VISIONS.

Dead, buried suns of former years arise,And flowers bloom I thought had died last spring;The birds that fled last fall our wintry skiesPeople again the woods on joyous wing;At dawn soft rustling pinions waken me,And swallows darken window-pane and door;Breathless I listen, gazing wistfully,Alas, the bird I wait for comes no more.A high ambition swept my pulses through;Gazing one day upon the eagle’s flight,I pierced with him the heaven’s o’erarching blue,And beat my pinions at the gates of light.To-day the bird of Jove alone defiesThe sun-god’s burning glance, the tempest’s roar;I watch his flight unmoved, with listless eyes,The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.The lark pours forth his liquid flood of song,Seeking the secret covert where love lies,Wherein to weave a palace for his young;He sings his song, he loves his love and dies,His sweet small soul with his own music thrilled.O mocking warbler, cease the song to pour,Of Love victorious, fierce desire fulfilled,The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.The martin hovers o’er the slumbering bay,Deep mirrored in the blue abyss he lies,Now swiftly whirls and darts in idle play,Now rocked as in a poet’s reveries.O happy friend, follow thy fantasy,Dream on the wave, wanton along the shore,The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.Arrive at last, O messenger from heaven,Black envoy, bearing in thy beak of yoreThe bread to famishing Elijah given.Has God for me no portion I implore?It soon will be too late, the shadows press,And night-birds gather round my darkening door.Dead with the prophet in the wilderness,Alas, the bird I wait for comes no more.

Dead, buried suns of former years arise,

And flowers bloom I thought had died last spring;

The birds that fled last fall our wintry skies

People again the woods on joyous wing;

At dawn soft rustling pinions waken me,

And swallows darken window-pane and door;

Breathless I listen, gazing wistfully,

Alas, the bird I wait for comes no more.

A high ambition swept my pulses through;Gazing one day upon the eagle’s flight,I pierced with him the heaven’s o’erarching blue,And beat my pinions at the gates of light.To-day the bird of Jove alone defiesThe sun-god’s burning glance, the tempest’s roar;I watch his flight unmoved, with listless eyes,The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.

A high ambition swept my pulses through;

Gazing one day upon the eagle’s flight,

I pierced with him the heaven’s o’erarching blue,

And beat my pinions at the gates of light.

To-day the bird of Jove alone defies

The sun-god’s burning glance, the tempest’s roar;

I watch his flight unmoved, with listless eyes,

The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.

The lark pours forth his liquid flood of song,Seeking the secret covert where love lies,Wherein to weave a palace for his young;He sings his song, he loves his love and dies,His sweet small soul with his own music thrilled.O mocking warbler, cease the song to pour,Of Love victorious, fierce desire fulfilled,The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.

The lark pours forth his liquid flood of song,

Seeking the secret covert where love lies,

Wherein to weave a palace for his young;

He sings his song, he loves his love and dies,

His sweet small soul with his own music thrilled.

O mocking warbler, cease the song to pour,

Of Love victorious, fierce desire fulfilled,

The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.

The martin hovers o’er the slumbering bay,Deep mirrored in the blue abyss he lies,Now swiftly whirls and darts in idle play,Now rocked as in a poet’s reveries.O happy friend, follow thy fantasy,Dream on the wave, wanton along the shore,The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.

The martin hovers o’er the slumbering bay,

Deep mirrored in the blue abyss he lies,

Now swiftly whirls and darts in idle play,

Now rocked as in a poet’s reveries.

O happy friend, follow thy fantasy,

Dream on the wave, wanton along the shore,

The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.

Arrive at last, O messenger from heaven,Black envoy, bearing in thy beak of yoreThe bread to famishing Elijah given.Has God for me no portion I implore?It soon will be too late, the shadows press,And night-birds gather round my darkening door.Dead with the prophet in the wilderness,Alas, the bird I wait for comes no more.

Arrive at last, O messenger from heaven,

Black envoy, bearing in thy beak of yore

The bread to famishing Elijah given.

Has God for me no portion I implore?

It soon will be too late, the shadows press,

And night-birds gather round my darkening door.

Dead with the prophet in the wilderness,

Alas, the bird I wait for comes no more.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALFRED DE MUSSET.

One midnight when I was a wayward child,I read by stealth a romance weird and wild;My veins were tingling and my cheeks aflame,When suddenly before my vision cameTwo sad dark eyes appealing wistfully,A child in sable garb who looked like me.A child so like to me in form and face,It seemed a mirror standing in the place.He cast on me one long and earnest look,Then bent with me o’er the forbidden book.A smile mysterious he wore, but never spoke,And vanished from me as the daylight broke.The years sped by; one dreamy autumn dayThe eager chase had led me far astray;Fantastic shadows thronged the solitudeOf the deep mountain forest where I stood,And there appeared beneath a spreading tree,A wanderer dressed in black, who looked like me.He held a quaint old lute and a fresh sprayOf eglantine; I gently asked my way.He answered me no word, but took with prideA path straight up the towering mountain side.His parting glance fell on me with a thrillOf meaning so intense it haunts me still.Another year sped by; one night outsideThe room wherein my sainted mother diedI stood alone, and friendless with my grief—Youth’s crushing grief that hopes not for relief,—I oped the door, lo, there on bended kneeAn orphan dressed in black who looked like me.Kneeling before the sacred ashes thereHe seemed a radiant angel in despair.His face was bathed in tears, his head was crownedWith thorns, his lute was flung upon the ground,And o’er his sable garments flowed a tideOf crimson from the sword that pierced his side.Since then in every crisis I have known,Whether in busy town or desert lone,Angel or demon, whichsoe’er it be,That sable apparition comes to me.I never hear his voice, he stands apart,Yet like a brother twines about my heart.Now, all my idols burned in civil strife,Willing to love or re-create my life,My feet, self-exiled from their natal strand,Gather the dust of many a foreign land;A labyrinthine maze I vainly grope,Seeking the faint, vague vestige of a hope.Still in those moments when life’s pulses goSurging almost to fatal overflow,When the blind, fettered spirit seems at lastReady its fetters and its scales to cast,Before my vision comes, on land or sea,A wanderer, dressed in black, who looks like me.

One midnight when I was a wayward child,

I read by stealth a romance weird and wild;

My veins were tingling and my cheeks aflame,

When suddenly before my vision came

Two sad dark eyes appealing wistfully,

A child in sable garb who looked like me.

A child so like to me in form and face,It seemed a mirror standing in the place.He cast on me one long and earnest look,Then bent with me o’er the forbidden book.A smile mysterious he wore, but never spoke,And vanished from me as the daylight broke.

A child so like to me in form and face,

It seemed a mirror standing in the place.

He cast on me one long and earnest look,

Then bent with me o’er the forbidden book.

A smile mysterious he wore, but never spoke,

And vanished from me as the daylight broke.

The years sped by; one dreamy autumn dayThe eager chase had led me far astray;Fantastic shadows thronged the solitudeOf the deep mountain forest where I stood,And there appeared beneath a spreading tree,A wanderer dressed in black, who looked like me.

The years sped by; one dreamy autumn day

The eager chase had led me far astray;

Fantastic shadows thronged the solitude

Of the deep mountain forest where I stood,

And there appeared beneath a spreading tree,

A wanderer dressed in black, who looked like me.

He held a quaint old lute and a fresh sprayOf eglantine; I gently asked my way.He answered me no word, but took with prideA path straight up the towering mountain side.His parting glance fell on me with a thrillOf meaning so intense it haunts me still.

He held a quaint old lute and a fresh spray

Of eglantine; I gently asked my way.

He answered me no word, but took with pride

A path straight up the towering mountain side.

His parting glance fell on me with a thrill

Of meaning so intense it haunts me still.

Another year sped by; one night outsideThe room wherein my sainted mother diedI stood alone, and friendless with my grief—Youth’s crushing grief that hopes not for relief,—I oped the door, lo, there on bended kneeAn orphan dressed in black who looked like me.

