462

THE NEST.

gray,

And I of years had more than plenty; The almanac 's a fool! T is May! Hang family Bibles! I am twenty!

"Come, Joan, your arm; we 'll walk the

room

The lane, I mean- - do you remember?

How co tident the roses bloom,

As if it ne'er could be December!

"Nor more it shall, while in your eyes
My heart its summer heat recovers,
And you, howe'er your mirror lies,
Find your old beauty in your lover's."

THE NEST.

MAY.

WHEN Oaken woods with buds are pink, And new-come birds each morning sing,

When fickle May on Summer's brink

Pauses, and knows not which to fling, Whether fresh bud and bloom again, Or hoar-frost silvering hill and plain,

Then from the honeysuckle gray

The oriole with experienced quest Twitches the fibrous bark away, The cordage of his hammock-nest, Cheering his labor with a note Rich as the orange of his throat.

High o'er the loud and dusty road

The soft gray cup in safety swings, To brim ere August with its load

Of downy breasts and throbbing wings,

O'er which the friendly elm-tree heaves An emerald roof with sculptured eaves.

Below, the noisy World drags by

In the old way, because it must,
The bride with heartbreak in her eye,
The mourner following hated dust:
Thy duty, winged flame of Spring,
Is but to love, and fly, and sing.

Oh, happy life, to soar and sway
Above the life by mortals led,
Singing the merry months away,

Master, not slave of daily bread,

Slow rolls onward the verse with a long swell heaving and swinging, Seeming to wait till, gradually wid'ning from far-off horizons,

Piling the deeps up, heaping the glad

hearted surges before it, Gathers the thought as a strong wind darkening and cresting the tumult. Then every pause, every heave, each trough in the waves, has its meaning; Full-sailed, forth like a tall ship steadies the theme, and around it, Leaping beside it in glad strength, running in wild glee beyond it Harmonies billow exulting and floating the soul where it lists them, Swaying the listener's fantasy hither and

thither like driftweed.

BIRTHDAY VERSES. WRITTEN IN A CHILD'S ALBUM.

"T WAS sung of old in hut and hall How once a king in evil hour Hung musing o'er his castle wall, And, lost in idle dreams, let fall Into the sea his ring of power.

To him the simple spell who knows
The spirits of the ring to sway,
Fresh power with every sunrise flows,
And royal pursuivants are those
That fly his mandates to obey.

But he that with a slackened will
Dreams of things past or things to be,

From him the charm is slipping still, And drops, ere he suspect the ill, Into the inexorable sea.

ESTRANGEMENT.

THE path from me to you that led,
Untrodden long, with grass is grown,
Mute carpet that his lieges spread
Before the Prince Oblivion
When he goes visiting the dead.

And who are they but who forget?
You, who my coming could surmise
Ere any hint of me as yet

Warned other ears and other eyes,
See the path blurred without regret.

But when I trace its windings sweet
With saddened steps, at every spot
That feels the memory in my feet,

Each grass-blade turns forget-me-not, Where murmuring bees your name repeat.

PHOEBE.

ERE pales in Heaven the morning star,
A bird, the loneliest of its kind,
Hears Dawn's faint footfall from afar
While all its mates are dumb and blind.

It is a wee sad-colored thing,
As shy and secret as a maid,
That, ere in choir the robinsing,
Pipes its own name like one afraid.

It seems pain-prompted to repeat
The story of some ancient ill,
But Phobe! Phabe! sadly sweet
Is all it says, and then is still.

It calls and listens. Earth and sky,
Hushed by the pathos of its fate,
Listen: no whisper of reply
Comes from its doom-dissevered mate.

Phoebe! it calls and calls again,
And Ovid, could he but have heard,
Had hung a legendary pain
About the memory of the bird;

A pain articulate so long

In penance of some mouldered crime Whose ghost still flies the Furies' thong Down the waste solitudes of time.

of mine,

465

One Sabbath pacities my year;
I am the halcyon, this my nest;
And all is safely for the best
While the World's there and I am
here.

So I turn tory for the nonce,
And think the radical a bore,
Who cannot see, thick-witted dunce,
That what was good for people once
Must be as good forevermore.

Sun, sink no deeper down the sky;
Earth, never change this summer mood;
Breeze, loiter thus forever by,
Stir the dead leaf or let it lie:
Since I am happy, all is good.
MIDDLETON, August, 1884.

ON BURNING SOME OLD LETTERS. WITH what odorous woods and spices Spared for royal sacrifices, With what costly gums seld-seen, Hoarded to embalm a queen, With what frankincense and myrrh, Burn these precious parts of her, Full of life and light and sweetness As a summer day's completeness, Joy of sun and song of bird Running wild in every word, Full of all the superhuman Grace and winsomeness of woman?

O'er these leaves her wrist has slid,
Thrilled with veins where fire is hid
'Neath the skin's pellucid veil,
Like the opal's passion pale;
This her breath hath sweetened; this
Still seems trembling with the kiss
She half-ventured on my name,
Brow and cheek and throat aflame;
Over all caressing lies

Sunshine left there by her eyes;
From them all an effluence rare
With her nearness fills the air,
Till the murmur I half-hear
Of her light feet drawing near.

Rarest woods were coarse and rough,
Sweetest spice not sweet enough,
Too impure all earthly fire
For this sacred funeral-pyre;
These rich relics must suffice
For their own dear sacrifice.

Fire I gather from the sun
In a virgin lens: 't is done!
Mount the flames, red, yellow, blue,
As her moods were shining through,
Of the moment's impulse bora,
Moods of sweetness, playful scorn,
Half defiance, half surrender,.
More than cruel, more than tender,
Flouts, caresses, sunshine, shade,
Gracious doublings of a maid
Infinite in guileless art,
Playing hide-seek with her heart.

On the altar now, alas,
There they lie a crinkling mass,
Writhing still, as if with grief
Went the life from every leaf;
Then (heart-breaking palimpsest!)
Vanishing ere wholly guessed,
Suddenly some lines flash back,
Traced in lightning on the black,
And confess, till now denied,
All the fire they strove to hide.
What they told me, sacred trust,
Stays to glorify my dust,

There to burn through dust and damp
Like a mage's deathless lamp,
While an atom of this frame
Lasts to feed the dainty flame.

All is ashes now, but they

In my soul are laid away,

And their radiance round me hovers
Soft as moonlight over lovers,
Shutting her and me alone
In dream-Edens of our own;
First of lovers to invent

Love, and teach men what it meant.

THE PROTEST.

I COULD not bear to see those eves
On all with wasteful largess shine,
And that delight of welcome rise
Like sunshine strained through amber
wine,

FACT OR FANCY?

But that a glow from deeper skies, From conscious fountains more divine, Is (is it?) mine.

Be beautiful to all mankind,

As Nature fashioned thee to be; "I would anger me did all not find The sweet perfection that 's in thee: Yet keep one charm of charms be hind,

Nay, thou 'rt so rich, keep two or three For (is it?) me!