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THE DANCING BEAR. —- DEATH OF QUEEN MERCEDES.
Like him who, in the desert's awful Nor in that vernal stem the cross foreframe,
know Notches his cockney initials on the That Age shall bear, silent, yet unre. Sphinx.
THE DANCING BEAR.
NIGHTWATCHES. Far over Elf-land poets stretch their While the slow clock, as they were miswav,
ser's gold, And win their dearest crowns beyond the Counts and recounts the mornward steps
of Time, Of their own conscious purpose; they The darkness thrills with conscience of control
each crime With gossamer threads wide-flown our By Death committed, daily grown more fancy's play,
bold. And so our action. On my walk to-day, Once more the list of all my wrongs is A wallowing bear begged clumsily his told, toll,
And ghostly hands stretch to me from When straight a vision rose of Atta my prime Troll,
Helpless farewells, as from an alien And scenes ideal witched mine eyes clime; away.
For each new loss redoubles all the old. “ Merci, Mossieu !” the astonished bear. This morn 't was May; the blossoms ward cried,
were astir Grateful for thrice his hope to me, the With southern wind; but now the boughs slave
are bent Of partial memory, seeing at his side With snow instead of birds, and all things A bear immortal.' The glad dole I gave freeze. Was none of mine ; poor Heine o'er the How much of all my past is dumb with wide
her, Atlantic welter stretched it from his And of my future, too, for with her grave.
Half of that world I ever cared to please!
DEATH OF QUEEN MERCEDES. The Maple puts her corals on in May, While loitering frosts about the lowlands Hers all that Earth could promise or cling,
bestow,To be in tune with what the robins sing, Youth, Beauty, Love, a crown, the beckPlastering new log - huts 'mid her oning years, branches gray ;
Lids never wet, unless with joyous tears, But when the Autumn southward turns A life remote from every sordid woe, away,
And by a nation's swelled to lordlier Then in her veins burns most the blood flow. of Spring,
What lurking-place, thought we, for And every leaf, intensely blossoming,
doubts or fears, Makes the year's sunset pale the set of When, the day's swan, she swam along day.
the cheers O Youth unprescient, were it only so I Of the Alcalá, five happy months ago ? With trees you plant, and in whose shade The guns were shouting Io Hymen then reclined,
That, on her birthday, now denounce Thinking their drifting blooms Fate's | her doom; coldest snow,
The same white steeds that tossed their You carve dear names upon the faithful scorn of men rind,
To-day as proudly drag her to the tomb.
PRISON OF CERVANTES. — PESSIMOPTIMISM.
Grim jest of fate! Yet who dare call it | With all Heaven's blue before them : blind,
Memory Knowing what life is, what our human- Or Music is it such enchantment sings ?
THE EYE'S TREASURY.
Gold of the reddening sunset, backward SEAT of all woes? Though Nature's thrown firm decree
In largess ou my tall paternal trees, The narrowing soul with narrowing dun- Thou with false hope or fear didst never geon bind,
tease Yet was his free of motion as the wind, | His heart that hoards thee ; nor is childAnd held both worlds, of spirit and sense, hood flown in fee.
From him whose life no fairer boon hath In charmed communion with his dual known
Than that what pleased him earliest still He wandered Spain, himself both knight should please. and hind,
And who hath incomes safe from chance Redressing wrongs he knew must ever be.
as these, His humor wise could see life's long de Gone in a moment, yet for life his own ? ceit,
All other gold is slave of earthward Man's battled aims, nor therefore both laws; despise ;
i This to the deeps of ether takes its flight, His knightly nature could ill fortune And on the topmost leaves makes glorigreet
ous pause Like an old friend. Whose ever such Of parting pathos ere it yield to night: kind eyes
So linger, as from me earth's light withThat pierced so deep, such scope, save draws, his whose feet
Dear touch of Nature, tremulously By Avon ceased 'neath the same April's bright!