Another year sped by; one night outside

The room wherein my sainted mother died

I stood alone, and friendless with my grief—

Youth’s crushing grief that hopes not for relief,—

I oped the door, lo, there on bended knee

An orphan dressed in black who looked like me.

Kneeling before the sacred ashes thereHe seemed a radiant angel in despair.His face was bathed in tears, his head was crownedWith thorns, his lute was flung upon the ground,And o’er his sable garments flowed a tideOf crimson from the sword that pierced his side.

Kneeling before the sacred ashes there

He seemed a radiant angel in despair.

His face was bathed in tears, his head was crowned

With thorns, his lute was flung upon the ground,

And o’er his sable garments flowed a tide

Of crimson from the sword that pierced his side.

Since then in every crisis I have known,Whether in busy town or desert lone,Angel or demon, whichsoe’er it be,That sable apparition comes to me.I never hear his voice, he stands apart,Yet like a brother twines about my heart.

Since then in every crisis I have known,

Whether in busy town or desert lone,

Angel or demon, whichsoe’er it be,

That sable apparition comes to me.

I never hear his voice, he stands apart,

Yet like a brother twines about my heart.

Now, all my idols burned in civil strife,Willing to love or re-create my life,My feet, self-exiled from their natal strand,Gather the dust of many a foreign land;A labyrinthine maze I vainly grope,Seeking the faint, vague vestige of a hope.

Now, all my idols burned in civil strife,

Willing to love or re-create my life,

My feet, self-exiled from their natal strand,

Gather the dust of many a foreign land;

A labyrinthine maze I vainly grope,

Seeking the faint, vague vestige of a hope.

Still in those moments when life’s pulses goSurging almost to fatal overflow,When the blind, fettered spirit seems at lastReady its fetters and its scales to cast,Before my vision comes, on land or sea,A wanderer, dressed in black, who looks like me.

Still in those moments when life’s pulses go

Surging almost to fatal overflow,

When the blind, fettered spirit seems at last

Ready its fetters and its scales to cast,

Before my vision comes, on land or sea,

A wanderer, dressed in black, who looks like me.

AFTER DELAVIGNE.

The sea is high, the night is dark,Sweet son, O why unmoor thy barkBefore the morning?On such a night as this last year,I fain had kept thy brother here;O heed the warning.But the fisherman smilingBounded from shore,His labor beguiling,Bending the oar,Singing, she loveth me,No fear I know,No wave appalleth me,Loving her so.With white wing cleft the inky sky,A sea-bird with a plaintive cry,Saddening the air:The nest I built with so much toil,This night became the tempest’s spoil;Beware, beware!Still the fisherman smiling,Bending the oar,The darkness beguiling,Sang as before:My Nanna calleth me,No fear I know,No wave appalleth me,Loving her so.Faintly arose a sad appeal,Blent with the storm by which his keelWas rudely driven.O brother, ere thy knell shall toll,Pray for thy elder brother’s soul,Who died unshriven.But the message unheededIts warning bore,As onward he speeded,Bending the oar,Murmuring, she calleth me,No fear I know,No wave appalleth me,Loving her so.Weary at dawn he reached the strand,But lo, there passed a mourning band;For whom? he cried.For whom, O fishermen, that bellThat strikes upon my heart its knell?’Tis for thy bride.Then as if on the shore,Stricken down by a dart,Deep darkness came o’erHim, chilling his heart,Whispering, she calleth me,No fear I know,No wave appalleth me,Loving her so.

The sea is high, the night is dark,

Sweet son, O why unmoor thy bark

Before the morning?

On such a night as this last year,

I fain had kept thy brother here;

O heed the warning.

But the fisherman smiling

Bounded from shore,

His labor beguiling,

Bending the oar,

Singing, she loveth me,

No fear I know,

No wave appalleth me,

Loving her so.

With white wing cleft the inky sky,A sea-bird with a plaintive cry,Saddening the air:The nest I built with so much toil,This night became the tempest’s spoil;Beware, beware!Still the fisherman smiling,Bending the oar,The darkness beguiling,Sang as before:My Nanna calleth me,No fear I know,No wave appalleth me,Loving her so.

With white wing cleft the inky sky,

A sea-bird with a plaintive cry,

Saddening the air:

The nest I built with so much toil,

This night became the tempest’s spoil;

Beware, beware!

Still the fisherman smiling,

Bending the oar,

The darkness beguiling,

Sang as before:

My Nanna calleth me,

No fear I know,

No wave appalleth me,

Loving her so.

Faintly arose a sad appeal,Blent with the storm by which his keelWas rudely driven.O brother, ere thy knell shall toll,Pray for thy elder brother’s soul,Who died unshriven.But the message unheededIts warning bore,As onward he speeded,Bending the oar,Murmuring, she calleth me,No fear I know,No wave appalleth me,Loving her so.

Faintly arose a sad appeal,

Blent with the storm by which his keel

Was rudely driven.

O brother, ere thy knell shall toll,

Pray for thy elder brother’s soul,

Who died unshriven.

But the message unheeded

Its warning bore,

As onward he speeded,

Bending the oar,

Murmuring, she calleth me,

No fear I know,

No wave appalleth me,

Loving her so.

Weary at dawn he reached the strand,But lo, there passed a mourning band;For whom? he cried.For whom, O fishermen, that bellThat strikes upon my heart its knell?’Tis for thy bride.Then as if on the shore,Stricken down by a dart,Deep darkness came o’erHim, chilling his heart,Whispering, she calleth me,No fear I know,No wave appalleth me,Loving her so.

Weary at dawn he reached the strand,

But lo, there passed a mourning band;

For whom? he cried.

For whom, O fishermen, that bell

That strikes upon my heart its knell?

’Tis for thy bride.

Then as if on the shore,

Stricken down by a dart,

Deep darkness came o’er

Him, chilling his heart,

Whispering, she calleth me,

No fear I know,

No wave appalleth me,

Loving her so.

FROM THE FRENCH OF DESBORDES VALMORE.

You had my whole heart,I thought I had thine,No beguiling or art,A heart for a heart.Your heart is returned,But alas! where is mine?Your heart is returned,But mine you have spurned.The leaf and the bloomAnd the fruit of the same,Leaf, color, and bloom,Sweet flower and perfume.Oh, what hast thou done?My sovereign supreme,Oh, what hast thou done?Beneath the fair sun.An orphan bereftOf mother and home,An orphan bereft,With my grief I am left.Deserted, alone,Through the cold world to roam,Deserted, alone,But heaven hears my moan.One day you will muse,Broken-hearted and old,One day you will museOn the love you refuse.You will seek me one dayBut you shall not behold;You will call me one day,I shall not obey.You will come to my doorWith penitent head,A friend, as of yore,You will knock at my door.It will coldly be said,She is gone, she is dead;Her spirit has fled,Will coldly be said.

You had my whole heart,I thought I had thine,No beguiling or art,A heart for a heart.

You had my whole heart,

I thought I had thine,

No beguiling or art,

A heart for a heart.

Your heart is returned,But alas! where is mine?Your heart is returned,But mine you have spurned.

Your heart is returned,

But alas! where is mine?

Your heart is returned,

But mine you have spurned.

The leaf and the bloomAnd the fruit of the same,Leaf, color, and bloom,Sweet flower and perfume.

The leaf and the bloom

And the fruit of the same,

Leaf, color, and bloom,

Sweet flower and perfume.

Oh, what hast thou done?My sovereign supreme,Oh, what hast thou done?Beneath the fair sun.

Oh, what hast thou done?

My sovereign supreme,

Oh, what hast thou done?

Beneath the fair sun.

An orphan bereftOf mother and home,An orphan bereft,With my grief I am left.

An orphan bereft

Of mother and home,

An orphan bereft,

With my grief I am left.

Deserted, alone,Through the cold world to roam,Deserted, alone,But heaven hears my moan.

