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A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air, The pulse of war and passion of wonder,
The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn,

The heavens that murmur, the sounds that
Warm with the famished fire that lived to burn-

shine, Burn out its lingering life for thy return, The stars that sing and the loves that thunder, Its last of lingering life for thy return,

The music burning at heart like wine,
Its last of lingering life to light thy late return, An armed archangel whose hands raise up
Return, return.

All senses mixed in the spirit's cup,
Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder,

These things are over, and no more mine.

SIDNEY DOBELL.

FROM "THE TRIUMPH OF TIME."

LOVE.

These were a part of the playing I heard

Once, ere my love and my heart were at strifo;
THERE lived a singer in France of old

Love that sings and hath wings as a bird,
By the tideless, dolorous, midland sea.

Balm of the wound and heft of the knife.
In a land of sand and ruin and gold

Fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep
There shone one woman, and none but she.

Than overwatching of eyes that weep, ,
And finding life for her love's sake fail,

Now time has done with his one sweet word,
Being fain to see her, he bade set sail,

The wine and leaven of lovely life.
Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold,
And praised God, seeing; and so died he.

I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,

Fill the days of my daily breath
Died, praising God for his gift and grace :
For she bowed down to him weeping, and said,

With fugitive things not good to treasure,

Do as the world doth, say as it saith ; “Live”; and her tears were shed on his face

But if we had loved each other

O sweet,
Or ever the life in his face was shed.
The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung The heart of my heart, beating harder with

Had you felt, lying under the palms of your feet,
Once, and her close lips touched him and clung

pleasure
Once, and grew one with his lips for a space ;

To feel you tread it to dust and death
And so drew back, and the man was dead.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE,

O brother, the gods were good to you.

Ah, had I not taken my life up and given
Sleep, and be glad while the world endures.

All that life gives and the years

let

go, Be well content as the years wear through ;

The wine and money, the balm and leaven, Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures ;

The dreams reared high and the hopes brought Give thanks for life, O brother, and death,

low, For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, Come life, come death, not a word be said ; For gifts she gave you, gracious and few,

Should I lose you living, and vex you dead ? Tears and kisses, that lady of yours.

.

I shall never tell you on earth ; and in heaven,

If I cry to you then, will you hear or know?
Rest, and be glad of the gods; but I,

How shall I praise them, or how take rest ?
There is not room under all the sky

For me that know not of worst or best,
Dream or desire of the days before,

DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING.
Sweet things or bitterness, any more.
Love will not come to me now though I die,

Day, in melting purple dying ;
As love came close to you, breast to breast.

Blossoms, all around me sighing;

Fragrance, from the lilies straying ;
I shall never be friends again with roses ;

Zephyr, with my ringlets playing;
I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown

Ye but waken my distress ;

I am sick of loneliness!
strong
Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes,
As a wave of the sea turned back by song.

Thou to whom I love to hearken,
There are sounds where the soul's delight takes Come, ere night around me darken;
fire,

Though thy softness but deceive me,
Face to face with its own desire ;

Say thou 'rt true, and I 'll believe thee ;
A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes ;

Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,
I shall hate sweet music my whole life long.

Let me think it innocent !

SIDNEY DOBELL.

MARIA BROOKS.

FROM

'THE ROMAN."

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ;

And even as once I held him in my womb
All I ask is friendship's pleasure ;

Till all things were fulfilled, and he came forth,
Let the shining ore lie darkling,

So, O Lord, let me hold him in my grave
Bring no gem in luster sparkling ;

Till the time come, and thou, who settest when
Gifts and gold are naught to me,

The hinds shall calve, ordain a better birth; I would only look on thee!

And as I looked and saw my son, and wept

For joy, I look again and see my son,
Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, And weep again for joy of him and thee!
Ecstasy but in revealing;
Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation;
Yet but torture, if comprest

HOMESICK.
In a lone, unfriended breast.

COME to me, O my Mother! come to me,
Absent still! Ah ! come and bless me! Thine own son slowly dying far away !
Let these eyes again caress thee.

