virelaies," 
 
 that further search would reveal others. Meanwhile, 
 it is matter for speculation whether Sidney's " My 
 true love hath my heart and I have his," quoted in 
 Puttenham's " Arte of English Poesie," is not in form 
 a memory of the Rondel* 
 
 As has been already said, the modern RONDEAU is a 
 modification of the Rondel. It is made up of thirteen 
 lines with two rhymes and two unrhyming refrains, 
 generally the first half of the first line, sometimes only 
 the first word.* . As in the Rondel, the lines fall into 
 three groups, a first of five lines, a second of three 
 (and refrain), and a third of five (and refrain). The 
 usual sequence of the rhymes is a,a,l> t l>,a;a,a,& (and 
 refrain); a,a,6,l> t a (and refrain), as shown in the 
 following early example by Victor Brodeau. It is in 
 ten-syllable lines ; most modern Rondeaux are in 
 eight : 
 
 " Au bon vifux temps, que C amour par bouquets 
 Sf eUmtnoit, et par joyeux caqwts, 
 
 Laftmme Ant trap scttt, ou trop peujine: 
 Le temps depuis, qui tout fine et affine, 
 Lui a montriafaire ses acquets. 
 
 ' ' IJOTS Us seigneurs Aoient pctits naquets (gardens) ; 
 D'aulx et oignons se faisoient Its banquets ; 
 Et n'Aoit bruit de ruer en cuisine, 
 Au bon vieux temps. 
 
 " Dames aux huis iiavoient clefs ni loquets ; 
 Leur garderobe tioitpetits paquets 
 
 * Vide Nos. cciv. to ccix. [Eo.] 
 
SOME FOREIGN FORMS OF VERSE. 341 
 
 De canevas, ou degrosse etamine : 
 Or, diamants, on laissoit en leur mine, 
 Et les couleurs porter attx perroqwts, 
 Au ban vieux temps" 
 
 But Marot and Villon, and even Voiture, occasion- 
 ally wrote a shorter Rondeau of ten lines, thus 
 a,b,b,a ; a,d (and refrain) \a,b,b,a (and refrain). A 
 very beautiful English example of this latter form 
 is Mr. D. G. Rossetti's translation of the "Lay, ou 
 plustost Rondeau" in Villon's Grand Testament 
 
 " Death, of thee do I make my moan, 
 "Who had'st my lady away from me, 
 Nor wilt assuage thine enmity 
 Till with her life thou hast mine own ; 
 For since that hour my strength has flown. 
 Lo ! what wrong was her life to thee, 
 Death? 
 
 *' Two we were, and the heart was one ; 
 
 Which now being dead, dead I must be, 
 Or seem alive as lifelessly 
 As in the choir the painted stone, 
 
 Death ! " 
 
 The Rondel, it will be seen, is well suited for the 
 expression of brief emotions, and sportive or amatory 
 incident ; in short, for any light lyrical theme of de- 
 fined extent, which is rather enhanced than impaired 
 by the iteration of its keynote, The Rondeau offers 
 the same advantages, with this in addition that 
 it may be more successfully employed in playful 
 irony or satire. Probably it is the latter character- 
 istic which makes it more popular in France than the 
 elder form. An ingenious anti-climax is frequently 
 
A MOTE O.V 
 
 obtained by the introduction of a play of words into 
 the refrain. Thus Pre*pe*tit de Grammont, addressing 
 Benserade upon that egregious performance of his, 
 the translation of the whole of Ovid's Metamorphoses 
 into Rondeaux (the very " Table of Errata" is a Ron- 
 dtau\ takes for refrain "A la fontainc" which he 
 skilfully converts at the close into a reference to the 
 famous fabulist. In the efforts of Vincent de Voiture, 
 the master of what Voltaire called " baladinagcs" 
 the inner secrets of the modern Rondeau are to be 
 studied at their best. Nothing can be more successful 
 than his management of the refrain, whether for play of 
 words or otherwise, while he thoroughly understands 
 the difficult art of giving that difficult stepping-stone, the 
 second stanza, its precise import and value. Further- 
 more, he is careful to make the refrain, as it should be, 
 the natural overflow of the eighth and thirteenth lines, 
 and not, as it is too often, a merely detachable and 
 meaningless phrase. As to the arrangement of rhymes, 
 however, it should be added, that some writers, and 
 particularly that "spoiled child of the Muses," Alfred 
 de Musset, do not exactly follow Marot and Voiture ; 
 and in one of the most happy of our English speci- 
 mens, the " Carpe Diem " * of Mr. Theo. Marzials, its 
 author has apparently followed M. de Musset. On 
 the other hand, M. Maurice Bouchor, a young French 
 poet of whom much is expected, appears to favour the 
 second form, of which Mr. Rossetti's translation fur- 
 nished our example. 
 
 There were a few Rondeaux written in English 
 
 Vide No. ecu. [ED.] 
 
SOME FOREIGN FORMS OF VERSE. 343 
 
 during the seventeenth and eighteenth century, in 
 the "Rolliad" and elsewhere. The well-known 
 " Jenny kiss'd me " of Leigh Hunt is of course irre- 
 gular ; but, like the splendid and also irregular sonnet 
 of Keats " Bright Star, would I were steadfast as 
 thou art," it will survive that disadvantage. 
 
 Before quitting the Rondeau, it should be noted 
 that there is a variety of it called the "Rondeau Re- 
 double"* It consists of six quatrains (a,b,a,b), with /aw 
 rhymes only. The first four lines form in succession 
 the last lines of the second, third, fourth, and fifth 
 quatrains. At the end of the final quatrain, the first 
 words of the poem are added as an unrhyming and 
 independent refrain. Sometimes the final quatrain is 
 styled the Envoi. 
 
 VIRELAI, VILLANELLE. The Virelai (/at, a lay, and 
 vircr, to turn), need not long detain us. In its 
 modern form it appears as a poem of two rhymes, and 
 of uncertain length, in which the lines forming the 
 initial couplet are alternately repeated at the close of 
 a paragraph, or at the pleasure of the writer.t Of the 
 VILLANELLE, a regularised Virelai, we shall give the 
 typical example, that of Jean Passerat (1534-1602) 
 
 14 Tai perdu ma tourterelle. 
 West-ce-point elle quefoi (j'entends), 
 Je vfux alter apres elk. 
 
 " Tu regret (es tafemelle: 
 Httas! aussi/ais-j'f, mot: 
 jf at perdu ma tourterelle. 
 
 * See Nos. ccx., ccxi. [Ed.] 
 
 t See No. ccxiii. for the early form. [Eo.] 
 
344 A NOTE ON 
 
 44 Si ton amour estfidele 
 Aussi estferme mafoi : 
 Je vatx oiler apres die. 
 
 " Ta plain te se renouvelle: 
 Toujours plaindre je me doi : 
 fai perdu ma tourterelle. 
 
 44 En ne voyant plus ma belle 
 Plus run de beau je ne voi ; 
 Je veux aller apres die. 
 
 " Atort, que tant defois fappette, 
 Prends ce qui se donne a tot. 
 fai perdu ma tourterelle. 
 Je veux aller apres elle" 
 
 " Ipsa mollifies/" as Sir Henry Wotton said of 
 "Comus." One might almost fancy it, with its 
 tender cooing burden, to be taken from the purer 
 pages of that charming pastoral, the " Daphnis and 
 Chloe " of Longus, more charming still in the quaint 
 old French of Amyot The primitive Villanelle was, 
 in truth, a " shepherd's song ;" and, according to rule, 
 " the thoughts should be full of sweetness and simpli- 
 city." The arrangement of rhymes requires no fur- 
 ther explanation. The first and third line must form 
 the final couplet, but there is no restriction as to the 
 number of stanzas.* A good modern example is that 
 entitled " La Marquise Aurorc " in the " Deux Sai- 
 sons " of the late Philoxene Boyer ; but we have not 
 met with many French poems in this form. 
 