Deserted, alone,

Through the cold world to roam,

Deserted, alone,

But heaven hears my moan.

One day you will muse,Broken-hearted and old,One day you will museOn the love you refuse.

One day you will muse,

Broken-hearted and old,

One day you will muse

On the love you refuse.

You will seek me one dayBut you shall not behold;You will call me one day,I shall not obey.

You will seek me one day

But you shall not behold;

You will call me one day,

I shall not obey.

You will come to my doorWith penitent head,A friend, as of yore,You will knock at my door.

You will come to my door

With penitent head,

A friend, as of yore,

You will knock at my door.

It will coldly be said,She is gone, she is dead;Her spirit has fled,Will coldly be said.

It will coldly be said,

She is gone, she is dead;

Her spirit has fled,

Will coldly be said.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.

Yes, art with grievous pangs is bornFrom Nature’s most endearing molds;The child is torn,Not wooed, from fierce rebellious folds.Slay not thy art by false constraint,Yet know her rules are stern as Fate;Without complaintThe muse should wear a buskin strait.Would’st have thy verse endure, thy museThe common facile forms must shun,The slipshod shoesIn which so many feet have run.Sculptor, beware the plastic clay,Changing at every whim’s commandFrom day to day,And marred by every careless hand.Strive with the marbles pure of Greece,Wrested from Paros’ snowy mines,Smite, and releaseThe deep-imprisoned god-like lines.The chisel of PraxitelesSuch peerless beauty had not known,If art in GreeceHad deigned to use a meaner stone.Let the fierce molten metal fuseHeroic forms and high contoursOf Syracuse;Nought but the matchless bronze endures.Upon the agate’s flinty faceApollo’s features high and pureIn profile trace,With touches delicate and sure.Beware of water and pastel,Deep on fantastic vase and urnThy colors frailIn seven-fold heated furnace burn.Fashion the writhing, maddening limbOf nymph and goddess; bring once moreThe monsters grim,Dear to the blazonry of yore.The virgin mother saintly mild,Crowned with her nimbus; on her breastThe wondrous child,The globe beneath the cross of Christ.Crowns fall and sceptres pass, robustAnd radiant art outlives them all.Torso and bustSurvive the city’s triple wall.The medal by the ploughman foundReveals the countenance austere,The temples crowned,That filled the antique world with fear.Even the gods wax old and passFrom high Olympus; verse alone,Stronger than brass,Preserves to fallen Zeus his throne.The graver guide with care supreme,The chisel smite, fix like a rockThy floating dreamDeep in the stem resisting block.Tongues and religions die, while art,Poised in the lofty realms of thought,Serene, apart,Exults in sempiternal youth.

Yes, art with grievous pangs is bornFrom Nature’s most endearing molds;The child is torn,Not wooed, from fierce rebellious folds.

Yes, art with grievous pangs is born

From Nature’s most endearing molds;

The child is torn,

Not wooed, from fierce rebellious folds.

Slay not thy art by false constraint,Yet know her rules are stern as Fate;Without complaintThe muse should wear a buskin strait.

Slay not thy art by false constraint,

Yet know her rules are stern as Fate;

Without complaint

The muse should wear a buskin strait.

Would’st have thy verse endure, thy museThe common facile forms must shun,The slipshod shoesIn which so many feet have run.

Would’st have thy verse endure, thy muse

The common facile forms must shun,

The slipshod shoes

In which so many feet have run.

Sculptor, beware the plastic clay,Changing at every whim’s commandFrom day to day,And marred by every careless hand.

Sculptor, beware the plastic clay,

Changing at every whim’s command

From day to day,

And marred by every careless hand.

Strive with the marbles pure of Greece,Wrested from Paros’ snowy mines,Smite, and releaseThe deep-imprisoned god-like lines.

Strive with the marbles pure of Greece,

Wrested from Paros’ snowy mines,

Smite, and release

The deep-imprisoned god-like lines.

The chisel of PraxitelesSuch peerless beauty had not known,If art in GreeceHad deigned to use a meaner stone.

The chisel of Praxiteles

Such peerless beauty had not known,

If art in Greece

Had deigned to use a meaner stone.

Let the fierce molten metal fuseHeroic forms and high contoursOf Syracuse;Nought but the matchless bronze endures.

Let the fierce molten metal fuse

Heroic forms and high contours

Of Syracuse;

Nought but the matchless bronze endures.

Upon the agate’s flinty faceApollo’s features high and pureIn profile trace,With touches delicate and sure.

Upon the agate’s flinty face

Apollo’s features high and pure

In profile trace,

With touches delicate and sure.

Beware of water and pastel,Deep on fantastic vase and urnThy colors frailIn seven-fold heated furnace burn.

Beware of water and pastel,

Deep on fantastic vase and urn

Thy colors frail

In seven-fold heated furnace burn.

Fashion the writhing, maddening limbOf nymph and goddess; bring once moreThe monsters grim,Dear to the blazonry of yore.

Fashion the writhing, maddening limb

Of nymph and goddess; bring once more

The monsters grim,

Dear to the blazonry of yore.

The virgin mother saintly mild,Crowned with her nimbus; on her breastThe wondrous child,The globe beneath the cross of Christ.

The virgin mother saintly mild,

Crowned with her nimbus; on her breast

The wondrous child,

The globe beneath the cross of Christ.

Crowns fall and sceptres pass, robustAnd radiant art outlives them all.Torso and bustSurvive the city’s triple wall.

Crowns fall and sceptres pass, robust

And radiant art outlives them all.

Torso and bust

Survive the city’s triple wall.

The medal by the ploughman foundReveals the countenance austere,The temples crowned,That filled the antique world with fear.

The medal by the ploughman found

Reveals the countenance austere,

The temples crowned,

That filled the antique world with fear.

Even the gods wax old and passFrom high Olympus; verse alone,Stronger than brass,Preserves to fallen Zeus his throne.

Even the gods wax old and pass

From high Olympus; verse alone,

Stronger than brass,

Preserves to fallen Zeus his throne.

The graver guide with care supreme,The chisel smite, fix like a rockThy floating dreamDeep in the stem resisting block.

The graver guide with care supreme,

The chisel smite, fix like a rock

Thy floating dream

Deep in the stem resisting block.

Tongues and religions die, while art,Poised in the lofty realms of thought,Serene, apart,Exults in sempiternal youth.

Tongues and religions die, while art,

Poised in the lofty realms of thought,

Serene, apart,

Exults in sempiternal youth.

FROM THE SAME.

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,Whither shall we two sail to-day?The rose’s breath is on the galeThat softly moves our silken sail;Our masts of gleaming ivoryAre strung like harps with yellow hair,That make Æolian music there;A seraph shall our pilot be.O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,Whither shall we two sail to-day?Our pinnace lifts her snowy wingAnd flutters like a living thing;And from the shore the morning windToys with our awning’s purple fold;Our rudder is of beaten goldAnd leaves a rosy track behind.O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,Whither shall we two sail to-day?Our hold with love-apples is stored,And all strange fruits, a goodly hoard;A wingèd boy sits at the prow,Pointing our path with beaming eyeAnd smile of deepest mystery;A wreath of myrtle crowns his brow.O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,Whither in Love’s realm shall we stray?Say, shall we seek some storied isle,Where warm Ægean waters smile?Or shall I see the Arctic sunA flood of crimson glories shedAt midnight on that golden head,Or sail to seas where pearls are won?O sun-bright maiden, choose and sayWhither shall we two sail to-day?Follow the track of Heracles—Seeking the far Hesperides;Or where the South Sea flower expands,Float idly in the moonlight wan;Or sail beneath the rainbow’s span—Bright gateway to Love’s golden lands?O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,There is no one to say thee nay.O seek, she saith, that faithful shoreWhere loving hearts will change no more.Alas, my sails for many a yearHave sped through all Love’s wide domain,Seeking that blessed shore in vain:That land is still unknown, my dear.

