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DAS EWIG-WEIBLICHE. —- THE RECALL. — ABSENCE.

Waif of the young World's wonder-| Ah, did we know to give her all her hour,

right, When gods found mortal maidens fair, What wonders even in our poor clay And will malign was joined with power

were done! Love's kindly laws to overbear,

It is not Woman leaves us to our night,

But our brute earth that grovels from Like Progne, did it feel the stress

her sun. And coil of the prevailing words Close round its being, and compress Our nobler cultured fields and gracious Man's ampler nature to a bird's ?

domes

We whirl too oft from her who still One only memory left of all

shines on The motley crowd of vanished scenes, To light in vain our caves and clefts, the Hers, and vain impulse to recall

homes By repetition what it means.

Of night-bird instincts pained till she

be gone. Phæbe ! is all it has to say In plaintive cadence o'er and o'er, Still must this body starve our souls with Like children that have lost their way,

shade; And know their names, but nothing But when Death makes us what we more.

were before,

Then shall her sunshine all our depths Is it a type, since Nature's Lyre

invade, Vibrates to every note in man,

And not a shadow stain heaven's crysOf that insatiable desire,

tal floor. Meant to be so since life began ?

I, in strange lands at gray of dawn,

THE RECALL. Wakeful, have heard that f uitless plaint Through Memory's chambers deep with-COME back before the birds are flown, drawn

Before the leaves desert the tree, Renew its iterations faint.

And, through the lonely alleys blown,

Whisper their vain regrets to me So nigh! yet from remotest years Who drive before a blast more rude, It summons back its magic, rife

The plaything of my gusty mood, With longings unappeased, and tears In vain pursuing and pursued ! Drawn from the very source of life.

Nay, come although the boughs be bare,

Though snowflakes fledge the summer's DAS EWIG-WEIBLICHE.

nest,

And in some far Ausonian air How was I worthy so divine a loss, The thrush, your minstrel, warm his Deepening my midnights, kindling all breast. my morps ?

Come, sunshine's treasurer, and bring Why waste such precious wood to make To doubting flowers their faith in spring, my cross,

To birds and me the need to sing ! Such far-sought roses for my crown of thorns ?

ABSENCE. And when she came, how earned I such a gift?

SLEEP is Death's image, - poets tell us Why spend on me, a poor earth-delv

so; ing mole,

But Absence is the bitter self of Death. The fireside sweetnesses, the heavenward And, you away, Life's lips their red lift,

forego, The hourly mercy, of a woman's Parched in an air unfreshened by your soul?

breath.

MONNA LISA. — THE OPTIMIST. — BURNING OLD LETTERS. 465

Light of those eyes that made the light From past and future toils I rest, of mine,

One Sabbath pacities my year; Where shive you ? On what happier I am the halcyon, this my nest; fields and flowers ?

| And all is safely for the best Heaven's lamps renew their lustre less While the World 's there and I am divine,

here. But only serve to count my darkened hours.

So I turn tory for the nonce,

And think the radical a bore, If with your presence went your image Who cannot see, thick-witted dunce, 100,

That what was good for people once That braiu-born ghost my path would Must be as good forevermore.

never cross Which meets me now where'er I once Sun, sink no deeper down the sky; met you,

Earth, never change this summer mood; Then vanishes, to multiply my loss. Breeze, loiter thus forever by,

Stir the dead leaf or let it lie :

Since I am happy, all is good.
MONNA LISA.

MIDDLETON, August, 1884.
She gave me all that woman can,
Nor her soul's nunnery furego, ON BURNING SOME OLD LETTERS.
A confidence that man to man
Without remorse can never show. With what odorous woods and spices

Spared for royal sacrifices, Rare art, that can the sense refine With what costly gums seld-seen, Till not a pulse rebellious stirs, Hoarded to embalm a queen, And, since she never can be mine, With what frankincense and myrrh, Makes it seem sweeter to be hers ! Burn these precious parts of her,

Full of life and light and sweetness

As a summer day's completeness,
THE OPTIMIST.