 BALLADE, CHANT ROYAL. The BALLADE t is a 
 
 * Sec Nos. ccxiv. to ccxvii. [ED.] 
 t See Nos. ccxviii. to ccxx. [Ea] 
 
SOME FOREIGN FORMS OF VERSE. 345 
 
 poem of three stanzas and a half stanza styled the 
 Envoi, the last line being identical in each, and form- 
 ing a refrain. The rhymes of the first stanza must ' 
 be repeated throughout. The formula is generally as 
 follows : a,b,a,b,b,c,b,c, for the first, second, and third 
 stanzas, and b,c,b,c, for the Envoi. Or the stanzas 
 may be dixains, thus ajbjlJbjb&CjLfA and c,c,d,c,d, for 
 Envoi. They may even consist of a larger or smaller 
 number of lines, so long as the rhymes are continued 
 throughout. Strictly, the Envoi should commence 
 " Prince," " Princess/' &c., as the older Ballades were 
 generally dedicated, or " envoyees" to some one or 
 other dignitary, actual or symbolical Another rule 
 of the early Ballade writers was that the number of 
 lines in the stanzas should be regulated by the 
 number of syllables in the refrain. This is no 
 longer rigorously observed ; but as it assumes the 
 conception of the refrain to precede everything else, 
 affords a hint (if hint be needed) of the paramount 
 importance of the refrain in this form. To give the 
 reader a French specimen, here is De Banville's 
 ^Ballade des Pendus"* which more than any other 
 shows him to be, in his own words, " vieux Gaulois et 
 filsdubon Villon:" 
 
 " Sur ses larges bras ttcndus, 
 La for& ou s'tveille Flare, 
 
 * From the comedy of " Gringoire? Perhaps Mr. A. Lang, 
 whose charming "Ballads and Lyrics of Old France" (Long- 
 mans, 1872) virtually led the van in the matter of these forms, 
 will one day give us a version of this sombre poem. 
 
346 A NOTE ON 
 
 A ties chapelets de pendus 
 
 Que le matin carcsse et dore. 
 
 Ct Ms sombre, oft le chhte arbore 
 Des grappes de fruits inouis 
 
 Mtme che* le Tnrc et le Afore, 
 Cest le verger tin rot Louis. 
 
 " Tons ces pauvres gens morfomius, 
 
 Roulant des pensers qtfon ignore, 
 Dans les tourbitlons e'perdus 
 
 I 'oltigcnt, palpitants encore. 
 
 Le soleil levant les dei'on, 
 Kegarde*-les t deux tblouis, 
 
 Danser dans lesfeux de raurore. 
 Cest le verger du roi Louis. 
 
 " Cespendus, du diable entendus, 
 
 Appellent dts pendus enfore. 
 Tamiis qu'aux fitux, daznr tendits, 
 
 Ou semble luire un meteore, 
 
 La ros& en fair shapore, 
 I 'n ftsaim d'oiseaux rtjouis 
 
 Far dessus leur ttte picore. 
 Cest le verger du roi Louis. 
 
 Envoi. 
 " Prince, il est un bois que decore 
 
 Un fas de pendus enfouis 
 Dans le doux feuillage sonore, 
 Cest le rerger du roi /jut's." 
 
 There is, if we mistake not, a certain plate in Callot's 
 " Miseries of War " which might serve as a fitting 
 headpiece to the above. This wood, with its "fruits 
 inouis " bathed in the morning sun and swinging in 
 the morning breeze ; the grim suggestion of 
 
 " Ces pendus, du diable entendus, 
 Appellent des pendus encore ; " 
 
SOME FOREIGN FORMS OF VERSE. 347 
 
 the black birds blown about above, and the rumbling 
 of " rs " in the refrain, as of distant thunder through 
 the leaves ; all combine to make a most striking and 
 effective picture. Other specimens as fine will be 
 found in De Banville's " Trente six Ballades Joyevses" 
 (Alphonse Lemerre, 1873) ; or the curious may con- 
 sult the beautiful " Livre des Ballades? issued by the 
 same publisher in 1876, which contains a choice 
 selection from Froissart downwards. In England 
 Ballades have been written by Mr. Swinburne and 
 others. A large number, mostly on political themes, 
 have also been printed in the " London " newspaper, 
 and prove conclusively that this form presents no 
 insurmountable difficulties to skilful writers. Many 
 sprightly examples of most of the other forms, it 
 should be added, are to be found in the same perio- 
 dical. 
 
 There is a variety of the Ballade called the Double 
 Ballade. This is simply a ballad of six huitains or 
 dixains in lieu of three, generally without " Envoi" 
 De Banville has written several. The unique English 
 specimen is the " Ballade of Dead Lions" which 
 recently appeared in the " London " for January 1 2, 
 1878. Another variety is the Ballade a double refrain,* 
 which the " Art Poetique " of Thomas Sibilet, 1555, 
 declares to be " atttant rare que plaisante" Indeed 
 there seems to be but one well-known French ex- 
 ample,- ! -the "Frere Lubin " of Clement Marot 
 
 The CHANT ROYAL may be defined as a ballade of 
 five stanzas of eleven lines with an "Envoi" of five. 
 
 * See No. ccxx. [Ed.] 
 
348 A NOTE ON 
 
 According to the strict rules it should be an Allegory, 
 the solution of which is contained in the Envoi. 
 Such is Marot's "Chant Royal de la Conception." The 
 examples in English are at present (we believe) con- 
 fined to three or four. One is the splendid Chant 
 Royal of the God of Wine, published by Mr. E. W. 
 Gosse in his article in the "Cornhill Magazine," 
 already referred to,* which has the additional dis- 
 tinction of being the first of its class, 
 
 The rhymes play so important a part in the fore- 
 going rules, that a few words on this head may not 
 unfitly close these notes, especially as those who 
 write the forms do not appear to be wholly agreed in 
 the matter. On the one haml, it is advanced that the 
 forms are sufficiently difficult in French, and that to 
 transfer them to our tongue without at the same time 
 adopting the French system of rhyming is to hamper 
 them with superfluous difficulties. By the French 
 system of rhyming, is meant the license used by French 
 writers to rhyme words of exactly similar sound and 
 spelling so long as they have different meanings. This 
 is not held to be admissible in English, although cases 
 might be cited. Milton, for example, has "Ruth" 
 and " ruth " in one of his sonnets. On the other 
 hand, it is contended that if we import these forms, 
 we must, to make them really English, adopt them 
 with all their native difficulties, and add our own as 
 well. It will be clear, however, to both sides that so 
 long as these forms remain in the category of tours- 
 dt-force, which they must do if the latter view be taken, 
 
 * See No. ccxxi.-[Ed.] 
 
SOME FOREIGN FORMS OF VERSE. 349 
 
 they will be of little or no service as popular addi- 
 tions to our stock of forms. As a middle course the 
 present writer would suggest that it should be allow- 
 able to rhyme such words as " hail " and " hale ; " 
 but not allowable to rhyme such words as " prove," 
 " approve," " reprove," in which the philological rela- 
 tionship is of the closest. Even in the former case, 
 however, the skilful writer will be careful not to bring 
 the rhymes into close proximity \ and, in the shorter 
 forms, will probably find it best to avoid them alto- 
 gether. The purist would never employ them under 
 any circumstances. 
 
 A. D. 
 
U3ote0 to ttje 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 No. i. Page 3. 
 
 i 
 
 From the Romance of the Scarlet Leaf and other 
 Poems (1865). The author- describes it as having 
 been " suggested by a Sketch of E. Jones's." It has 
 been set to music by M. Blumenthal. Mr. A'ide' him- 
 self is well known as one of the most versatile of our 
 living writers, having been successful alike as poet, 
 novelist, and dramatist. He is also a musical 
 composer. 
 
 No. 2. Page 5. 
 
 From Now and Then (1876) ; a collection of mis- 
 cellaneous verse by Mr. Ashe, whose poetry has 
 generally an old-fashioned quaintness about it which 
 is very delightful. See also Nos. 33, 44, and 58. 
 
 No. 3. Page 6. 
 