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,

Whither shall we two sail to-day?

The rose’s breath is on the gale

That softly moves our silken sail;

Our masts of gleaming ivory

Are strung like harps with yellow hair,

That make Æolian music there;

A seraph shall our pilot be.

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,Whither shall we two sail to-day?Our pinnace lifts her snowy wingAnd flutters like a living thing;And from the shore the morning windToys with our awning’s purple fold;Our rudder is of beaten goldAnd leaves a rosy track behind.

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,

Whither shall we two sail to-day?

Our pinnace lifts her snowy wing

And flutters like a living thing;

And from the shore the morning wind

Toys with our awning’s purple fold;

Our rudder is of beaten gold

And leaves a rosy track behind.

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,Whither shall we two sail to-day?Our hold with love-apples is stored,And all strange fruits, a goodly hoard;A wingèd boy sits at the prow,Pointing our path with beaming eyeAnd smile of deepest mystery;A wreath of myrtle crowns his brow.

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,

Whither shall we two sail to-day?

Our hold with love-apples is stored,

And all strange fruits, a goodly hoard;

A wingèd boy sits at the prow,

Pointing our path with beaming eye

And smile of deepest mystery;

A wreath of myrtle crowns his brow.

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,Whither in Love’s realm shall we stray?Say, shall we seek some storied isle,Where warm Ægean waters smile?Or shall I see the Arctic sunA flood of crimson glories shedAt midnight on that golden head,Or sail to seas where pearls are won?

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,

Whither in Love’s realm shall we stray?

Say, shall we seek some storied isle,

Where warm Ægean waters smile?

Or shall I see the Arctic sun

A flood of crimson glories shed

At midnight on that golden head,

Or sail to seas where pearls are won?

O sun-bright maiden, choose and sayWhither shall we two sail to-day?Follow the track of Heracles—Seeking the far Hesperides;Or where the South Sea flower expands,Float idly in the moonlight wan;Or sail beneath the rainbow’s span—Bright gateway to Love’s golden lands?

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say

Whither shall we two sail to-day?

Follow the track of Heracles—

Seeking the far Hesperides;

Or where the South Sea flower expands,

Float idly in the moonlight wan;

Or sail beneath the rainbow’s span—

Bright gateway to Love’s golden lands?

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,There is no one to say thee nay.O seek, she saith, that faithful shoreWhere loving hearts will change no more.Alas, my sails for many a yearHave sped through all Love’s wide domain,Seeking that blessed shore in vain:That land is still unknown, my dear.

O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,

There is no one to say thee nay.

O seek, she saith, that faithful shore

Where loving hearts will change no more.

Alas, my sails for many a year

Have sped through all Love’s wide domain,

Seeking that blessed shore in vain:

That land is still unknown, my dear.

FROM THE SAME.

Be still, my heart, keep silence, O my soul,Thy fierce rebellious transports are in vain,Oblivion’s turbid wave must o’er thee roll.Cease the faint pulsing of the weary brain,Fold up the remnant of thy wings at last,And rot, beneath the inexorable chain.Soon shalt thou be with refuse vile outcast,Flung down the bottomless abyss that stillYawns to the future from the darkling past.Thy hopes are dead, broken thy lofty will,Thy name and memory will be blotted outBefore the rattling clods thy grave refill.No marble shaft for thee the heavens will flout,Nor tear-drenched willow shed her graceful spray,No lying epitaph the truth will scout,No choir will chant, no man of God will pray,No tears will silver the funereal pall—Dark cloud that hides thy shame from light of day.The felled tree strangely moves his comrades tall,Waking the echoes of the mountain side,But not a leaf will quiver at thy fall.Like the mute convoy of the suicide,Thou shalt wind down through night to find thy doom:Thy ashes shall be scattered far and wide.No circling rings shall break the sullen gloomOf the dark pool that closes o’er thy head,No widowed soul shall hover o’er thy tomb.For the chaste secrets which thy soul hath wed,With thee the pit shall bury them from view,Fathoms below the deepest deep-sea lead.Our Mother, Nature, hath her favorites too,Like any other dame, spoiled children they;Unwelcome waif, why should they share with you?Upon them fall the myrtle and the bay,E’en in the desert they would find at needEnchanted palaces along their way.Though for the morrow’s morn they take no heed,Yet through their fingers filter golden sands,And at a generous breast they freely feed.Kneading a withered breast with famished handsTheir outcast brethren pine, or seek in vainSome kinder bosom in relentless lands.And if for them upon the desert plainIllusive gardens rise, and fountains play,They vanish like the rainbow after rain.Or if by chance a sunbeam gone astrayGlints through the gloom that shrouds them evermore,A chilling cloud obscures th’ unwonted ray.The wisest plans but mock their hopes the more,Bringing them to derision and dismay:The sea engulfs them though they hug the shore.The tree shall crush them, hollow with decay,Whose grateful shade invites them to draw nigh:The heart they lean on wins them to betray.A turtle drops upon them from the sky;The tower that has braved a thousand yearsFalls without warning just as they pass by.The friend who shared their youthful smiles and tearsAccuses them of treason to the crown,Sending them to the rack with blows and jeers.Born on the Danube, in the Seine they drown;Poor fools, why fly so far to find the fateThat like a slimy monster sucks them down?Why strive with Fate? no jot will he abate;Even the brawny knees of HerculesMust bend or break before him soon or late.They drain a bitter cup with poisonous lees,A life ignoble and a death of shame,And in some potter’s field they find surcease;Or, dying nobly, leave behind no name,While, mounting on their bones, some brazen cheatReaches the very pinnacle of Fame.Destiny mocks them from her lofty seat,Dipping their sponge in vinegar and gall:Want grinds them in the dust with iron feet.Hard by the accursed sea whose waves appal,A scape-goat lone, beneath the wingless skies,They wander where the ashen apples fall.Night takes for them a thousand baleful eyes,Piercing at once their deepest hiding-place:Straight to their heart each poisoned arrow flies.Thrust out of camp, the scape-goat of their race,Abhorred they live, and dead, the loathing earthVomits their phantom from the burial-place.Such is thy history, O my soul, from birth;Dark pages with decaying odors rife,A maze of treachery, and pain, and dearth.Yet ’tis the story of a vulgar life;No title casts a glamour o’er its woes,No footlights gild its unromantic strife.Across the web the flying shuttle goes,Weaving with common threads a homely plot,Yet dark and sinister the pattern shows.Why woo so long a world that loves thee not?O soul, whence long have perished hope and faith,Why cling to life, when death is all thy lot?Sweeter than bridal bed the couch of death,More restful far than sleep; the asphodelIs sweeter than the crimson poppy’s breath.King, queen, and harlot, priest and infidel,Heaped up at random peacefully they rest,Commingling in one mighty urn pell-mell.Despairing brother, whose fast chilling breastNor love, nor wine may warm, descend with me,And burst the shadowy gates an eager guest.Abase thy head, and bend thy stubborn knee;And like a Scythian chief in triumph led,Welcome the agony that sets thee free.One short, fierce agony, and all is said;Beneath the coffin lid, sealed once for all,Compose thy limbs as in a royal bed.Swift as the fleeting shadow on the wallThy feeble footprints fall along the sand,Nor voice, nor echo will thy song recall.In the Corinthian brass thy feeble handCan write no name; thy chisel cannot biteThe marbles of Carrara pure and grand.He who would climb Fame’s towering mountain heightMust have a double gift, a genius rare:Unto a happy star he must unite.Poet, alas! and lover, brethren are;Twins of the soul, each hath his cherished dream,Some saint ideal, worshipped from afar;Some fount of youth, some pure Pactolian stream,Some orb that beams with strange unearthly ray,Some flaming vision potent to redeem.The fount is dry, the vision fades away;The mystic light that led them through the nightDies in a marsh, and leaves them far astray.O God, to tread but once by morning lightThe alabaster palace of our dreams,Counting its colonnades with waking sight;To greet the lovely images that gleamAthwart the gardens of our revery,And drink the waters of its mystic stream;To make the plunge, piercing triumphantlyThe crystal vault, bring back the golden vaseLong buried with the treasures of the sea.’Twere fine to feel the thrill of flight through space,Adown the far empyrean to float,Or track the eagle in his headlong chase.To find the deed outstrip the noble thought,To find fit words to mate our passion’s cry,And pour the tide with its full burden fraught.Sailing through unknown seas, to catch the sighOf mighty rivers, and through night’s eclipseSee new worlds heaving upward to the sky;To feel upon the flower of our lipsThe regal kiss that sometimes hovers there;To find the glen wherein the rainbow dips;To stop the wheel of fortune in the air;To see before us on the glowing pageThe wavering thoughts our midnight musings bear.Such lots, alas, in this decrepit ageAre rare; Polycrates might wear his ring,Nor fear to rouse the avenging goddess’ rage.Seeking the upper chambers where we cling,The cruel wave mounts upward step by step,Mingling its murmur with our revelling,Till slimy phocas, shapes that banish sleep,Gnash foully at our very bedsides there,Belched from the bowels of the nether deep.The church is dark, the altar cold and bare,And rending from their brows the aureole,The saints blaspheming die in their despair.The sun senescent, near his final goal,Casts from his bloodshot eye one baleful glare,Ere yet the heavens vanish like a scroll.Each living thing shall perish foul or fair,The flood will top the tallest mountain chain,For vengeance cometh on and will not spare.For twenty days and nights through wind and rain,The raven’s midnight wing, cleaving the waste,Seeks for a haven where to rest in vain.Headlong she falls, famished and spent at last,And as the widening circles mark the flood,All Earth is but a tomb whence life has passed.A common sepulchre for bad and good,Upon this wave no ark of safety rides,Bitter with tears and red with human blood.No second patriarch his vessel guides,A hive of life; a swelling fountain head,To burst upon Ararat’s rugged sides.Atlas has fallen! hark, O hark! o’erheadThe crack of doom, the supports of the worldAre snapped like reeds beneath Behemoth’s tread.Our Mother Earth, by storms of chaos whirled,Reels like a drunken harlot down through space,By wanton buffets from her orbit hurled.Unto the lips of an expiring raceThe Son holds up the cup of human woes;The Father sees with coldly sneering face.When will our crucifixion cease? still flowsThe ruddy current from our open side,And red drops cluster on our pallid brows.Enough of tears and blood; O turn asideThe poisoned chalice; doth not this suffice?That Thy dear Son upon the cross has died?He died for naught; man still must pay the priceUnless a newer Christ rise from the dead:The Pontiff asks a fresher sacrifice.For nigh two thousand years the Lamb hath bled;His empty veins leave not the faintest stainUpon the priestly knife that gleams o’erhead.Messiah cometh not, we watch in vain;The veil is rent, broken the altar stone,The worshippers are slain, the church o’erthrown.

