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By the brave blood that floweth like a river, Hurl Thou a thunderbolt from out Thy

quiver

Break Thou the strong gates I every fetter shiver!

Smite and deliver I

Slay Thou our foes, or turn them to derision! Then, in the blood-red Valley of Decision, Clothe Thou the fields, as in the prophet's vision,

With peace Elysian!

CCEUR DE LION TO BERENGARIA

*

O Far-off darling in the South,

Where grapes are loading down the vine, And songs are in the throstle's mouth,

While love's complaints are here in mine,
Turn from the blue Tyrrhenian Sea!
Come back to me! Come back to ine I

Here all the Northern skies are cold,
And in their wintriness they say

(With warnings by the winds foretold)
That love may grow as cold as they!

How ill the omen seems to be 1

Come back to me 1 Come back to me!

Come back, and bring thy wandering heart —

Ere yet it be too far estranged! Come back, and tell me that thou art

But little chilled, but little changed!

0 love, my love, I love but thee!
Come back to me 1 Come back to me!

1 long for thee from morn till night;

I long for thee from night till morn: But love is proud, and any slight

Can sting it like a piercing thorn. My bleeding heart cries out to thee — Come back to me! Come back to me!

Come back, and pluck the nettle out;

Come kiss the wound, or love may die 1 How can my heart endure the doubt?

Oh, judge its anguish by its cry!
Its cry goes piercingly to thee —
Come back to me I Come back to me!

What is to thee the summer long?
What is to thee the clustered vine?

What is to thee the throstle's song,

Who sings of love, but not of mine?
Oh, turn from the Tyrrhenian Sea!
Come back to me! Come back to me t

THE FLIGHT FROM THE
CONVENT

I See the star-lights quiver,

Like jewels in the river;

The bank is hid with sedge;

What if I slip the edge?

I thought I knew the way
By night as well as day:
But how a lover goes astray I

The place is somewhat lonely —
I mean for just one only;
I brought the boat ashore
An hour ago or more.

Well, I will sit and wait;
She fixed the hour at eight:
Good angels! bring her not too late!

To-morrow's tongues that name her

Will hardly dare to blame her:

A lily still is white

Through all the dark of night:

The morning sun shall show A bride as pure as snow, Whose wedding all the world shall know.

O God 1 that I should gain her I

But what can so detain her?

Hist, yelping cur! thy bark

Will fright her in the dark.

What 1 striking nine ? that 's fast I Is some one walking past? — Oho! so thou art come at last I

But why thy long delaying?

Alack! thy beads and praying I

If thou, a saint, dost hope

To kneel and kiss the Pope,

Then I, a sinner, know
Where sweeter kisses grow —
Nay, now, just once before we go!

Nay, twice, and by St. Peter

The second was the sweeter I

Quick now, and in the boat 1

Good-by, old tower and moat I

May mildew from the sky Drop blindness on the eye That lurks to watch our going by! A CHRYSALIS

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My little Madchen found one day

A curious something in her play,

That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed;

It was not anything that grew,

Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew;

Had neither legs nor wings, indeed;

And yet she was not sure, she said,

Whether it was alive or dead.

She brought it in her tiny hand
To see if I would understand,
And wondered when I made reply,
"You 've found a baby butterfly."
"A butterfly is not like this,"
With doubtful look she answered me.
Sq then I told her what would be
Some day within the chrysalis;
How, slowly, in the dull brown thing
Now still as death, a spotted wing,
And then another, would unfold,
Till from the empty shell would fly
A pretty creature, by and by,
All radiant in blue and gold.

"And will it, truly ?" questioned she —
Her laughing lips and eager eyes
All in a sparkle of surprise —
"And shall your little Madchen see?"
« She shall !" I said. How could I tell
That ere the worm within its shell
Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread,
My little Madchen would be dead?

To-day the butterfly has flown, —
She was not here to see it fly, —
And sorrowing I wonder why
The empty shell is mine alone.
Perhaps the secret lies in this:
I too had found a chrysalis,
And Death that robbed me of delight
Was but the radiant creature's flight I

IN DEATH

How still the room is! But a while ago The sound of sobbing voices vexed my ears, And on my face there fell a rain of tears — I scarce knew why or whence, but now I know.

For this sweet speaking silence, this surcease Of the dumb, desperate struggle after

breath, This painless consciousness of perfect peace, Which fills the place of anguish — it is , Death!

What folly to have feared it! Not the best
Of all we knew of life can equal this,
Blending in one the sense of utter rest,
The vivid certainty of boundless bliss!
O Death, the loveliness that is in thee,
Could the world know, the world would
cease to be.

BEYOND RECALL

There was a time when Death and I
Came face to face together:

I was but young indeed to die,
And it was summer weather;

One happy year a wedded wife,

And I was slipping out of life.

You knelt beside me, and I heard,
As from some far-off distance,

A bitter cry that dimly stirred
My soul to make resistance.

You thought me dead; you called my name;

And back from Death itself I came.

But oh! that you had made no sign,
That I had heard no crying!

For now the yearning voice is mine,
And there is no replying:

Death never could so cruel be

As Life — and you — have proved me 1

A SPRAY OF HONEYSUCKLE

I Broke one day a slender stem,

Thick-set with little golden horns,

Half bud, half blossom, and a gem — Such as one finds in autumn morns

When all the grass with dew is strung —

On every fairy bugle bung.

Careless, I dropped it, in a place

Where no light shone, and so forgot

Its delicate, dewy, flowering grace,
Till presently from the dark spot

A charming sense of sweetness came,

That woke an answering sense of shame.