 From Harold (1876), act i., scene 2, where it is 
 sung by Edith. It is a worthy addition to the long 
 and splendid roll of Mr. Tennyson's songs, which, 
 like those of Shakespeare and Shelley, may be said 
 to be " set " to their own music. 
 
 z 
 
354 XOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 No. 4. Page 7. 
 
 From Starching the Net (1873). This poem, in 
 some passages, reminds one of the fine old lyric, 
 beginning 
 
 " Over the mountains 
 And over the waves, " 
 
 in which the following lines occur : 
 
 " Some think to lose him 
 
 By having him confined, 
 And some do Suppose him, 
 
 Poor thing, to be blind ; 
 But if ne'er So close ye wall him, 
 
 Do the best that you may, 
 Blind Love, if so ye call him, 
 
 Will find out hi* way." 
 
 Mr. Warren's poetry may be said to belong, in style 
 and tone, to the Swinburnian school, but has never- 
 theless a distinct note of its own. There are some 
 very happy passages in " Love gives all Away." 
 
 No. 5. Page 10. 
 
 This originally appeared in the Cornhill Magazine, 
 and may be compared with Miss Rossetti's lines, 
 An End: 
 
 " Love, strong as Death, is dead ; 
 Come, let us make his bed 
 
 Among the dying flowers : 
 A green turf at his head ; 
 And a stone at his feet, 
 Whereon we may sit 
 
 In ihe quiet evening hours." 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 355 
 
 Mr. Austin has a decidedly original lyrical faculty, 
 which he has exercised admirably in this and No. 46. 
 His longer poems are noticeable for their lofty aim 
 and well-sustained power. 
 
 No. 6 Page n. 
 
 From Poems and Romances (1869). Mr. Simcox 
 may be described as another disciple of Mr. Swin- 
 burne, also with a distinct " note " of his own, to save 
 him from the charge of imitation. 
 
 No. 7. Page 12. 
 
 From one of Mr. Edwin Arnold's earlier volumes. 
 Compare the idea running through it with the well- 
 known lines of Longfellow : 
 
 " No one is so accursed by fate, 
 No one so utterly desolate, 
 But some heart, though unknown, 
 Responds unto his own." 
 
 The idea itself, of course, is as old as Plato. 
 
 No. 8. Page 13. 
 
 From Flower and Thorn (1877). This, as well as 
 No. 42, by the same writer, has an airy grace not 
 very frequent in the works of Transatlantic writers. 
 Mr. Aldrich deserves to be better known in this 
 country than he is. 
 
 No. 9. Page 14. 
 This poem, which first appeared in Scribnefs 
 
XOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 Monthly Magazine, is quite in the style of our own 
 Sedley and Rochester. Mr. Stedman is another of 
 those American writers who ought to have more 
 readers in Great Britain than they have, for his verse 
 is very agreeable, if not powerful. Perhaps the best of 
 his lighter poetic efforts is his " Pan in Wall Street." 
 
 No. 10. Page 16. 
 
 From 77te Wanderer (1859) ; a series of poems 
 written in the cynical period of the writer's literary 
 career. Lord Lytton's later work is of a much 
 sounder quality ; ride his Fables in Song (1874). The 
 Wanderer, nevertheless, contains perhaps the truest 
 poetry, q uA poetry, that he has written or will ever 
 write. There can be no question of the superiority 
 of his poetic powers over those of his more famous 
 father, though the latter's verse is perhaps too sternly 
 slighted in these superfine days. 
 
 No. n. Page 1 8. 
 
 From Queen Mary (1875), act v - scene 2, where 
 it is sung by the heroine of the play ; the play itself 
 being, in spite of the swifter movement of Harold, 
 the better of the two dramas Mr. Tennyson has yet 
 given to the world. 
 
 No. 12. Page 19. 
 
 From Poems and Ballads, first series (1866). In 
 point of melody this lyric is far surpassed by its 
 (companion ?) poem, At Farting, of which the first 
 verse runs : 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 357 
 
 " For a night and a day Love sang to us, played with us, 
 
 Folded us round from the dark and the light, 
 And our hearts were full-filled of the music he made with us, 
 Made with our lips and our hearts while he stayed with us, 
 Stayed in mid-passage his pinions from flight, 
 
 For a day and a night." 
 
 No. 14. Page 22. 
 
 From TJie Unknown Eros and other Odes (1877) ; 
 a volume of striking poetry from the pen of one 
 whose previous works had hardly prepared the 
 public for a book of such peculiar power. The con- 
 trast between these Odes and The Angel in the House 
 is, indeed, so great, that those who have formed their 
 estimate of Mr. Patmore's poetical capacity, after a 
 perusal of the latter volume, will now find it necessary 
 to revise it. The writer handles the metre of the Odes 
 with great success. See Nos. 95 and 132. 
 
 No. 15. Page 24. 
 
 From The Red Flag and other Poems (1872). Mr. . 
 Roden Noel has recently produced a drama, called 
 The House of Ravensburg, which does more justice 
 to his unmistakeable powers than any one of his pre- 
 vious publications. It contains at least one charming 
 lyric. 
 
 No. 1 6. Page 26. 
 
 Mr. Lowell's serious poetry has not yet filtered 
 through the hands of the select few in Britain, into 
 those of the " ordinary reader " either on account of 
 its generally didactic character, or because Mr. 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 Lowell's reputation as a " sentimental " poet has 
 been obscured by the popularity of his " Biglow 
 Papers." As in the case of the elder Hood, the 
 American writer suffers from his success in humorous 
 work \ the public does not seem able to conceive of 
 the same man as at once a great humorist and an 
 imaginative poet of decided genius. 
 
 No. 17. Page 28. 
 
 From the Poems (1870), and one of the most happy 
 of the poet's efforts. It is both clear and musical. 
 Mr. Rossetti's work is generally musical, but not always 
 clear. He is seen perhaps at his strongest in his 
 sonnets, for a selection from which see Book III., 
 ftjssim. The most obvious characteristic of Mr. 
 Rossetti's poetry generally is the impression of power 
 it conveys. 
 
 No. 1 8. Page 29. 
 
 From Music and Moonlight, and other Poems (1874). 
 Mr. O'Shaughnessy is another of the Swinburnian 
 school. This is one of his most admirable pieces. 
 
 No: 19. Page 31. 
 
 From Song of Tivo Worlds, third series (1875), and 
 the production of a writer who, on the publication of 
 the first series of the Songs, at once took a high posi- 
 tion as one of the most vigorous of our younger 
 poets. He is perhaps more original in his lyric forms 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 359 
 
 than in the ideas embodied in them, though the 
 latter have frequently a suggestiveness of their own. 
 His Epic of Hades, if in style too reminiscent of the 
 Tennysonian manner, is a very interesting poem, full 
 of fine thoughts and felicitous expressions. 
 
 No. 20. Page 32. 
 
 One of the most characteristic of Mr. Browning's 
 shorter lyrics. 
 
 No. 2i. 
 
 From On Viol and Flu te (1873) ; a volume of short 
 poems by a writer, who, showing in this early book a 
 keen sense of style, afterwards essayed a higher and 
 not less successful flight in his drama of King Erik 
 (1876), a work of great imaginative power. The 
 few lyrics in it are quite Elizabethan in their tone. 
 Mr. Gosse is further notable as one of the few living 
 writers who have handled old French measures with 
 skill. He is undoubtedly one of the most able of 
 the new generation of poets. 
 
 No. 22. Page 35. 
 
 From The Spectator; to which Mr. Bourdillon has 
 contributed a series of short lyrics, worthy of remark 
 for their completeness of idea and form. 
 
 No. 23. Page 36. 
 
 From Pelleas and Ettarre, in The Idylls of the 
 King. 
 
360 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 No. 25. Page 38. 
 
 From the Poems (1877) of a writer who ranks, with 
 his brother, Mr. Frederick Myers, among the most 
 thoughtful of the younger singers. 
 
 No. 26. Page 39. 
 