Be still, my heart, keep silence, O my soul,Thy fierce rebellious transports are in vain,Oblivion’s turbid wave must o’er thee roll.

Be still, my heart, keep silence, O my soul,

Thy fierce rebellious transports are in vain,

Oblivion’s turbid wave must o’er thee roll.

Cease the faint pulsing of the weary brain,Fold up the remnant of thy wings at last,And rot, beneath the inexorable chain.

Cease the faint pulsing of the weary brain,

Fold up the remnant of thy wings at last,

And rot, beneath the inexorable chain.

Soon shalt thou be with refuse vile outcast,Flung down the bottomless abyss that stillYawns to the future from the darkling past.

Soon shalt thou be with refuse vile outcast,

Flung down the bottomless abyss that still

Yawns to the future from the darkling past.

Thy hopes are dead, broken thy lofty will,Thy name and memory will be blotted outBefore the rattling clods thy grave refill.

Thy hopes are dead, broken thy lofty will,

Thy name and memory will be blotted out

Before the rattling clods thy grave refill.

No marble shaft for thee the heavens will flout,Nor tear-drenched willow shed her graceful spray,No lying epitaph the truth will scout,

No marble shaft for thee the heavens will flout,

Nor tear-drenched willow shed her graceful spray,

No lying epitaph the truth will scout,

No choir will chant, no man of God will pray,No tears will silver the funereal pall—Dark cloud that hides thy shame from light of day.

No choir will chant, no man of God will pray,

No tears will silver the funereal pall—

Dark cloud that hides thy shame from light of day.

The felled tree strangely moves his comrades tall,Waking the echoes of the mountain side,But not a leaf will quiver at thy fall.

The felled tree strangely moves his comrades tall,

Waking the echoes of the mountain side,

But not a leaf will quiver at thy fall.

Like the mute convoy of the suicide,Thou shalt wind down through night to find thy doom:Thy ashes shall be scattered far and wide.

Like the mute convoy of the suicide,

Thou shalt wind down through night to find thy doom:

Thy ashes shall be scattered far and wide.

No circling rings shall break the sullen gloomOf the dark pool that closes o’er thy head,No widowed soul shall hover o’er thy tomb.

No circling rings shall break the sullen gloom

Of the dark pool that closes o’er thy head,

No widowed soul shall hover o’er thy tomb.

For the chaste secrets which thy soul hath wed,With thee the pit shall bury them from view,Fathoms below the deepest deep-sea lead.

For the chaste secrets which thy soul hath wed,

With thee the pit shall bury them from view,

Fathoms below the deepest deep-sea lead.

Our Mother, Nature, hath her favorites too,Like any other dame, spoiled children they;Unwelcome waif, why should they share with you?

Our Mother, Nature, hath her favorites too,

Like any other dame, spoiled children they;

Unwelcome waif, why should they share with you?

Upon them fall the myrtle and the bay,E’en in the desert they would find at needEnchanted palaces along their way.

Upon them fall the myrtle and the bay,

E’en in the desert they would find at need

Enchanted palaces along their way.

Though for the morrow’s morn they take no heed,Yet through their fingers filter golden sands,And at a generous breast they freely feed.

Though for the morrow’s morn they take no heed,

Yet through their fingers filter golden sands,

And at a generous breast they freely feed.

Kneading a withered breast with famished handsTheir outcast brethren pine, or seek in vainSome kinder bosom in relentless lands.

Kneading a withered breast with famished hands

Their outcast brethren pine, or seek in vain

Some kinder bosom in relentless lands.

And if for them upon the desert plainIllusive gardens rise, and fountains play,They vanish like the rainbow after rain.

And if for them upon the desert plain

Illusive gardens rise, and fountains play,

They vanish like the rainbow after rain.

Or if by chance a sunbeam gone astrayGlints through the gloom that shrouds them evermore,A chilling cloud obscures th’ unwonted ray.

Or if by chance a sunbeam gone astray

Glints through the gloom that shrouds them evermore,

A chilling cloud obscures th’ unwonted ray.

The wisest plans but mock their hopes the more,Bringing them to derision and dismay:The sea engulfs them though they hug the shore.

The wisest plans but mock their hopes the more,

Bringing them to derision and dismay:

The sea engulfs them though they hug the shore.

The tree shall crush them, hollow with decay,Whose grateful shade invites them to draw nigh:The heart they lean on wins them to betray.

The tree shall crush them, hollow with decay,

Whose grateful shade invites them to draw nigh:

The heart they lean on wins them to betray.

A turtle drops upon them from the sky;The tower that has braved a thousand yearsFalls without warning just as they pass by.

A turtle drops upon them from the sky;

The tower that has braved a thousand years

Falls without warning just as they pass by.

The friend who shared their youthful smiles and tearsAccuses them of treason to the crown,Sending them to the rack with blows and jeers.

The friend who shared their youthful smiles and tears

Accuses them of treason to the crown,

Sending them to the rack with blows and jeers.