Joy of sun and song of bird

Running wild in every word, TURBID from London's noise and smoke, | Full of all the superhuman Here I find air and quiet too :

Grace and winsomeness of woman? Air filtered through the beech and oak,

O'er these leaves her wrist has slid, Quiet by nothing harsher broke

Thrilled with veins where fire is hid Than wood-dove's meditative coo. 'Neath the skin's pellucid veil,

Like the opal's passion pale; The Truce of God is here: the breeze This her breath hath sweetened ; this Sighs as men sigh relieved from care, Still seems trembling with the kiss Or tilts as lightly in the trees

She half-ventured on my name, As might a robin : all is ease,

Brow and cheek and throat aflame; With pledge of ampler ease to spare. Over all caressing lies

Sunshine left there by her eyes;
Time, leaning on his scythe, forgets From them all an ettiluence rare
To turn the hourglass in his hand, With her nearness fills the air,
And all life's petty cares and frets, Till the murmur I half-hear
Its teasing hopes and weak regrets, Of her light feet drawing near.
Are still as that oblivious sand.

Rarest woods were coarse and rough,
Repose fills all the generous space Sweetest spice not sweet enough,
Of undulant plain; the rook and crow Too impure all earthly fire
Hush ; 't is as if a silent grace,

For this sacred funeral-pyre; By Nature murmured, calmed the face These rich relics must suffice of Heaven above and Earth below. | For their own dear sacrifice.

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THE PROTEST. — THE PETITION. — FACT OR FANCY ?

Seek we first an altar fit

But that a glow from deeper skies, For such victims laid on it;

From conscious fountains inore divine, It shall be this slab, brought home Is (is it?) mine. In old happy days from Rome, – Lazuli, once blest to line

Be beautiful to all mankind, Dian's inmost cell and shrine.

As Nature fashioned thee to be ; Gently now I lay them there,

'T would anger me did all not find Pure as Dian's forehead bare,

The sweet perfection that 's in thee: Yet suffused with warmer hue,

Yet keep one charm of charms beSuch as only Latmos knew.

hind,

Nay, thou 'rt so rich, keep two or three Fire I gather from the sun

For (is it?) me!
In a virgin lens : 't is done!
Mount the flames, red, yellow, blue,
As her moods were shining through,

THE PETITION.
Of the moment's impulse born, -
Moods of sweetness, playful scorn, Oh, tell me less or tell me more,
Half defiance, half surrender,

Soft eyes with mystery at the core,
More than cruel, more than tender, That always seem to meet my own
Flouts, caresses, sunshine, shade,

Frankly as pansies fully blown,
Gracious doublings of a maid

Yet waver still 'tween no and yes !
Infinite in guileless art,
Playing hide-seek with her heart. So swift to cavil and deny,

Then parley with concessions shy,
On the altar now, alas,

Dear eyes, that make their youth be There they lie a crinkling mass,

mine Writhing still, as if with grief

And through my inmost shadows shine, Went the life from every leaf;

Oh, tell me more or tell me less !
Then (heart-breaking palimpsest !)
Vanishing ere wholly guessed,
Suddenly some lines flash back,

FACT OR FANCY ?
Traced in lightning on the black,
And confess, till now denied,

In town I hear, scarce wakened yet, All the fire they strove to hide.

My neighbor's clock behind the wall What they told me, sacred trust, Record the day's increasing debt, Stays to glorify my dust,

And Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! faintly call.
There to burn through dust and damp
Like a mage's deathless lamp,

Our senses run in deepening grooves, While an atom of this frame

Thrown out of which they lose their Lasts to feed the dainty flame.

tact,

And consciousness with effort moves All is ashes now, but they

From habit past to present fact.
In my soul are laid away,
And their radiance round me hovers So, in the country waked to-day,
Soft as moonlight over lovers,

I hear, unwitting of the change,
Shutting her and me alone

A cuckoo's throb from far away In dream-Edens of our own;

Begin to strike, nor think it strange.
First of lovers to invent
Love, and teach men what it meant. The sound creates its wonted frame :

My bed at home, the songster hid
THE PROTEST.

Behind the wainscoting, -- all came

As long association bid.
I COULD not bear to see those eyes
On all with wasteful largess shine,

Then, half-aroused, ere yet Sleep's mist
And that delight of welcome rise From the mind's uplands furl away,
Like sunshine strained through amber To the familiar sound I list,
wine,

| Disputed for by Night and Day.