 From The Infant Bridal and other Poems (1864) 
 of Mr. Aubrey de Vere, who is one of the most 
 attractive of our meditative poets. His verse is 
 more nearly Wordsworthian than that of any of his 
 contemporaries, except Mr. Matthew Arnold in some 
 moods. 
 
 No. 27. Page 40. 
 
 From Festus (1839); a work of which the inter- 
 polated lyrics are not, of course, the strongest feature. 
 Still, they are interesting as the productions of a poet 
 who has written one of the most striking works of 
 modern times, and is yet one of the least known and 
 understood of living writers. 
 
 No. 28. Page 41. 
 
 A pleasing specimen of the verse of a lady whose 
 greatest literary successes have been achieved in the 
 path of prose fiction. 
 
 No. 30. Page 45. 
 
 By the most dramatic of living lady poets, as well 
 as one of the most tender of feminine lyrists. It is 
 from A Woman Sold, and other Poems (1867). Mrs. 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 361 
 
 Webster has a large number of admirers, but her 
 merits have yet to be made known to " the many." 
 Her chief notes are sounded on the chord of the 
 evanescent character of human joys. 
 
 No. 31. Page 46. 
 
 From Flotsam and Jetsam (1877) ; a collection of 
 poems old and new, by the poet to whom his friend 
 Robert Browning has given fame as " Waring." 
 Mr. Domett's poetry deserves to be read, however, 
 for its own sake. See, especially, No. 105. 
 
 No. 32. Page 47. 
 
 From Spindrift (1867). Sir Noel Paton is like 
 Mr. D. G. Rossetti, a painter-poet, and is almost 
 as successful on paper as he is on canvass in per- 
 petuating the delicacy of his fancy. 
 
 No. 34. Page 49. 
 
 One of the most musical things Mr. Buchanan has 
 written : it appeared originally in a magazine. 
 
 No. 36. Page 54. 
 
 Miss Rossetti is unquestionably the most popular 
 female poet of the day, and well deserves her laurels. 
 Her work is, on the whole, the best poetic soil on 
 which the sentiment of her own sex could be nurtured, 
 for, although it is melancholy in its general cast, it has 
 many moments of spiritual elevation. See, notably, 
 No. 136. 
 
362 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 No. 38. Page 58. 
 This appeared first in The Argosy. 
 
 No. 41. Page 63. 
 
 One of the happiest passages in Lord Houghton's 
 volumes. Here, as elsewhere in this poet's writings, 
 there is a distinct tone as of the best verse of the 
 seventeenth century. 
 
 No. 43. Page 65. 
 
 From Qt/ftn Mary, act iii., scene 5 ; where it is sup- 
 posed to be sung behind the scenes by a milkmaid. 
 
 No. 45. -Page 67. 
 
 From the collected Poems (1877) of Mr. Allingham, 
 who is one of the freshest and most idyllic of our 
 poets. The last two lines in this lyric are charming. 
 
 No. 46. Page 69. 
 From the Human Tragfdy, act iv. 
 
 No. tf. Page 71. 
 
 From London Lyrics (1877) ; a volume of delightful 
 verse, which has already gone into eight or nine 
 editions, and seems destined to go into a dozen more. 
 It will always be a valued possession of every true 
 lover of the alternately vivacious and pathetic, limpid 
 and pointed in modern poetry. Mr. Locker is too 
 often regarded as only a society-poet that is, as 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 363 
 
 exclusively a laureate of Mayfair, its doings and its 
 sayings. He is this, but he is more, for he has 
 written some of the most successful " serious " poetry 
 of the day. 
 
 No. 5 o. Page 7 6. 
 
 From Songs before Sunrise (1871). Mr. Swinburne 
 is seen at his best, perhaps, in brief lyric flights like 
 this. . 
 
 No. 51. Page 77. 
 
 The production of a poet the amount of whose 
 lyric work has been but small, whilst its excellence is 
 sufficient to make us wish for more. From the fact 
 that a new edition of Sir Henry Taylor's poems has 
 recently been issued, it is safe to argue that they are 
 now more appreciated by the " general " than they 
 were. There is a solid and sonorous beauty about 
 them which the present generation seems to find it 
 difficult to appreciate. The plays are emphatically 
 for the closet, but they are none the worse for that 
 in an age when theatrical representations are beset 
 by so many drawbacks for poetic work. 
 
 No. 52. Page 78. 
 
 From Pegasus Resaddled (1877); a melange of 
 verse, full of fluency and verve. 
 
 No. 53. Page 80. 
 
 From Greenwood's Farewell, and other Poems 
 (1876); a volume which worthily maintained the 
 
364 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 reputation won by Jonas Fisher (1875) and since 
 confirmed by The Meda Maiden and other Poems 
 
 No. 54. Page 82. 
 
 The work of one whose reputation is greater in 
 the field of criticism than in the field of song, but 
 whose verse has nevertheless much spontaneity of 
 fancy as well as depth of thought The refrain of 
 this particular poem recalls, in its peculiar lilt, that 
 of one of Sir Walter Scott's most happy lyrics : 
 
 44 Adieu for evermore, 
 
 My Love ! 
 And adieu for evermore." 
 
 No. 55. Page 84. 
 
 From St. Paul and other Poems (1870). St. J\ud 
 itself is a soliloquy, supposed to be uttered by the 
 Apostle, and marked by fen-id and melodious rhetoric. 
 It represents the highest level to which, up to the 
 present time, the writer's powers have attained. 
 
 No. 56. Page 85. 
 
 From A Tale of Eternity and other Poems (1869). 
 This lyric reminds one a little both of Charles 
 Lamb's Hester and Frederick Locker's My Neighbour 
 Rose. Its best praise is, that it is not unworthy to 
 rank near those masterpieces. It has a pathetic 
 quaintness which is very pleasing. 
 
 No. 57. 
 From Lays of Middle Age and other Poems (1859), 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 365 
 
 by a Scotch journalist, who has for too many years 
 "given up" to the Press the talents which were 
 " meant for " Literature in its more permanent forms. 
 
 No. 59. Page 90. 
 
 By a writer who has of recent years preferred to 
 cultivate the field of fiction, rather than that of poetry, 
 in which he was once so noticeable a labourer. This, 
 and No. 148, are taken from Mr. Meredith's earliest 
 volume (1851). His strongest verse, perhaps, is to 
 be found in Modern Lwe (1862). 
 
 No. 6 1. Page 92. 
 There is a touch of Carew about this lyric. 
 
 No. 64. Page 99. 
 
 From Prwerbs in Porcelain (1877). Mr. Austin 
 Dobson is, like Mr. Locker, too often looked upon 
 as merely a producer of society-verse. He has cer- 
 tainly written some of the best specimens in English 
 of that difficult genre; he has, in fact, displayed in 
 vcrs de societe an originality of style and tone which 
 proclaims him one of its most accomplished masters. 
 Like Mr. Locker, however though in quite a different 
 way, for Mr. Dobson is thoroughly individual in his 
 work he has done admirable things in the poetry 
 both of "sentiment" and "reflection." (See, for 
 example, Nos. 133 and 142.) His efforts in the 
 direction of French forms in English speak for them- 
 selves. Altogether, Mr. Dobson has a high and secure 
 position among the singers of the day. 
 
366 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 No. 65. Page 1 01. 
 
 From My Beautiful Lady (\Z^\ a series of well- 
 wrought cameos by a poet-sculptor. 
 
 No. 66. Page 103. 
 
 From Boudoir Ballads (1876) ; the work of a facile 
 and agreeable writer. 
 
 No. 68. Page 105. 
 
 Frora^ Year of Song (I%T 2). This, and the " Rose 
 Song," are perhaps Mr. Sawyer's happiest perform- 
 ances in verse. " Angelica " has been set to music. 
 
 No. 69. Page 107. 
 
 This used to be called Geraldine and /, and 
 originally appeared in Macniillatts Magazine for 
 1868. In revising it for his edition of 1876, Mr. 
 Locker gave it its present title, which, by the way, 
 is also the title of one of Mr. Austin Dobson's 
 Vignettes in Rhyme (1873). 
 