Through the moist ways of the wide ocean, blown
Once, in caution, I could fly thee;

By great invisible winds, come stately ships
Now, I nothing could deny thee.

To this calm bay for quiet anchorage ;
In a look if death there be,

They come, they rest awhile, they go away,
Come, and I will gaze on thee ! But, O my Mother, never comest thou !

The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow,
That cold soft revelation pure as light,

And the pine-spire is mystically fringed,
THE ABSENT SOLDIER SON.

Laced with incrusted silver. Here ah me!
The winter is decrepit, underborn,

A leper with no power but his disease.
LORD, I am weeping. As thou wilt, O Lord,

Why am I from thee, Mother, far from thee?
Do with him as thou wilt ; but O my God,

Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods Let him come back to die! Let not the fowls

Jeweled from bough to bough? O home, my O'the air defile the body of my child,

home! My own fair child, that when he was a babe,

() river in the valley of my home,
I lift up in my arms and gave to thee !

With mazy-winding motion intricate,
Let not his garment, Lord, be vilely parted,
Nor the fine linen which these hands have spun The polished ice-work,

Twisting thy deathless music underneath

must I nevermore Fall to the stranger's lot! Shall the wild bird,

Behold thee with familiar eyes, and watch That would have pilfered of the ox, this year

Thy beauty changing with the changeful day,
Disdain the pens and stalls ? Shall her blind Thy beauty constant to the constant change ?

young,
That on the fleck and moult of brutish beasts
Had been too happy, sleep in cloth of gold
Whereof each thread is to this beating heart

THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN.
As a peculiar darling ? Lo, the flies
Hum o'er him! Lo, a feather from the crow O, WAD that my time were owre but,
Falls in his parted lips! Lo, his dead eyes Wi’ this wintry sleet and snaw,
See not the raven! Lo, the worm, the worm That I might see our house again,
Creeps from his festering corse! My God! my I'the bonnie birken shaw!
God!

For this is no my ain life,

And I peak and pine away
O Lord, thou doest well. I am content.

Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers,
If thou have need of him, he shall not stay. In the glad green month of May.
But as one calleth to a servant, saying
" At such a time be with me,

so, O Lord,

I used to wauk in the morning
Call him to thee ! O, bid him not in haste Wi’ the loud sang o' the lark,
Straight whence he standeth. Let him lay aside And the whistling o'the plowman lads,
The soiled tools of labor. Let him wash

As they gaed to their wark;
His hands of blood. Let him

array

himself I used to wear the bit young lambs
Meet for his Lord, pure from the sweat and fume Frae the tod and the roaring stream ;
Of corporal travail ! Lord, if he must die, But the warld is changed, and a' thing now
Let him die here. O, take him where thou gavest ! To me seems like a dream.

DAVID GRAY.

--

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THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

And what to her is now the boy

Who fed her father's kine ?

What cares she that the orioles build

For other eyes than ours, That other hands with nuts are filled,

And other laps with flowers ?

AND are ye sure the news is true ?

And are ye sure he's weel ?
Is this a time to think o' wark ?

Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread,

When Colin 's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I 'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
For there 's nae luck about the house,

There 's nae luck at a';
There 's nae luck about the house

When our gudeman 's awa'.

O playmate in the golden time !

Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet,

The old trees o'er it lean.

The winds so sweet with birch and fern

A sweeter memory blow;
And there in spring the veeries sing

The song of long ago.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's-satin gown ; For I maun tell the baillie's wife

That Colin 's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on,

My stockins pearly blue ; It 's a' to pleasure our gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

And still the pines of Ramoth wood

Are moaning like the sea,
The moaning of the sea of change
Between myself and thee !

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

ON A PICTURE.

WHEN summer o'er her native hills

A veil of beauty spread, She sat and watched her gentle flocks

And twined her flaxen thread.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,

Put on the muckle pot ;
Gie little Kate her cotton gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw ;
It 's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's been long awa'.

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