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How would the victim to the flamen | That what I prayed for I would fain releap,
ceive. And life for life's redemption paid hold My moon is set; my vision set with her; cheap!
No more can worship vain my pulses
stir. But what resource when she herself de Goddess Triform, I own thy triple spell, scends
My heaven's queen, - queen, too, of my From her blue throne, and o'er her vas earth and hell!
THE BLACK PREACHER.
A BRETON LEGEND. moteness tires, Herself against her other self conspires, Ar Carnac in Brittany, close on the bay, Takes woman's nature, walks in mortal They show you a church, or rather the ways,
gray and And finds in my remorse her beauty's Ribs of a dead one, left there to bleach praise ?
With the wreck lying near on the crest Yet all would I renounce to dream again of the beach, The dream in dreams fulfilled that made Roofless and splintered with thundermy pain,
stone, My noble pain that heightened all my l 'Mid lichen - blurred gravestones all
alone; With crowns to win and prowess-breed- | 'T is the kind of ruin strange sights to ing tears;
see Nay, would that dream renounce once That may have their teaching for you more to see
and me. Her from her sky there looking down at me !
Something like this, then, my guide had
Perched on a saint cracked across when Goddess, reclimb thy heaven, and be he fell ; once more
But since I might chance give his meanAn inaccessible splendor to adore, L ing a wrench, A faith, a hope of such transcendent | He talking his putois and I Englishworth
French, As bred ennobling discontent with earth; I'll put what he told me, preserving the Give back the longing, back the elated
In a rhymed prose that makes it half his, That, fed with thee, spurned every half my own.
meaner good; Give even the spur of impotent despair | An abbey-church stood here, once on a That, without hope, still bade aspire and dare;
Built as a death - bed atonement for Give back the need to worship, that still crime: pours
’T was for somebody's sins, I know not Down to the soul the virtue it adores !
But sinners are plenty, and you can Nay, brightest and most beautiful, deem
Though a cloister now of the duskThese frantic words, the reckless wind winged bat, of thought;
'T was rich enough once, and the Still stoop, still grant, - I live but in brothers grew filt, thy will ;
| Looser in girdle and purpler in jowl, Be what thou wilt, but be a woman still! Singing good rest to the founder's lost Vainly I cried, nor could myself believe
But one day came Northmen, and lithe That do with thy whole might, or thou tongues of fire
shalt rue ; Lapped up the chapter-house, licked off For no man is wealthy, or wise, or the spire,
brave, And left all a rubbish-heap, black and In that quencher of might - be's and dreary,
would-be's, the grave.' Where only the wind sings miserere. Bid by the Bridegroom, Tomorrow,'
ye said, No priest has kneeled since at the altar's And To-morrow was digging a trench
for your bed; Whose crannies are searched by the Ye said, 'God can wait; let us finish our
nightshade's root, Nor sound of service is ever heard, | Ye had wearied Him, fools, and that Except from throat of the unclean bird, last knock was mine!” Hooting to unassoiled shapes as they pass
But I can't pretend to give you the In midnights unholy his witches' mass,
sermon, Or shouting “Ho! ho!” from the belfry Or say if the tongue were French, Latin,
or German; As the Devil's sabbath-train whirls by Whatever he preached in, I give you my
word But once a year, on the eve of All-Souls, | The meaning was easy to all that heard ; Through these arches dishallowed the Famous preachers there have been and organ rolls,
be, Fingers long fleshless the bell-ropes But never was one so convincing as he ; work,
So blunt was never a begging friar, The chimes peal muffled with sea-mists No Jesuit's tongue so barbed with fire, mirk,
Cameronian never, nor Methodist, The skeleton windows are traced anew | Wrung gall out of Scripture with such a On the baleful flicker of corpse lights twist.
And the ghosts must come, so the legend And would you know who his hearers saith,
must be ? To a preaching of Reverend Doctor I tell you just what my guide told me: Death.