 No. 77. Page 1 1 8. 
 
 This and the following poem are from The Window, 
 or the Songs of the Wrens (1870) ; a little lyrical 
 drama, so to -speak, which has hardly attained to the 
 popularity that might have been anticipated for it. 
 Yet it contains some of the Laureate's most delicate 
 work. 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 367 
 
 No. 8 1. Page 125. 
 
 From Graffiti d' Italia (1869), by another poet- 
 sculptor. Mr. Story is, however, rather a poet of 
 rhetoric than of magic, having vigour but not charm. 
 
 No. 82. Page 127. 
 
 From the Poems (1876) of a writer who, like Mr. 
 Palgrave, is best known and appreciated as a critic, 
 in which character he has added at least one per- 
 manent work to our literature, in the shape of his 
 essay upon Shaksperfs Mind' and Art. His verse is 
 that of a man of culture, who thinks for himself, and 
 has considerable powers of rhythmical expression. 
 
 No. 83. Page 129. 
 
 From The Gallery of Pigeons, and other Poems 
 (1873). Mr. Marzials' poetry deals perhaps too much 
 in fantasy to be very popular ; yet it contains some 
 charming things, among which these " Bagatelles," 
 and Nos. 84 and 85, may be fairly ranked. If Mr. 
 Marzials' belongs to any school at all, it is to that 
 over which Mr. Browning presides, and in which Mr. 
 Meredith is a highly-placed scholar. 
 
 No. ZbPage 133. 
 
 The work of a poet, novelist, and essayist, whose 
 most enduring verse is probably that which is to be 
 read in Phantasies and The Disciple. 
 
.; s NOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 No. 89. Page 138. 
 
 The success with which Mr. Locker treats the subject 
 of childhood in his poetry has been often noted. 
 
 No. 91. Page 142. 
 
 From Vtrsts on Various Occasions (1868); a 
 volume of strong-pithed if not melodious writing. 
 Dr. Newman's ablest poetic performance is, of course, 
 Tlu Dream of Gerontius. 
 
 No. 92. Page 143. 
 
 Another instance, and an excellent one, of the 
 poetry of rhetoric, of which Lord Houghton has given 
 us so many valuable examples. 
 
 No. 94. Page 147. 
 
 The note immediately above may be applied to this 
 poem also, which is a fair specimen of the Arch- 
 bishop's thoughtful and cultivated muse. 
 
 No. 97. Page 152. 
 
 This, with the two following lyrics, is from The 
 Earthly Paradise (1868), and is sufficiently indica- 
 tive of Mr. Morris's reflective tone. The poet has all 
 Jaques* power of sucking melancholy out of song, or 
 rather, of permeating song with melancholy. His 
 Muse is certainly not an inspiring one, but it is 
 musical and tender, and has attractiveness if not 
 charm. Mr. Morris is more successful perhaps in 
 narrative than in reflection. 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 369 
 
 No. 104. Page 163. 
 
 From The Spanish Gypsy (1868) ; a dramatic poem 
 from which, also, Nos. 109 and 137 are taken. These 
 lyrics have a light and graceful flow about them, 
 which ought to make them popular. The blank verse 
 in which they are enshrined has the qualities of sono- 
 rity and strength ; and indeed the poem altogether is 
 worthy of far more attention than the critics generally 
 have accorded to it. 
 
 No. 105. Page 164. 
 
 This is usually looked upon as Mr. Domett's most 
 excellent piece of work. It was originally published 
 many years ago. 
 
 No. no. Page 171. 
 
 Compare this poem with the one that follows, and 
 compare both with Mr. Arnold's " Self-Dependence." 
 
 No. in. Page 172. 
 
 From the series entitled " Switzerland," which in- 
 cludes some of the writer's most delightful pieces. 
 
 No. 112. Page 174. 
 
 The fourth verse of this poem recalls a passage in 
 Mr. Arnold's " Buried Life," whilst the fifth verse 
 seems to re-echo more than one passage in others of 
 the latter writer's poems. 
 
 No. 113. Page 177. 
 Originally printed in The Corn/till Magazine. 
 
 2 A 
 
370 A r OTS TO THE POEMS. 
 
 No. 114. Page 178. 
 
 This and No. 140 are extracted from Yu-pt-ycts 
 Lute (1874), a Chinese story of pathetic interest. 
 
 No. 1 1 6. Page 182. 
 
 From Songs of the Sierras (1871). Mr. Miller's 
 poetry is, as a rule, as wild and lawless in character 
 as the life he sings about. 
 
 No. 117. Page 183. 
 
 One of the poet's later lyrics, and quite in his 
 old familiar style. 
 
 No. 1 1 B. Page 184. 
 
 This, like No. 112, recalls some lines by Mr. 
 Arnold. Note the last four of the first verse : how 
 irresistibly they suggest to us the following : 
 
 " Through the deep recesses of our breast 
 The unregarded river of our life 
 Pursues with indiscernible flow its way." 
 
 No. 121. Page 188. 
 
 A very happy specimen of collaboration. It is 
 difficult to say which verse is the prettier in idea. 
 
 No. 122. Page 189. 
 From King Erik. See the Note to No. 2 1. 
 
 No. 123. Page 190. 
 Mr. Bennett is most at home in song- writing, to 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 371 
 
 which he has almost wholly given himself up, and in 
 which Tiis successes have been many. 
 
 No. 124. Page 191. 
 From The Atlantic Monthly (1877). 
 
 No. 125. Page 192. 
 
 In every way a characteristic poem ; notable for 
 its thoroughly Arnoldian sentiment, and the happy 
 way in which the irregular metre is managed. 
 
 No. 129. Page 197. 
 
 The idea of this little lyric may be found in Long- 
 fellow's familiar lines : 
 
 " Learn how sublime a thing it is 
 To suffer and be strong." 
 
 But how much nearer adequacy is the Archbishop's 
 treatment of it ! 
 
 No. 131. Page 199. 
 
 Here is another instance in which Mr. Arnold's 
 " notes " find an echo in a contemporary's song. 
 Compare the second verse with a very similar passage 
 in Empedodes on Etna. 
 
 No. 133. Page 203. 
 
 This originally appeared in Macmillarfs Magazine. 
 It has been slightly retouched. 
 
372 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 No. 134. Page 205. 
 
 From " Meg Blane," a poem first published in 
 North Coast and other Poems (1867). The inter- 
 locutors are Meg and her half-witted son. 
 
 No. 135. Page 207. 
 
 An excellent imitation of the Elizabethan manner ; 
 directly reminding us, indeed, of Beaumont and 
 Fletcher's " Lay a garland on my hearse." 
 
 No. 136. Page 209. 
 This has been highly praised by Mr. Swinburne. 
 
 No. 139. Page 213. 
 From The Spectator. 
 
 No. 141. Page 215. 
 
 From All in All (1874). See, also, Nos. 156 and 
 157, which are derived from the same volume. 
 
 No. 143. Page 220. 
 
 From Mr. Rhoades' single volume of Poems, from 
 which, also, No. 177 is taken. Mr. Rhoades used to 
 be a frequent contributor to The Spectator ; he now 
 rarely publishes. 
 
 No. 145- Page 223. 
 
 From the volume of miscellaneous verse entitled 
 fubal (1874). This volume contains what is perhaps 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 373 
 
 George Eliot's highest flight in poetry the lines 
 about " the choir invisible." 
 
 No. 149. Page 229. 
 
 Mr. Emerson's verse is thoroughly individual, and 
 well worthy of study ; but it lacks genuine inspiration, 
 and has none of the glamour of true poetry. 
 
 No. 150. -Page 231. 
 
 From Camera Obscura (1876) ; a little volume of 
 verse and prose, by a writer who is always tender and 
 graceful. 
 
 No. 152. Page 236. 
 
 The finest tribute to Shakespeare since Milton's. 
 
 No. 153. Page 237. 
 Originally published in Macinillarts Magazine. 
 
 No. \$$.~Page 239. 
 
