COULDST thou, Great Fairy, give to me
The instant's wish, that I might see
Of all the earth's that one dear sight
Known only in a dream's delight,
I would, beneath some island steep,
In some remote and sun-bright deep,
See high in heaven above me now
A palm-tree wave its rhythmic bough!

And yet this old pine's haughty crown,
Shaking its clouds of silver down,
Whispers me snatches of strange tunes
And murmur of those awful runes
Which tell by subtle spell, and power
Of secret sympathies, the hour
When far in the dark North the snow
Among great bergs begins to blow.

Nay, thou sweet South of heats and

balms,

Keep all thy proud and plumy palms,

LAUS VENERIS

A PICTURE BY BURNE JONES PALLID with too much longing, White with passion and prayer, Goddess of love and beauty,

She sits in the picture there,—

Sits with her dark eyes seeking
Something more subtle still
Than the old delights of loving

Her measureless days to fill.

She has loved and been loved so often
In her long, immortal years,
That she tires of the worn-out rapture,
Sickens of hopes and fears.

No joys or sorrows move her,

Done with her ancient pride; For her head she found too heavy The crown she has cast aside.

Clothed in her scarlet splendor, Bright with her glory of hair, Sad that she is not mortal,Eternally sad and fair,

Longing for joys she knows not, Athirst with a vain desire, There she sits in the picture, Daughter of foam and fire.

LAURA SLEEPING

COME hither and behold this lady's face, Who lies asleep, as if strong Death had kissed

Upon her eyes the kiss none can resist,
And held her fast in his prolonged embrace!
See the still lips, which grant no answering
grace

To Love's fond prayers, and the sweet, carven smile,

Sign of some dream-born joy which did beguile

The dreaming soul from its fair restingplace!

So will she look when Death indeed has sway O'er her dear loveliness, and holds her fast In that last sleep which knows nor night

nor day,

Which hopes no future, contemplates no past;

So will she look; but now, behold! she wakes

Thus, from the Night, Dawn's sunlit beauty breaks.

HIC JACET

So Love is dead that has been quick so long!

Close, then, his eyes, and bear him to his rest,

With eglantine and myrtle on his breast, And leave him there, their pleasant scents among;

And chant a sweet and melancholy song About the charms whereof he was possessed, And how of all things he was loveliest, And to compare with aught were him to wrong.

Leave him beneath the still and solemn stars,

That gather and look down from their far place

With their long calm our brief woes to deride,

Until the Sun the Morning's gate unbars And mocks, in turn, our sorrows with his face;

And yet, had Love been Love, he had not died.

WERE BUT MY SPIRIT LOOSED UPON THE AIR

WERE but my spirit loosed upon the air, By some High Power who could Life's chains unbind,

Set free to seek what most it longs to find, To no proud Court of Kings would I repair: I would but climb, once more, a narrow stair,

When day was wearing late, and dusk was kind;

And one should greet me to my failings blind,

Content so I but shared his twilight there.
Nay! well I know he waits not as of old,
I could not find him in the old-time place,
I must pursue him, made by sorrow bold,
Through worlds unknown, in strange Ce-
lestial race,

Whose mystic round no traveller has told,
From star to star, until I see his face.

WE LAY US DOWN TO SLEEP

WE lay us down to sleep,

And leave to God the rest: Whether to wake and weep Or wake no more be best.

Why vex our souls with care ?
The grave is cool and low,
Have we found life so fair

That we should dread to go?

We've kissed love's sweet, red lips,
And left them sweet and red:
The rose the wild bee sips

Blooms on when he is dead.

Some faithful friends we 've found;
But they who love us best,
When we are under ground,
Will laugh on with the rest.

No task have we begun

But other hands can take; No work beneath the sun

For which we need to wake.

Then hold us fast, sweet Death,
If so it seemeth best
To Him who gave us breath

That we should go to rest.

We lay us down to sleep;

Our weary eyes we close: Whether to wake and weep,

Or wake no more, He knows.

LOUISA MAY ALCOTT

IN MEMORIAM

As the wind at play with a spark
Of fire that glows through the night,
As the speed of the soaring lark

That wings to the sky his flight,
So swiftly thy soul has sped

On its upward, wonderful way, Like the lark, when the dawn is red, In search of the shining day.

Thou art not with the frozen dead Whom earth in the earth we lay, While the bearers softly tread,

And the mourners kneel and pray;

ΤΟ

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

ON THE DEATH OF LOWELL

DEAR singer of our fathers' day,

Who lingerest in the sunset glow,
Our grateful hearts all bid thee stay;
Bend hitherward and do not go.
Gracious thine age, thy youth was strong,
For Freedom touched thy tongue with
fire:

To sing the right and fight the wrong
Thine equal hand held bow or lyre.
O linger, linger long,
Singer of song.

We beg thee stay; thy comrade star
Which later rose is earlier set;
What music and what battle-scar

When side by side the fray ye met!
Thy trumpet and his drum and fife

Gave saucy challenge to the foe In Liberty's heroic strife;

We mourn for him, thou must not go ! Yet linger, linger long,

Singer of song.

We cannot yield thee; only thou

Art left to us, and one beside Whose silvered wisdom still can show How smiles and tears together bide. And we would bring our boys to thee, And bid them hold in memory crowned That they our saintliest bard did see, The Galahad of our table round. Then linger, linger long, Singer of song.

The night is dark; three radiant beams Are gone that crossed the zenith sky; For one the water-fowl, meseems,

For two the Elmwood herons cry. Ye twain that early rose and still

Skirt low the level west along, Sink when ye must, to rise and fill The morrow's east with light and song. But linger, linger long, Singers of song.

THE NEW CASTALIA

OUT of a cavern on Parnassus' side,
Flows Castaly; and with the flood outblown