Excellent teaching men have, day and
night, Abbots, monks, barons, and ladies fair From iwo earnest friars, a black and a Hear the dull summons and gather white, there :
The Dominican Death and the Carmelite No rustle of silk now, no clink of mail,
Life; Nor ever a one greets his church-mate And between these two there is never pale ;
strife, No knight whispers love in the châte- For each has his separate office and laine's ear,
station, His next-door neighbor this five hundred And each his own work in the congregayear;
tion; No monk has a sleek benedicite
Whoso to the white brother deafens his For the great lord shadowy now as he;
ears, Nor needeth any to hold his breath, And cannot be wrought on by blessings Lest he lose the least word of Doctor or tears, Death.
Awake in his coffin must wait and wait,
In that blackness of darkness that means He chooses his text in the Book Divine, I
too late, Tenth verse of the Preacher in chapter And come once a year, when the ghostpine:
bell tolls, "Whatsoever thy hand shall find thee As till Doomsday it shall on the eve of to do,
To hear Doctor Death, whose words For even our honeymoons must wane, smart with the brine
Convicted of green cheese by Reason. Of the Preacher, the tenth verse of chapter nine.
And none will seem so safe from change,
Nor in such skies benignant hover,
As this, beneath whose witchery strange ARCADIA REDIVIVA.
You tread on rose-leaves with your
lover. I, WALKING the familiur street, While a crammed horse-car jingled The glass unfilled all tastes can fit, through it,
As round its brim Conjecture dances; Was lifted from my prosy feet
For not Mephisto's self hath wit And in Arcadia ere I knew it.
To draw such vintages as Fancy's. Fresh gward for gravel soothed my tread, When our pulse beats its minor key, And shepherd's pipes my ear de- When play-time halves and schoollighted;
time doubles, The riddle may be lightly read :
Age fills the cup with serious tea, I met two lovers newly plighted. Which once Dame Clicquot starred
with bubbles. They murmured by in happy care,
New plans for paradise devising, "Fie, Mr. Graybeard! Is this wise ? Just as the moon, with pensive stare, Is this the moral of a poet, O'er Mistress Craigie's pines was Who, when the plant of Eden dies,
Is privileged once more to sow it?
Astarte, known nigh threescore years,
Me to no speechless rapture urges; Them in Elysium she enspheres,
Queen, from of old, of thaumaturges.
" That herb of clay-disdaining root, | Froin stars secreting what it feeds on, Is burnt-out passion's slag and soot
Fit soil to strew its dainty seeds on ?
The railings put forth bud and bloom, “Pray, why, if in Arcadia once, The house fronts all with myrtles twine Need one so soon forget the way there? them,
Or why, once there, be such a dunce And light-winged Loves in every room ! As not contentedly to stay there ?" Make nests, and then with kisses line them.
Dear child, 't was but a sorry jest,
| And from my heart I hate the cynic O sweetness of untasted life!
Who makes the Book of Life a nest O dream, its own supreme fulfilment! For comments staler than rabbinic. O hours with all illusion rife, As ere the heart divined what ill If Love his simple spell but keep, meant!
Life with ideal eyes to flatter,
The Grail itself were crockery cheap “Et ego," sighed I to myself,
To Every-day's communion-platter. And strove some vain regrets to bridle, “ Though now laid dusty on the shelf, One Darby is to me well known, Was hero once of such an idyl!
Who, as the hearth between them
blazes, “An idyl ever dewly sweet,
Sees the old moonlight shine on Joan, Although since Adam's day recited, And float her youthward in its hazes. Whose measures time them to Love's feet,
He rnbs his spectacles, he stares, Whose sense is every ill requited." | 'T is the same face that witched him
early ! Maiden, if I may counsel, drain
He gropes for his remaining hairs, Each drop of this enchanted season, Is this a fleece that feels so curly ?
“Good heavens! but now 't was winter And, when the Autumn comes, to flee gray,
Wherever sunshine beckons thee!
PALINODE. – DECEMBER.