Born on the Danube, in the Seine they drown;Poor fools, why fly so far to find the fateThat like a slimy monster sucks them down?

Born on the Danube, in the Seine they drown;

Poor fools, why fly so far to find the fate

That like a slimy monster sucks them down?

Why strive with Fate? no jot will he abate;Even the brawny knees of HerculesMust bend or break before him soon or late.

Why strive with Fate? no jot will he abate;

Even the brawny knees of Hercules

Must bend or break before him soon or late.

They drain a bitter cup with poisonous lees,A life ignoble and a death of shame,And in some potter’s field they find surcease;

They drain a bitter cup with poisonous lees,

A life ignoble and a death of shame,

And in some potter’s field they find surcease;

Or, dying nobly, leave behind no name,While, mounting on their bones, some brazen cheatReaches the very pinnacle of Fame.

Or, dying nobly, leave behind no name,

While, mounting on their bones, some brazen cheat

Reaches the very pinnacle of Fame.

Destiny mocks them from her lofty seat,Dipping their sponge in vinegar and gall:Want grinds them in the dust with iron feet.

Destiny mocks them from her lofty seat,

Dipping their sponge in vinegar and gall:

Want grinds them in the dust with iron feet.

Hard by the accursed sea whose waves appal,A scape-goat lone, beneath the wingless skies,They wander where the ashen apples fall.

Hard by the accursed sea whose waves appal,

A scape-goat lone, beneath the wingless skies,

They wander where the ashen apples fall.

Night takes for them a thousand baleful eyes,Piercing at once their deepest hiding-place:Straight to their heart each poisoned arrow flies.

Night takes for them a thousand baleful eyes,

Piercing at once their deepest hiding-place:

Straight to their heart each poisoned arrow flies.

Thrust out of camp, the scape-goat of their race,Abhorred they live, and dead, the loathing earthVomits their phantom from the burial-place.

Thrust out of camp, the scape-goat of their race,

Abhorred they live, and dead, the loathing earth

Vomits their phantom from the burial-place.

Such is thy history, O my soul, from birth;Dark pages with decaying odors rife,A maze of treachery, and pain, and dearth.

Such is thy history, O my soul, from birth;

Dark pages with decaying odors rife,

A maze of treachery, and pain, and dearth.

Yet ’tis the story of a vulgar life;No title casts a glamour o’er its woes,No footlights gild its unromantic strife.

Yet ’tis the story of a vulgar life;

No title casts a glamour o’er its woes,

No footlights gild its unromantic strife.

Across the web the flying shuttle goes,Weaving with common threads a homely plot,Yet dark and sinister the pattern shows.

Across the web the flying shuttle goes,

Weaving with common threads a homely plot,

Yet dark and sinister the pattern shows.

Why woo so long a world that loves thee not?O soul, whence long have perished hope and faith,Why cling to life, when death is all thy lot?

Why woo so long a world that loves thee not?

O soul, whence long have perished hope and faith,

Why cling to life, when death is all thy lot?

Sweeter than bridal bed the couch of death,More restful far than sleep; the asphodelIs sweeter than the crimson poppy’s breath.

Sweeter than bridal bed the couch of death,

More restful far than sleep; the asphodel

Is sweeter than the crimson poppy’s breath.

King, queen, and harlot, priest and infidel,Heaped up at random peacefully they rest,Commingling in one mighty urn pell-mell.

King, queen, and harlot, priest and infidel,

Heaped up at random peacefully they rest,

Commingling in one mighty urn pell-mell.

Despairing brother, whose fast chilling breastNor love, nor wine may warm, descend with me,And burst the shadowy gates an eager guest.

Despairing brother, whose fast chilling breast

Nor love, nor wine may warm, descend with me,

And burst the shadowy gates an eager guest.

Abase thy head, and bend thy stubborn knee;And like a Scythian chief in triumph led,Welcome the agony that sets thee free.

Abase thy head, and bend thy stubborn knee;

And like a Scythian chief in triumph led,

Welcome the agony that sets thee free.

One short, fierce agony, and all is said;Beneath the coffin lid, sealed once for all,Compose thy limbs as in a royal bed.

One short, fierce agony, and all is said;

Beneath the coffin lid, sealed once for all,

Compose thy limbs as in a royal bed.

Swift as the fleeting shadow on the wallThy feeble footprints fall along the sand,Nor voice, nor echo will thy song recall.

Swift as the fleeting shadow on the wall

Thy feeble footprints fall along the sand,

Nor voice, nor echo will thy song recall.

In the Corinthian brass thy feeble handCan write no name; thy chisel cannot biteThe marbles of Carrara pure and grand.

In the Corinthian brass thy feeble hand

Can write no name; thy chisel cannot bite

The marbles of Carrara pure and grand.

He who would climb Fame’s towering mountain heightMust have a double gift, a genius rare:Unto a happy star he must unite.

He who would climb Fame’s towering mountain height

Must have a double gift, a genius rare:

Unto a happy star he must unite.

Poet, alas! and lover, brethren are;Twins of the soul, each hath his cherished dream,Some saint ideal, worshipped from afar;

Poet, alas! and lover, brethren are;

Twins of the soul, each hath his cherished dream,

Some saint ideal, worshipped from afar;

Some fount of youth, some pure Pactolian stream,Some orb that beams with strange unearthly ray,Some flaming vision potent to redeem.

Some fount of youth, some pure Pactolian stream,

Some orb that beams with strange unearthly ray,

Some flaming vision potent to redeem.

The fount is dry, the vision fades away;The mystic light that led them through the nightDies in a marsh, and leaves them far astray.

The fount is dry, the vision fades away;

The mystic light that led them through the night

Dies in a marsh, and leaves them far astray.

O God, to tread but once by morning lightThe alabaster palace of our dreams,Counting its colonnades with waking sight;

O God, to tread but once by morning light

The alabaster palace of our dreams,

Counting its colonnades with waking sight;

To greet the lovely images that gleamAthwart the gardens of our revery,And drink the waters of its mystic stream;

To greet the lovely images that gleam

Athwart the gardens of our revery,

And drink the waters of its mystic stream;

To make the plunge, piercing triumphantlyThe crystal vault, bring back the golden vaseLong buried with the treasures of the sea.

To make the plunge, piercing triumphantly

The crystal vault, bring back the golden vase

Long buried with the treasures of the sea.

’Twere fine to feel the thrill of flight through space,Adown the far empyrean to float,Or track the eagle in his headlong chase.

’Twere fine to feel the thrill of flight through space,

Adown the far empyrean to float,

Or track the eagle in his headlong chase.

To find the deed outstrip the noble thought,To find fit words to mate our passion’s cry,And pour the tide with its full burden fraught.

To find the deed outstrip the noble thought,

To find fit words to mate our passion’s cry,

And pour the tide with its full burden fraught.

Sailing through unknown seas, to catch the sighOf mighty rivers, and through night’s eclipseSee new worlds heaving upward to the sky;

Sailing through unknown seas, to catch the sigh

Of mighty rivers, and through night’s eclipse

See new worlds heaving upward to the sky;

To feel upon the flower of our lipsThe regal kiss that sometimes hovers there;To find the glen wherein the rainbow dips;

To feel upon the flower of our lips

The regal kiss that sometimes hovers there;

To find the glen wherein the rainbow dips;

To stop the wheel of fortune in the air;To see before us on the glowing pageThe wavering thoughts our midnight musings bear.

To stop the wheel of fortune in the air;

To see before us on the glowing page

The wavering thoughts our midnight musings bear.

Such lots, alas, in this decrepit ageAre rare; Polycrates might wear his ring,Nor fear to rouse the avenging goddess’ rage.

Such lots, alas, in this decrepit age

Are rare; Polycrates might wear his ring,

Nor fear to rouse the avenging goddess’ rage.