 From Annus Amoris (1876); a book of sonnets, 
 which are not, however, in strict sonnet form, as 
 regards the position of the rhymes. This specimen 
 follows the Shakespearean arrangement. 
 
 No. 158. Page 242. 
 
 Mr. Rossetti, strange to say, is not always true to 
 the Italian model, in which the last six lines have 
 but two rhymes between them. His sonnets are, 
 however, full of masterly expression. 
 
374 MOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 No. 159. /><?,* 243. 
 Note, here, the fine sweep of the eleventh line. 
 
 No. 1 60. Page 244. 
 
 Not so thoroughly satisfying as No. 153, but 
 elegant nevertheless. 
 
 No. 163. Page 247. 
 
 Mr. Tennyson's sonnets are not quite so highly 
 esteemed as they deserve to be. This is one of his 
 best 
 
 No. 165. Page 249. 
 
 Reminiscent, surely, of one of Mrs. Browning's 
 sonnets. No. 166 is more original. 
 
 No. 173. Page 257. 
 
 By a writer who is best known as a poet in dialect, 
 and that dialect the Dorsetshire. His literary English 
 is, however, very interesting, as this poem testifies. 
 
 No. 177. Page 261. 
 
 A sonnet only in the sense that it consists of four- 
 teen lines. The idea is excellent. 
 
 No. 179. Page 264. 
 
 From Intaglios (1871); a volume of vigorously- 
 written sonnets. 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 375 
 
 No. 182. Page 267. 
 
 This and No. 183 are two hitherto unpublished 
 pieces by the author of Wood-Notes and Church Bells. 
 Mr. Wilton handles the sonnet form with great ease 
 and effect. 
 
 No. 184. Page 269. 
 
 From one of Mr. Longfellow's later volumes. The 
 ninth, tenth, and eleventh lines may be paralleled by 
 these of Mr. Matthew Arnold's : 
 
 " From the soul's subterranean depth upborne 
 As from an infinitely distant land, 
 Come airs and floating echoes, and convey 
 A melancholy into all our day." 
 
 No. 189. Page 274. 
 
 Mr. Bryant is perhaps the most truly national of all 
 American poets. He is certainly more so than Mr. 
 Longfellow, who has, however, outstripped him in 
 popularity in Britain. 
 
 No. 190. Page 275. 
 
 This and the following specimens of Mr. Arnold's 
 sonnet-writing show how skilfully he adapts himself 
 to a kind of verse which can no longer be called 
 " foreign ; " which could not, indeed, be called so 
 after Shakespeare and Milton had adopted it. 
 
 No. 195. Page 280. 
 
 Apart altogether from the intrinsic value of his 
 poetry, which (in regard especially to the sonnets and 
 
376 .VOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 the ballads) is obviously great, Mr. Scott may be 
 regarded as the Nestor of the school of writers in 
 which Messrs. Swinburne and Rossetti are the lead- 
 ing masters. He is happier, perhaps, in his ballads 
 than in his sonnets, though the latter are original in 
 subject and bold in treatment. His proper place 
 among contemporaries is a high one. 
 
 No. 198. -Page 283. 
 
 A fair example of Mrs. Pfeiffer's work. This lady 
 has imagination, if not fancy ; and the matter of her 
 verse is always valuable. 
 
 No. 201. Page 289. 
 
 From Poems (1873). This triolet is so neatly turned 
 that it is to be regretted Mr. Bridges has not written 
 more in this form than he has. As it is, he is entitled 
 to the credit of having been the first to use it in Eng- 
 lish poetry. 
 
 No. 202. Page 290. 
 
 This is one of several examples of the same form, 
 printed in Prorerbs in Porcelain (1877). Here is 
 another specimen : 
 
 " Oh, Love's but a dance, 
 
 Where Time plays the fiddle ! 
 
 See the couples advance, 
 
 Oh, Love's but a dance I 
 
 A whisper, a glance, 
 
 'Shall we twirl down the middle?' 
 
 Oh, Love's but a dance, 
 
 Where Time plays the fiddle ! " 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 377 
 
 No. 203. Page 291. 
 
 From The Athenczum. The reader will remark 
 how largely and successfully Mr. Payne figures in this 
 volume as an imitator of the old French forms. His 
 facility in rhyme and rhythm is not more remarkable 
 than the intrinsic poetry of his work. This rondel 
 especially has a happy charm. So has the rondeau 
 which forms No. 207. Nos. 210, 213, 217, 219, and 
 222 are here printed, by Mr. Payne's permission, for 
 the first time. It may be mentioned that Mr. Payne 
 has achieved, and is about to publish, a translation 
 into English, in the original metres, of the whole 
 poetical works of Fran9ois Villon. 
 
 No. 204. Page 292. 
 
 From Poems (1873), where it is accompanied by 
 two other rondeaux. 
 
 No. 206. Page 294. 
 
 Kindly written for this volume by Mr. Gosse, who 
 is one of the leaders in the new movement for the 
 Anglicisation of French metres. 
 
 No. 208. Page 296. 
 
 Hitherto imprinted. Mr. Waddington is known as 
 a graceful contributor to the magazines. 
 
 No. 209. Page 297. 
 
 From The Athenaum. See Mr. Dobson's Note 
 (page 342). Mr. Dobson has himself written a 
 
37 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 
 
 rondeau in this form ; />., the following lines, 
 originally printed in The Spectator, but not repub- 
 lished in his recent volume : 
 
 Rose, in the hedge-row grown, 
 Where the scent of the fresh sweet hay 
 
 Comes up from the fields new-mown, 
 
 You know it you know it alone, 
 So I gather you here to-day. 
 
 For here was it not here, say ? 
 That she came by the woodland way, 
 And my heart with a hope unknown 
 
 Rose? 
 
 Ah, yes ! with her bright hair blown, 
 And her eyes like the skies of May, 
 
 And her steps like the rose-leaves strewn 
 When the winds in the rose- trees play 
 
 It was here O my love my own 
 
 ROSE! 
 
 No. 211. Page 300. 
 
 Hitherto unpublished, also. Mr. Monkhouse has 
 written more than one " old form " in English, and 
 always skilfully. They will no doubt appear among 
 his forthcoming Poems. 
 
 No. 212. Page $Q2. 
 
 This originally appeared in St. PauVs Magazine. 
 The form in which it is written is one of the most 
 ancient of French measures. 
 
 No. 215. Page 310. 
 
 First printed in The Spectator (1877), and since 
 republished in Gerard's Monument (second edition, 
 
NOTES TO THE POEMS. 379 
 
 1878). It is Mrs. Pfeiffer's most successful effort in 
 this way. 
 
 No. 2 1 6. Page 312. 
 
 Originally given in an article contributed by Mr. 
 Gosse to The Corn hill (1877). 
 
 No. 218. Page 316. 
 
 From Proverbs in Porcelain (1877), and the first 
 original piece of its kind in English. It has been 
 slightly retouched for this volume. 
 
 No. 220. Page 320. 
 
 First published in Bdgravia (1878), and, up to the 
 present time, the only one of its kind in English. 
 
 No. 221. Page 322. 
 
 Reproduced from The Com/nil article, by Mr. 
 Gosse, above mentioned. Also the first of its kind 
 published in English. 
 
INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 Aide\ Hamilton, i. 
 
 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, viii. xlii. 
 
 Allingham, William, xlv. clxxxviii. 
 
 Arnold, Edwin, vii. Ixxiv. 
 
 Arnold, Matthew, cxi. cxxv. clii. cxc. cxci. cxcii. cxciii. 
 
 cxciv. 
 
 Ashby-Sterry, J., 1\ 
 Ashe, Thomas, ii. xxxiii. xliv. Iviii. 
 Austin, Alfred, v. xlvi. 
 
 Bailey, Philip James, xxvii. Ix. 
 
 Bames, Rev. William, clxxiii. 
 
 Bennett, William Cox, cxxiii. 
 
 Bourdillon, F. W., xxii. c. ci. 
 
 Bridges, Robert, cci. cciv. 
 