Ye little think what toil it was to build
A world of men imperfect even as this, So dreamy-soft the notes, so far away Where we conceive of Good by what we They seem to fall, the horns of Oberon
miss, Blow their faint Hunt's - up from the Of III by that wherewith best days are good-time gone;
filled; Or, on a morning of long-withered May, A world whose every atom is self-willed, Larks tinkle unseen o'er Claudian arches Whose corner-stone is propt on artifice, gray,
Whose joy is shorter-lived than woman's That Romeward crawl from Dreamland; and anon
Whose wisdom hoarded is but to be My fancy flings her cloak of Darkness spilled. on,
| Yet this is better than a life of caves, To vanish from the dungeon of To-day. Whose highest art was scratching on a In happier times and scenes I seem to bone, be,
Or chipping toilsome arrowheads of Aint; And, as her fingers flutter o'er the Better, though doomed to hear while strings,
Cleon raves, The days return when I was young as To see wit's want eterned in paint or she,
stone, And my fledged thoughts began to feel and wade the drain-drenched shoals of their wings
What countless years and wealth of What were the whole void world, if brain were spent
thou wert dead, To bring us hither from our caves and Whose briefest absence can eclipse my huts,
day, And trace through pathless wilds the And make the hours that danced with • deep-worn ruts
Time away Of faith and habit, by whose deep indent Drag their funereal steps with muffled Prudence may guide if genius be not head ? lent, —
Through thee, meseems, the very rose is Genius, not always happy when it shuts
red, Its ears against the plodder's ifs and From thee the violet steals its breath in
May, Hoping in one rash leap to snatch the From thee draw life all things that grow event.
not gray, The coursers of the sun, whose hoofs of And by thy force the happy stars are flame
sped. Consume morn's unisty threshold, are Thou near, the hope of thee to overflow exact
Fills all my earth and heaven, as when As bankers' clerks, and all this star in Spring, poised frame,
Ere April come, the birds and blossoms One swerve allowed, were with convul know, sion rackt;
And grasses brighten round her feet to This world were doomed, should Dulness
cling; fail, to tame
Nay, and this hope delights all nature so Wit's feathered heels in the stern stocks That the dumb turf I tread on seems to
Hoping wel of the e
Almond-blossoms, now adance (Love called, and I could not linger,
Of the dreaming lutanist.
And though you had said it and said it, Tiny cheeses made with cream
“We must not be happy to-day,"
When the down is on the chin
And the gold-gleam in the hair, Garnered on a Yorkshire moor,
When the birds their sweethearts win While the last larks sing and soar,
And champagne is in the air, From the heather-blossoms sweet
Love is here, and Love is there,
Love is welcome everywhere.
Summer's cheek too soon turns thin,
Days grow briefer, sunshine rare; Next the pestle and mortar find.
Autumn from his cannekin Pure rock-crystal, -- these to grind
Blows the froth to chase Despair : Into paste more smooth than silk,
Love is met with frosty stare,
Cannot house 'neath branches bare.
When new life is in the leaf
And new red is in the rose, While, for her completer spell,
Though Love's Maytime be as brief Mystic canticles she croons,
As a dragon-fly's repose,
Never moments come like those, Eleanor makes macaroons !
Be they Heaven or Hell: who knows ? Perfect! and all this to waste On a gray beard's palsied taste !
All too soon comes Winter's grief, Poets so their verses write,
Spendthrift Love's false friends turn foes; Heap them full of life and light,
Softly comes Old Age, the thief, And then fling them to the rude
Steals the rapture, leaves the throes : Mumbling of the multitude.
Love his mantle round him throws, – Not so dire her fate as theirs,
“ Time to say Good-bye; it spows." Since her friend this gift declares Choicest of his birthday boons,
“FRANCISCUS DE VERULAMIO SIC Eleanor's dear macaroons !
COGITAVIT. February 22, 1884.
That's a rather bold speech, my Lord TELEPATHY.
For, indeed, is 't so easy to know “And how could you dream of meet- Just how much we from others have ing?”
taken, Nay, how can you ask me, sweet ? And how much our own natural flow? All day my pulse had been beating The tune of your coming feet. Since your mind bubbled up at its foun
tain, And as nearer and ever nearer
How many streams made it elate, _I felt the throb of your tread,
While it calmed to the plain from the To be in the world grew dearer,
mountain, And my blood ran rosier red.
As every mind must that grows great ?