Seeking the upper chambers where we cling,The cruel wave mounts upward step by step,Mingling its murmur with our revelling,

Seeking the upper chambers where we cling,

The cruel wave mounts upward step by step,

Mingling its murmur with our revelling,

Till slimy phocas, shapes that banish sleep,Gnash foully at our very bedsides there,Belched from the bowels of the nether deep.

Till slimy phocas, shapes that banish sleep,

Gnash foully at our very bedsides there,

Belched from the bowels of the nether deep.

The church is dark, the altar cold and bare,And rending from their brows the aureole,The saints blaspheming die in their despair.

The church is dark, the altar cold and bare,

And rending from their brows the aureole,

The saints blaspheming die in their despair.

The sun senescent, near his final goal,Casts from his bloodshot eye one baleful glare,Ere yet the heavens vanish like a scroll.

The sun senescent, near his final goal,

Casts from his bloodshot eye one baleful glare,

Ere yet the heavens vanish like a scroll.

Each living thing shall perish foul or fair,The flood will top the tallest mountain chain,For vengeance cometh on and will not spare.

Each living thing shall perish foul or fair,

The flood will top the tallest mountain chain,

For vengeance cometh on and will not spare.

For twenty days and nights through wind and rain,The raven’s midnight wing, cleaving the waste,Seeks for a haven where to rest in vain.

For twenty days and nights through wind and rain,

The raven’s midnight wing, cleaving the waste,

Seeks for a haven where to rest in vain.

Headlong she falls, famished and spent at last,And as the widening circles mark the flood,All Earth is but a tomb whence life has passed.

Headlong she falls, famished and spent at last,

And as the widening circles mark the flood,

All Earth is but a tomb whence life has passed.

A common sepulchre for bad and good,Upon this wave no ark of safety rides,Bitter with tears and red with human blood.

A common sepulchre for bad and good,

Upon this wave no ark of safety rides,

Bitter with tears and red with human blood.

No second patriarch his vessel guides,A hive of life; a swelling fountain head,To burst upon Ararat’s rugged sides.

No second patriarch his vessel guides,

A hive of life; a swelling fountain head,

To burst upon Ararat’s rugged sides.

Atlas has fallen! hark, O hark! o’erheadThe crack of doom, the supports of the worldAre snapped like reeds beneath Behemoth’s tread.

Atlas has fallen! hark, O hark! o’erhead

The crack of doom, the supports of the world

Are snapped like reeds beneath Behemoth’s tread.

Our Mother Earth, by storms of chaos whirled,Reels like a drunken harlot down through space,By wanton buffets from her orbit hurled.

Our Mother Earth, by storms of chaos whirled,

Reels like a drunken harlot down through space,

By wanton buffets from her orbit hurled.

Unto the lips of an expiring raceThe Son holds up the cup of human woes;The Father sees with coldly sneering face.

Unto the lips of an expiring race

The Son holds up the cup of human woes;

The Father sees with coldly sneering face.

When will our crucifixion cease? still flowsThe ruddy current from our open side,And red drops cluster on our pallid brows.

When will our crucifixion cease? still flows

The ruddy current from our open side,

And red drops cluster on our pallid brows.

Enough of tears and blood; O turn asideThe poisoned chalice; doth not this suffice?That Thy dear Son upon the cross has died?

Enough of tears and blood; O turn aside

The poisoned chalice; doth not this suffice?

That Thy dear Son upon the cross has died?

He died for naught; man still must pay the priceUnless a newer Christ rise from the dead:The Pontiff asks a fresher sacrifice.

He died for naught; man still must pay the price

Unless a newer Christ rise from the dead:

The Pontiff asks a fresher sacrifice.

For nigh two thousand years the Lamb hath bled;His empty veins leave not the faintest stainUpon the priestly knife that gleams o’erhead.

For nigh two thousand years the Lamb hath bled;

His empty veins leave not the faintest stain

Upon the priestly knife that gleams o’erhead.

Messiah cometh not, we watch in vain;The veil is rent, broken the altar stone,The worshippers are slain, the church o’erthrown.

Messiah cometh not, we watch in vain;

The veil is rent, broken the altar stone,

The worshippers are slain, the church o’erthrown.

FROM THE FRENCH OF SULLY PRUDHOMME.

To what strange land gather the slain of Love?Heaven were no world for them, it hath no blissTo match the raptures that they knew in this;No summer night, no dark secluded grove,Or deep ravine with sheltering boughs above;Nor can the foul fiends of the dread abyssSo rend a soul as the fierce agoniesOf Love’s disdain, the doubts and fears thereof.Tame were the joys of the bright sphere aboveTo which the saints so ardently aspire,And vain the anguish of eternal fireTo him who knows the martyrdom of Love.For souls consumed and dead there is no roomIn heaven or hell: oblivion is their doom.

To what strange land gather the slain of Love?

Heaven were no world for them, it hath no bliss

To match the raptures that they knew in this;

No summer night, no dark secluded grove,

Or deep ravine with sheltering boughs above;

Nor can the foul fiends of the dread abyss

So rend a soul as the fierce agonies

Of Love’s disdain, the doubts and fears thereof.

Tame were the joys of the bright sphere aboveTo which the saints so ardently aspire,And vain the anguish of eternal fireTo him who knows the martyrdom of Love.For souls consumed and dead there is no roomIn heaven or hell: oblivion is their doom.

Tame were the joys of the bright sphere above

To which the saints so ardently aspire,

And vain the anguish of eternal fire

To him who knows the martyrdom of Love.

For souls consumed and dead there is no room

In heaven or hell: oblivion is their doom.

ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH.

Two gallant burglars, who for many a dayHad laid their plans, at last had made their wayInto a bank upon a stormy night;Then with what fond, what rapturous delightUnto the vault they flew to seize the swag!O cruel joke, there was no swag at all:That night the gay cashier, a heartless wag,With all the funds had skipped for Montreal.

Two gallant burglars, who for many a day

Had laid their plans, at last had made their way

Into a bank upon a stormy night;

Then with what fond, what rapturous delight

Unto the vault they flew to seize the swag!

O cruel joke, there was no swag at all:

That night the gay cashier, a heartless wag,

With all the funds had skipped for Montreal.

SCARRON.

The monuments of human pride and power,Engulfed by ocean wave or desert sand,And crushed by time’s inexorable hand,Built for eternity, last but an hour.Where are the hanging gardens and the towersOf Babylon? the marbles tall and grandThat stood like gods on the Ægean strand?Fallen and crumbled. So shall crumble ours.Time slays or withers all on which we dote;His swift, remorseless touches ne’er relent,Destroying marble, mortar, and cement.Then why should I repine because my coatIs threadbare on the seams with three years’ wear,Out at the elbows, and beyond repair?

The monuments of human pride and power,

Engulfed by ocean wave or desert sand,

And crushed by time’s inexorable hand,

Built for eternity, last but an hour.

Where are the hanging gardens and the towers

Of Babylon? the marbles tall and grand

That stood like gods on the Ægean strand?

Fallen and crumbled. So shall crumble ours.

Time slays or withers all on which we dote;His swift, remorseless touches ne’er relent,Destroying marble, mortar, and cement.Then why should I repine because my coatIs threadbare on the seams with three years’ wear,Out at the elbows, and beyond repair?

Time slays or withers all on which we dote;

His swift, remorseless touches ne’er relent,

Destroying marble, mortar, and cement.

Then why should I repine because my coat

Is threadbare on the seams with three years’ wear,

Out at the elbows, and beyond repair?

FROM THE FRENCH.

Last night, or did I dream? my lady ledMe to a wall I oft had passed before,And opened there a curious secret doorMade by some cunning workmen ages dead.We entered furtively, and as our treadResounded on the long untrodden floor,Back swung the portal with a clanging roar.Fleeing like startled children on we sped,And found an inner chamber, where was spreadA board with gold and crystal, and a storeOf fruits and flowers from every unknown shore,And curious flasks, whose contents gleaming redA ruddy radiance o’er my lady shed,And flung fantastic flames upon the floor.