 Browning, Robert, xiil xx. xxiv. xlix. Ixxiii. ciii. cvi. 
 
 Bryant, William Cullen, clxxxix. 
 
 Buchanan, Robert, xxxiv. cxxxiv. cc. 
 
 Craik, Dinah Maria, xxviii. 
 
 Dobson, Austin, Ixiv. cxxxiil cxlii. ccii. ccv. ccxiv. 
 
 ccxviii. ccxx. 
 
 Domett, Alfred, xxxi Ixxv. cv. 
 Dowden, Edward, IxxxiL cxxvi. cxxx. cxxxv. cli. 
 Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings, cxviii. cxxxi. clxxxvii. 
 
 Eliot, George, civ. cix. cxxxvii. cxlv. 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, cxlix. 
 
INDEX OF WRITERS. 381 
 
 Gosse, Edmund W., xxi. cxxii. cliv. ccvi. ccxvi. ccxxi. 
 Greenwell, Dora, cl. 
 
 Hedderwick, James, Ivii. clxvii. clxxiv. 
 Houghton, Lord, xli. Ixi. xcii. xcvi. cxii. 
 
 Inchbold, J. W., civ. 
 Ingelow, Jean, ex. 
 
 Locker, Frederick, xlvii. Ixvii. Ixix. Ixxxix. cviii. clxxi. 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, cxvii. clxxxiv. 
 
 Lowell, James Russell, xvi. xxix. clxviii. clxix. clxxv. 
 
 clxxxv. clxxxvi. 
 Lytton, Lord, x. cxix. 
 
 MacDoixald, George, Ixxxvi. cxxviii. 
 
 Marston, Philip Bourke, cxli. clvi. clvii. 
 
 Marzials, Theophile, Ixxxiii. Ixxxiv. Ixxxv. ccix. 
 
 Massey, Gerald, Ivi Ixxix. 
 
 Meredith, George, lix. cxlviii. 
 
 Miller, Joaquin, cxvi. 
 
 Monkhouse, W. Cosmo, ccxi. 
 
 Morris, Lewis, xix. xl. xciii. cvii. cxv. 
 
 Morris, William, xcvii. xcviii. xcix. 
 
 Myers, Ernest, xxv. cxlvi. 
 
 Myers, Frederick, Iv. Ixxxviii. 
 
 Newman, Dr., xci. cxliv. 
 Noel, Hon. Roden, xv. 
 
 O'Shaughnessy, Arthur, xviii. xxxvii. Ixiii. 
 
 Palgrave, Francis Turner, liv. Ixxxvii. xc. cii. 
 Patmore, Coventry, xiv. xcv. cxxxii. 
 Paton, Sir Noel, xxxii. 
 
 Payne, John, clxxix. cciii. ccvii. ccx. ccxii. ccxiii. ccxvii. 
 ccxix. ccxxii. 
 
382 INDEX OF WRITERS. 
 
 Pennell, H. Cholmondeley, lii. 
 Pfeiffer, Emily, cxcviii. ccxv. 
 
 Rhoadcs, James, cxliii. clxxvii. 
 
 Rossetti, Christina, xxxvi. xxxviii. xxxix, cxx. cxxxvi. clxx. 
 Rossctti, Dante Gabriel, xvii. xlviii. cxlvii. clviii. clix. 
 clxi. clxii. clxxii. 
 
 Sawyer, William, Ixviii. 
 
 Saxe, John Godfrey, clxv. clxvi. 
 
 Scott, William Bell, clxiv. cbpcviil cxcv. cxcvi. cxcvii. 
 
 cxcix. 
 
 Simcox, George Augustus, vi. 
 Southesk, Earl of, liii. Ixx. Ixxvi. 
 Stedman, Edmund Clarence, ix. Ixxii. cxxxviii. 
 Story, W. \V., Ixxxi. 
 Swinburne, Algernon Charles, xii. 1. 
 
 Taylor, Sir Henry, It (see Vere, Aubrey de). 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred, iii. xi. xxiii. xliii. Ixxvii. Ixxviii. clxiii. 
 
 Tollemache, Beatrix, cxxxix. 
 
 Townley, Mary, cxxiv. 
 
 Trench, Archbishop, xciv. cxxix. clxxvi. 
 
 Turner, Rev. Charles Tennyson, cliii. clx. 
 
 Vere, Aubrey de, xxvi. Ixii. cxxi. (with Sir Henry Taylor), 
 clxxx. clxxxi. 
 
 Waddington, Samuel, ccviii. 
 
 Warren, Hon. J. Leicester, iv. Ixxx. 
 
 Webster, Augusta, xxx. xxxv. cxiii. cxiv. cxxvii. cxl. 
 
 Wilton, Rev. Richard, clxxxii. clxxxiii. 
 
 Woolner, Thomas, Ixv. Ixxi. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 v>. 
 
 A genial moment oft has given 94 
 
 A lark in the mesh of the tangled vine . . . .212 
 
 A little time for laughter . . . . . .141 
 
 A momentary wish passed through my brain . . .187 
 A month or twain to live on honeycomb . . . .12 
 
 A rose, but one, none other rose had I . . -23 
 
 A sigh in the morning gray ! . . . . . . 26 
 
 A smile because the nights are short ! . . . -39 
 Across the glory of the evening skies .... 101 
 
 Ah me, dread friends of mine, Love, Time, and Death . 171 
 Ah, memory ! ah, ruthless memory ! . . . 1 79 
 
 All down the linden-alley's morning shade ... 41 
 
 All that I know 106 
 
 Along the shore, along the shore . . . . .28 
 
 And what is Love by Nature ? ..... 4 
 
 Are sorrows hard to bear, the ruin . . . .126 
 
 As a twig trembles which a bird ..... 29 
 
 As I sat sorrowing ........ 213 
 
 Ask nothing more of me, sweet ..... 50 
 
 Away ! away ! The dream was vain . . . . 10 
 
 Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath ! . .189 
 Beating heart ! we come again ..... 47 
 
 Behold, above the mountains there is light . . .221 
 Beneath those buttressed walls with lichen grey . .178 
 Between the hands, between the brows . . . .48 
 
 Blessed is he who hath not trod the ways . . .181 
 Bud and leaflet, opening slowly ..... 45 
 
 By studying my lady's eyes ...... 8 
 
 By the bursting of the leaves ..... 100 
 
 Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet .... 44 
 
 Close as the stars along the sky ..... 54 
 
 Come to green under-glooms, and in your hair . . 200 
 
384 /r/VT.Y OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 NO. 
 
 Come to the woods, Medora 53 
 
 Consider the sea's listless chime 147 
 
 Could we but know 138 
 
 Count each affliction, whether light or grave . . .180 
 Dear love, I have not ask'd you yet 33 
 
 Each hour until we meet is as a bird . . . .158 
 Even in a palace, life may be led well ! . . . .190 
 Every day a Pilgrim, blindfold ..... I 
 Fair garden, where the man and woman dwell . . 198 
 
 Fair is my Love, so fair 68 
 
 FoiTd by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn . . -194 
 "Follow Me," Jesus said ; and they uprose . . .199 
 For me no roseate garlands twine ... .121 
 
 From morn to evening, this day, yesterday . . .164 
 
 From the outskirts of the town 117 
 
 Girls when I am gone away . . . . . 135 
 
 Give her but a least excuse to love me ! . . . -49 
 Gray cloud, gray veil 'twixt me and youth ... 90 
 Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing ! . .11 
 He saves the sheep, the goats he cannot save ! . .191 
 Hence, rude Winter ! crabbed old fellow . . .105 
 
 Here, in this leafy place 133 
 
 His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dips . . . .204 
 
 How gently, beautiful, and calm 131 
 
 I a*k not for those thoughts, that sudden leap . . .185 
 
 bring a garland for your head 122 
 
 cannot kiss thee as I used to kiss 80 
 
 grieve not that ripe Knowledge takes away . . .186 
 
 have been here before ' 7 
 
 have not, yet I would have loved thee, sweet . . 35 
 
 hold within my hand a lute 15 
 
 know not if a keener smart 93 
 
 learnt a lesson from the flowers to-day . . . .183 
 
 made another garden, yea 18 
 
 I said : " Nay, pluck not, let the first fruit be . .172 
 I said to Love, " Lo one thing troubles me ! . . . 157 
 
 I saw, I saw the lovely child 88 
 
 I saw in dream where met proud rivers twain . . . 177 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 385 
 
 NO. 
 