Like some lorn abbey now, the wood “Come, Joan, your arm; we'll walk the Stands roofless in the bitter air; room
In ruins on its floor is strewed The lane, I mean - do you remem- The carven foliage quaint and rare, ber?
| And homeless winds complain along How confident the roses bloom,
The columned choir once thrilled with As if it ne'er could be December!
song. “Nor more it shall, while in your eyes | And thou, dear nest, whence joy and My heart its summer heat recovers,
praise And you, howe'er your mirror lies,
The thankful oriole used to pour, Find your old beauty in your lover's." Swing'st empty while the north winds
Their snowy swarms from Labrador: THE NEST.
But, loyal to the happy past,
I love thee still for what thou wast.
Ah, when the Summer graces flee
Only bare trunk and disleaved bough; When fickle May on Summer's brink When springs of life that gleamed and Pauses, and knows not which to fling,
gushed Whether fresh bud and bloom again, Run chilled, and slower, and are hushed; Or hoar-frost silvering hill and plain,
When our own branches, naked long, Then from the honeysuckle gray
The vacant nests of Spring betray, The oriole with experienced quest Nurseries of passion, love, and song Twitches the fibrous bark away,
That vanished as our year grew gray ; The cordage of his hammock-nest, When Life drones o'er à tale twice told Cheering his labor with a note
O’er embers pleading with the cold, Rich as the orange of his throat.
I'll trust, that, like the birds of Spring, High o'er the loud and dusty road
Our good goes not without repair, The soft gray cup in safety swings, But only flies to soar and sing To brim ere August with its load
Far off in some diviner air, Of downy breasts and throbbing Where we shall find it in the calms wings,
Of that fair garden 'neath the palms. O'er which the friendly elm-tree heaves An emerald roof with sculptured eaves. Below, the noisy World drags by
A YOUTHFUL EXPERIMENT IN ENG
IMPRESSIONS OF HOMER.
the rapt bard, holding his heart
back, Oh, happy life, to soar and sway
Over his deep mind muses, as when o'er Above the life by mortals led,
awestricken ocean Singing the merry months away, Poises a heapt cloud luridly, ripening Master, not slave of daily bread,
the gale and the thunder;
Slow rolls onward the verse with a long From him the charm is slipping still,
swell heaving and swinging, And drops, ere he suspect the ill, Seeming to wait till, gradually wid'ning Into the inexorable sea.
from far-off horizons, Piling the deeps up, heaping the gladhearted surges before it,
ESTRANGEMENT. Gathers the thought as a strong wind
darkening and cresting the tumult. The path from me to you that led, Then every pause, every heave, each Untrodden long, with grass is grown,
trough in the waves, has its mean-, Mute carpet that his lieges spread
Before the Prince Oblivion
the theme, and around it, Leaping beside it in glad strength, run- | And who are they but who forget ? ning in wild glee beyond it
You, who my coming could surmise Harmonies billow exulting and floating Ere any hint of me as yet the soul where it lists them,
Warned other ears and other eyes, Swaying the listener's fantasy hither and See the path blurred without regret. thither like driftweed.
But when I trace its windings sweet
With saddened steps, at every spot BIRTHDAY VERSES.
That feels the memory in my feet,
Each grass-blade turns forget-me-not, WRITTEN IN A CHILD'S ALBUM. Where murmuring bees your name
ERE pales in Heaven the morning star, Into the sea his ring of power.
| A bird, the loneliest of its kind,
Hears Dawn's faint footfall from afar
Pipes its own name like one afraid.
It seems pain-prompted to repeat
The story of some ancient ill, A magic ring that masters fate
But Phæbe ! Phæbe ! sadly sweet With each succeeding birthday bring Is all it says, and then is still. Therein are set four jewels rare : It calls and listens. Earth and sky, Pearl winter, summer's ruby blaze, Hushed by the pathos of its fate, Spring's emerald, and, than all more fair, Listen : no whisper of reply Fall's pensive opal, doomed to bear Comes from its doom-dissevered mate. A heart of fire bedreamed with haze.
Phoebe! it calls and calls again,
Had hung a legendary pain
A pain articulate so long
In penance of some mouldered crime But he that with a slackened will Whose ghost still flies the Furies' thong Dreams of things past or things to be, Down the waste solitudes of time.