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I have it ! Grant, ye kindly Powers,
I from this spot may never stir,

A CHRISTMAS CAROL
If only these uncounted hours
May pass, and seem too short, with Her! FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL CHILDREN

OF THE CHURCH OF THE DISCIPLES. But who She is, her form and face, These to the world of dream belong; “What means this glory round our feet," She moves through fancy's visioned The Magi mused, “more bright than space,

morn?Unbodied, like the cuckoo's song. And voices chanted clear and sweet,

“To-day the Prince of Peace is AGRO-DOLCE.

born!” One kiss from all others prevents me,

“What means that star," the Shepherds

said, And sets all my pulses astir, And burns on thy lips and torments me:

“ That brightens through the rocky "Tis the kiss that I fain would give her. And angels, answering overhead,

glen ?" One kiss for all others requites me,

Sang, “ Peace on earth, good-will to

men ! Although it is never to be, And sweetens my dreams and invites me : 'T is the kiss that she dare not give me.

'Tis eighteen hundred years and more

Since those sweet oracles were dumb; Ah, could it be inine, it were sweeter

We wait for Him, like them of yore; Than honey bees garner in dream,

Alas, He seems so slow to come!
Though its bliss on my lips were filceter
Than a swallow's dip to the stream.

But it was said, in words of gold

No time or sorrow e'er sball dim, And yet, thus denied, it can never

That little children might be bold
In the prose of life vanish away ;

In perfect trust to come to Him.
O'er my lips it must hover forever,
The sunshine and shade of my day.

All round about our feet shall shine

A light like that the wise men saw,

If we our loving wills incline
THE BROKEN TRYST.

To that sweet Life which is the Law. WALKING alone where we walked to So shall we learn to understand gether,

| The simple faith of shepherds then, When June was breezy and blue, And, clasping kindly hand in hand, I watch in the gray autumnal weather Sing, “Peace on earth, good-will to The leaves fall inconstant as you.

men!” If a dead leaf startle behind me, And they who do their souls no wrong, I think 't is your garment's hem,

But keep at ere the faith of morn, And, oh, where no memory could find me, Shall daily hear the angel-song, Might I whirl away with them!

“To-day the Prince of Peace is born!” gold,

MY PORTRAIT GALLERY.

SONNET. Opt round my hall of portraiture I gaze,

Scottish Border. By Memory reared, the artist wise and holy,

As sinks the son behind yon alien hills From stainless quarries of deep-buried Whose heather-purpled slopes, in glory days.

rolled, There, as I muse in soothing melancholy, Flush all my thought with momentary Your faces glow in more than mortal | youth,

What pang of vague regret my fancy Companions of my prime, now vanished thrills ? wholly,

Here 't is enchanted ground the pea ant The loud, impetnous boy, the low-voiced tills, maiden,

Where the shy ballad dared its blooms Now for the first time seen in flawless unfold, truth.

And memory's glamour makes new Ah, never master that drew mortal breath sights seem old, Can match thy portraits, just and gener As when our life some vanished dream ous Death,

fulfils. Whose brush with sweet regretful tints is yet not to thee belong these painless laden !

tears, Thou painiest that which struggled here Land loved ere seen : before my darkened below

eyes, Half unders ood, or understood for woe, From far beyond the waters and the And with a swiet forewarning

years, Mak'st round the sacred front an aureole Horizons mute that wait their poet rise; glow

The stream before me fades and disapWoven of that light that rose on Easter | pears, morning.

And in the Charles the western splendor

dies. PAOLO TO FRANCESCA.

SONNET. I was with thee in Heaven : I cannot tell If years or moments, so the sudden bliss, On being asked for an Autograph in Venice. When first we found, then lost, us in a kiss,

AMID these fragments of heroic days Abolished Time, abolished Earth and When thought met deed with mutual Hell,

passion's leap, Left only Heaven. Then from our blue There sits a Fame whose silent trump there fell

makes cheap The dagger's flash, and did not fall amiss, What short-lived rumor of ourselves we For nothing now can rob my life of raise this,

They had far other estimate of praise That once with thee in Heaven, all else who stamped the signet of their souls so is well.

deep Us, undivided when man's vengeance In art and action, and whose memories came,

keep God's half-forgives that doth not here Their height like stars above our misty divide;

ways: And, were this bitter whirl-blast fanged In this grave presence to record my with flame,

name To me 't were summer, we being side by Something within me hangs the head side:

and shrinks. This granted, I God's mercy will not Dull were the soul without some joy in blame,

fame; For, given thy nearness, nothing is de- Yet here to claim remembrance were,

methinks,

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