 I thank thee, dear, for words that fleet . . . -55 
 I would not have this perfect love of ours ... 68 
 I would thou might'st not vex me with thine eyes, . . 107 
 If but thy heart were stone ...... 146 
 
 If by any device or knowledge 87 
 
 If ever, dear 40 
 
 If he would come to-day, to-day, to-day .... 38 
 
 If I could choose my paradise 58 
 
 If Love should faint, and half decline .... 206 
 
 If our Love may fail, Lily 15 
 
 In all my singing and speaking 37 
 
 In the long enchanted weather 63 
 
 In the time when water-lilies shake .... 34 
 
 It is, indeed, a little while 89 
 
 It may be that our homeward longings made . . .176 
 It was in the prime ....... 104 
 
 It was not like your great and gracious ways ! . . . 132 
 Kiss me, sweetheart ; the Spring is here .... 203 
 
 Let not our lips pronounce the word Farewell . .167 
 Let them go by the heats, the doubts, the strife . .130 
 
 Life knows no dead so beautiful 116 
 
 Life lapses by for you and me 207 
 
 Light, so low upon earth 78 
 
 Light's Love, the timorous bird, to dwell ... 2 
 
 Like an island in a river 60 
 
 Like to the moan of buried rivers . . . . .118 
 
 Little dimples so sweet and soft 66 
 
 Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man . . -193 
 Love is come with a song and a smile 3 
 
 Love is the Minstrel ; for in God's own sight . . .154 
 "Love thou thy Neighbour," we are told ... 56 
 Love walks with weary feet the upward way . . .156 
 
 Love within the lover's breast 59 
 
 Man dwells apart, though not alone . . . .no 
 My day and night are in my lady's hand . . . .210 
 
 My heart is freighted full of love 61 
 
 My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes . . 95 
 My only love is always near ...... 108 
 
 My soul is sick of nightingale and rose . . . .211 
 
 2 B 
 
386 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 NO. 
 
 Myriad Roses, un regretted, perish in their vernal bloom . 96 
 Never again. The shivering rose, that sees ... 30 
 Noon and the north-west sweeps the empty road . . 97 
 
 Not yet, not yet, the light 139 
 
 Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods . .188 
 
 ." O bairn, when I am dead 134 
 
 O bridesmaid, ere the happy knot was tied . . .163 
 O fair midspring. besung so oft and oft . . . 99 
 
 O late and sweet, too sweet, too late . . . .124 
 
 O life, O death, O world, O time 129 
 
 O Lily, with the sun of heaven's 71 
 
 O most fair God, O Love both new and old . . . 222 
 
 O Summer-time, so passing sweet 215 
 
 O wherefore ever onward, Love ! O why . . . 155 
 Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told . . . .161 
 
 Oh ! love is like the rose 27 
 
 Oh no ! you shall not catch me in the snare . . .81 
 
 Oh roses for the flush of youth 120 
 
 Oh! were I rich and mighty 19 
 
 On the tall buttress of a Minster gray . . . .182 
 
 One so fair none so fair 79 
 
 Only a bee made prisoner 22 
 
 Only when Summer's sun is high 74 
 
 Others abide our question Thou art free I . . . 152 
 Others have pleasantness and praise .... 6 
 Our love is not a fading, earthly flower .... 169 
 
 Pass, falling rose ! 123 
 
 Passing away, saith the World, passing away . . .136 
 44 Princes ! and you, most valorous . . . .218 
 Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control . * . . 91 
 
 Push off the boat 137 
 
 Rose kissed me to-day 202 
 
 Round the cape of a sudden came the sea . . -13 
 
 Seek not the tree of silkiest bark 62 
 
 Shame upon you, Robin 43 
 
 She reached a rosebud from the tree .... 84 
 Slayer of the winter, art thou here again ? . . 98 
 
 Sleep, lady fair ! 46 
 
 Sleeping, I dreamed that thou wast mine ... 72 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 387 
 
 NO. 
 
 Slips of a kid-skin deftly sewn 67 
 
 So, the year's done with ! 24 
 
 Somewhere or other there must surely be ... 36 
 Somewhere there waiteth in this world of ours . . 7 
 Spring, art thou come, O Spring! .... 142 
 
 Stay me no more ; the flowers have ceased to blow . . 25 
 Sweet dimness of her loosened hair's downfall . . 162 
 
 Sweet ! in the flow'ry garland of our love ... 32 
 
 Sweet Love is dead 5 
 
 Sweet mouth ! O let me take 75 
 
 Sweet primrose-time ! when thou art here . . . 102 
 The air is white with snow-flakes clinging . . .217 
 The angry sunset fades from out the west . . .127 
 
 The bee to the heather 51 
 
 The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept . .170 
 
 The little gate was reached at last 16 
 
 The mother will not turn, who thinks she hears . 1 59 
 
 The moth's kiss, first ! 73 
 
 The pale sun, through the spectral wood . . . 1 19 
 The rose said, " Let but this long rain be past . . 113 
 The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep . . .184 
 
 The sea is calm to-night 125 
 
 The snow upon the rose-flow'r sits .... 70 
 
 The wanton bee that suck'd the rose .... 83 
 
 The waters are rising and flowing 128 
 
 The white rose decks the breast of May .... 52 
 The world is great : the birds all fly from me . . . 145 
 
 The year's at the spring 103 
 
 There never yet was flower fair in vain . . . . 175 
 There's a Seer's peak on Ararat, they say . . .197 
 They sat beneath the mountain fir . . . 76 
 
 Think me not unkind and rude 149 
 
 This is a spray the Bird clung to 20 
 
 This pirate bold upon Love's sea 208 
 
 To call My Lady where she stood 65 
 
 To-day, what is there in the air ..... 209 
 
 Too soon so fair, fair lilies 114 
 
 To think of thee ! it was thy fond request . . .166 
 'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead . . .192 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LIXES. 
 
 NO. 
 
 Up to her chamber window 42 
 
 Violets, shy violets ! 148 
 
 Waiting, wailing. 'Tis so far 140 
 
 Walled up in sense we know no general plan . . 195 
 
 Warm whispering through the slender olive leaves . . 109 
 We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft . . 69 
 
 Weep not for me 144 
 
 Were I a breath of summer air ..... 57 
 
 Were life to last for ever, love 82 
 
 What do we here who with reverted eyes . . .219 
 What matter what matter O friend, though the Sea . 31 
 What spirit moves the quiring nightingales . . .160 
 
 When Fancy's exhalations rise 112 
 
 When first the rose-light creeps into my room . . .21 
 When first we met we did not guess . . . .201 
 
 When I saw you last, Rose 214 
 
 When I was by Cbloe kiss'd 85 
 
 i Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year . . 153 
 When man alone, or leagued in governments . . 174 
 
 When Spring comes laughing 64 
 
 When the roads are heavy with mire and rut . . . 220 
 
 When the tumult of day is done 143 
 
 Where are last year's snows 115 
 
 Where art thou loveliest, O Nature, tell ! . . .173 
 Where did you come from, baby dear ? . . . .86 
 Where is another sweet as my sweet . . . .77 
 Who can determine the frontier of Pleasure ? . . .92 
 Why do I sing ? I know not why, my friend . . .151 
 " Why do I love thee?" Thus, in earnest wise . . 165 
 
 Why should I constant be ? 9 
 
 With all my will, but much against my heart ... 14 
 
 With pipe and flute the rustic Pan 205 
 
 With what vain speculations do we slake . . .196 
 
 Wouldst thou not be content to die 216 
 
 Yes ! in the sea of life enisled 1 1 1 
 
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