Quickly I thought, O heart of mine,
A lesson for thee plain to read:

Thou needest not that light should shine,
Or fellow-men thy virtues heed:

Enough — if haply this be so —

That thou hast sweetness to bestow t

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THE BEAUTIFUL THE DEAD SOLOMON

The Beautiful, which mocked his fond pursuing, The poet followed long; With passionate purpose the shy shadow wooing, And soul-betraying song.

And still the fervor of his fond endeavor
To him seemed poured in vain,

And all in vain, forever and forever,
The sorrow of his strain.

But when at last he perished brokenhearted,

The world, grown dark and dull, Bewailed the radiance with him departed

Who was the Beautiful.

Kino Solomon stood in the house of the Lord,

And the Genii silently wrought around, Toiling and moiling without a word,

Building the temple without a sound.

Fear and rage were theirs, but naught,
In mien or face, of fear or rage;

For had he guessed their secret thought, They had pined in hell for many an age.

Closed were the eyes that the demons

feared; Over his breast streamed his silver

beard; Bowed was his head, as if in prayer,

JOHN AYLMER DORGAN — FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE 365

As if, through the busy silence there,
The answering voice of God he heard.

Solemn peace was on his brow,
Leaning upon his staff in prayer;

And a breath of wind would come and go,

And stir his robe, and beard of snow,
And long white hair;

But he heeded not,

Wrapt afar in holy thought.

King Solomon stood in the bouse of the Lord,

And the Genii silently wrought around, Toiling and moiling without a word,

Building the temple without a sound.

And now the work was done,

Perfected in every part;

And the demons rejoiced at heart,

And made ready to depart, But dared not speak to Solomon, To tell him their task was done,

And fulfilled the desire of his heart.

So around him they stood with eyes of fire,

Each cursing the king in bis secret heart,— Secretly cursing the silent king,

Waiting but till he should say " Depart;" Cursing the king, Each evil thing:

But he heeded them not, nor raised his head;
For King Solomon was dead!

Then the body of the king fell down;
For a worm had gnawed his staff in
twain.
He had prayed to the Lord that the bouse

he planned
Might not be left for another hand,

Might not unfinished remain;
So praying, he had died,
But bad not prayed in vain.

So the body of the king fell down,
And howling fled the fiends amain;
Bitterly grieved, to be so deceived,

Howling afar they fled;
Idly they had borne his chain,

And done his hateful tasks, in dread
Of mystic penal pain, —

And King Solomon was dead 1

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Among the thousand, thousand spheres that

roll,
Wheel within wheel, through never-ending

space,
A mighty and interminable race,
Yet held by some invisible control,
And led as to a sure and shining goal,
One star alone, with still, unchanging face,
Looks out from her perpetual dwelling-
place,
Of these swift orbs the centre and the soul.
Beyond the moons that beam, the stars that

blaze,
Past fields of ether, crimson, violet, rose,
The vast star-garden of eternity,
Behold I it shinej with white immaculate

rays,
The home of peace, the haven of repose,
The lotus-flower of heaven, Alcyone.

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It is the place where life's long dream

comes true; On many another swift and radiant star Gather the flaming hosts of those who war With powers of darkness; those stray seraphs, too, Who hasten forth God's ministries to do: But here no sounds of eager trumpets

mar The subtler spell which calls the soul from

far, Its wasted springs of gladness to renew. It is the morning land of the Ideal, Where smiles, transfigured to the raptured

sight, The joy whose flitting semblance now we

see; Where we shall know, as visible and real, Our life's deep aspiration, old yet new, In the sky-splendor of Aleyone.

n C84.

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THE SCHOOL GIRL

From some sweet home, the morning train

Brings to the city,
Five days a week, in sun or rain,
Returning like a song's refrain,

A school girl pretty.

A wild flower's unaffected grace

Is dainty miss's;
Yet in her shy, expressive face
The touch of urbau arts I trace, —

And artifices.

No one but she and Heaven knows

Of what she 's thinking:
It may be either books or beaux,
Fine scholarship or stylish clothes,

Per cents or prinking.

How happy must the household be,
This morn that kissed her;

Not every one can make so free;

Who sees her, inly wishes she
Were his own sister.

How favored is the book she cons,

The slate she uses,
The hat she lightly doffs and dons,
The orient sunshade that she owns,

The desk she chooses I

Is she familiar with the wars

Of Julius Csesar? Do crucibles and Leyden jars, And French, and earth, and sun, and stars,

And Euclid, please her?

She studies music, I opine;

O day of knowledge! And all the other arts divine, Of imitation and design,

Taught in the college.

A charm attends her everywhere, —

A sense of beauty;
Care smiles to see her free of care;
The hard heart loves her unaware;

Age pays her duty.

She is protected by the sky;

Good spirits tend her; Her innocence is panoply; God's wrath must on the miscreant lie

Who dares offend her!

MY CATBIRD
A CAPRICCIO

Prime cantante 1

Scherzo! Andante 1

Piano, pianissimo!

Presto, prestissimo!

Hark I are there nine birds or ninety and

nine? And now a miraculous gurgling gushes Like nectar from Hebe's Olympian bottle, The laughter of tune from a rapturous

throttle! Such melody must be a hermit-thrush's I But that other caroler, nearer, Outrivalling rivalry with clearer Sweetness incredibly fine! Is it oriole, red-bird, or bine-bird, Or some strange, un-Auduboned new bird 1

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