Last night, or did I dream? my lady led

Me to a wall I oft had passed before,

And opened there a curious secret door

Made by some cunning workmen ages dead.

We entered furtively, and as our tread

Resounded on the long untrodden floor,

Back swung the portal with a clanging roar.

Fleeing like startled children on we sped,

And found an inner chamber, where was spread

A board with gold and crystal, and a store

Of fruits and flowers from every unknown shore,

And curious flasks, whose contents gleaming red

A ruddy radiance o’er my lady shed,

And flung fantastic flames upon the floor.

Bathed in the amber of an unseen flame,A royal couch with silken curtains fairGleamed like a jewel in the alcove there;A dreamy languor stole through all my frame,Sweet beyond power of language to declare;A breath of perfume moved the swooning air,Stirring the golden ringlets of my dame;And while we faltered, lo, a small voice came:“O happy pair, with rosy forms aglow,Here lie within the temple’s deep alcoveSweet mysteries that I pant to have you know;Wine that hath stained the trampling feet of Love,And fruit that ripened in the sacred grove:Break every seal, and let the purple flow.”

Bathed in the amber of an unseen flame,

A royal couch with silken curtains fair

Gleamed like a jewel in the alcove there;

A dreamy languor stole through all my frame,

Sweet beyond power of language to declare;

A breath of perfume moved the swooning air,

Stirring the golden ringlets of my dame;

And while we faltered, lo, a small voice came:

“O happy pair, with rosy forms aglow,

Here lie within the temple’s deep alcove

Sweet mysteries that I pant to have you know;

Wine that hath stained the trampling feet of Love,

And fruit that ripened in the sacred grove:

Break every seal, and let the purple flow.”

I turned to seek my lady’s eyes, when lo!The vision vanished, and I stood aloneWithout the temple walls, whose cold gray stoneMocked my endeavor, rising row on row.I called my lady’s name, fearful and low.No answer, save the hoot-owl’s jeering tone,And the pale mocking moon that coldly shone.Now, sadly round the temple walls I go,Whose deepest mysteries I thought to know.I thought its inmost chamber mine; fond fool,I only stood within some vestibule,Where all men’s feet may wander to and fro,And saw, reflected from some mirror there,My own imaginings too warm and fair.

I turned to seek my lady’s eyes, when lo!

The vision vanished, and I stood alone

Without the temple walls, whose cold gray stone

Mocked my endeavor, rising row on row.

I called my lady’s name, fearful and low.

No answer, save the hoot-owl’s jeering tone,

And the pale mocking moon that coldly shone.

Now, sadly round the temple walls I go,

Whose deepest mysteries I thought to know.

I thought its inmost chamber mine; fond fool,

I only stood within some vestibule,

Where all men’s feet may wander to and fro,

And saw, reflected from some mirror there,

My own imaginings too warm and fair.

Once more the huntress clad in silvery mailSeeks her Endymion, over hill and glade;Once more the hour so dear to youth and maid—The hour that all Love’s guardian spirits hail.Wrapped in the moonlight like a lucent veil,Is it for me, young priestess, that, arrayedStill in thy vestal robes, thy feet have strayedSo far from where the sacred fires pale?Last night within the temple’s dim alcoveI durst not lift my conscious eyes to thine.Lo, now thy lips and eyes have sought for mine,And round my neck thy sheltering arms entwine,While our commingling footsteps freely roveThrough all the mysteries of the silent grove.

Once more the huntress clad in silvery mail

Seeks her Endymion, over hill and glade;

Once more the hour so dear to youth and maid—

The hour that all Love’s guardian spirits hail.

Wrapped in the moonlight like a lucent veil,

Is it for me, young priestess, that, arrayed

Still in thy vestal robes, thy feet have strayed

So far from where the sacred fires pale?

Last night within the temple’s dim alcoveI durst not lift my conscious eyes to thine.Lo, now thy lips and eyes have sought for mine,And round my neck thy sheltering arms entwine,While our commingling footsteps freely roveThrough all the mysteries of the silent grove.

Last night within the temple’s dim alcove

I durst not lift my conscious eyes to thine.

Lo, now thy lips and eyes have sought for mine,

And round my neck thy sheltering arms entwine,

While our commingling footsteps freely rove

Through all the mysteries of the silent grove.

IMITATED FROM DE MUSSET.

My verse contains some images, ’tis true,On Byron’s pages found, what then, he tooOn other pages found them long before,(Byron, I think, would hardly grudge them me,Seeing I need them so much worse than he).Read carefully the old Italian lore,If you, to draw it very mild, would seeHow freely Byron borrowed; he or sheAs stupid as a school teacher must beWho thinks in eighteen hundred eighty-fourTo find a thought or rhyme not used before.And yet I must not speak of “waters blue,”Of “sunny skies,” and “eyes of heavenly hue,”Nor use some old stock metaphor at needBecause, forsooth, pedantic fools may read,The same in every language,—Sanscrit, Greek,Hebrew and Latin, Dutch and Arabic.Great bards of yore, and they of yesterday,Before whose sun my rushlight pales away,To whose deep flood, my song is but a rill,—All, great and small, hear the same chorus still.Read the old rotting magazines and seeThe very venom that they void on me;The arsenal where roving malice meetsThe rusty darts that stung the heart of Keats.Vile innuendo, and malignant sneer,Blanche, Tray, and Sweetheart, hardly changed are here.The lowest place amid the minstrel throngIs all I claim; in the full tide of songMy voice is lost; upon my page appearsNo burning message from supernal spheres.But Teian glow and Lesbian passion stillA thousand lyres in every land they thrill.A chord once found belongs, the whole world through,To every minstrel that can strike it true.My verses rhyme (at least some of them do),And sweet as ever in our ear there chimesThe melody of old recurrent rhymes.Dove ever mates with love, and bliss with kiss,In every song from Sappho’s day to this.

My verse contains some images, ’tis true,

On Byron’s pages found, what then, he too

On other pages found them long before,

(Byron, I think, would hardly grudge them me,

Seeing I need them so much worse than he).

Read carefully the old Italian lore,

If you, to draw it very mild, would see

How freely Byron borrowed; he or she

As stupid as a school teacher must be

Who thinks in eighteen hundred eighty-four

To find a thought or rhyme not used before.

And yet I must not speak of “waters blue,”

Of “sunny skies,” and “eyes of heavenly hue,”

Nor use some old stock metaphor at need

Because, forsooth, pedantic fools may read,

The same in every language,—Sanscrit, Greek,

Hebrew and Latin, Dutch and Arabic.

Great bards of yore, and they of yesterday,

Before whose sun my rushlight pales away,

To whose deep flood, my song is but a rill,—

All, great and small, hear the same chorus still.

Read the old rotting magazines and see

The very venom that they void on me;

The arsenal where roving malice meets

The rusty darts that stung the heart of Keats.

Vile innuendo, and malignant sneer,

Blanche, Tray, and Sweetheart, hardly changed are here.

The lowest place amid the minstrel throngIs all I claim; in the full tide of songMy voice is lost; upon my page appearsNo burning message from supernal spheres.But Teian glow and Lesbian passion stillA thousand lyres in every land they thrill.A chord once found belongs, the whole world through,To every minstrel that can strike it true.My verses rhyme (at least some of them do),And sweet as ever in our ear there chimesThe melody of old recurrent rhymes.Dove ever mates with love, and bliss with kiss,In every song from Sappho’s day to this.

The lowest place amid the minstrel throng

Is all I claim; in the full tide of song

My voice is lost; upon my page appears

No burning message from supernal spheres.

But Teian glow and Lesbian passion still

A thousand lyres in every land they thrill.

A chord once found belongs, the whole world through,

To every minstrel that can strike it true.

My verses rhyme (at least some of them do),

And sweet as ever in our ear there chimes

The melody of old recurrent rhymes.

Dove ever mates with love, and bliss with kiss,

In every song from Sappho’s day to this.

FLORIAN.

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