WE THE SISTERS. E were two daughters of one race: The wind is blowing in turret and tree. She died: she went to burning flame : O the Earl was fair to see! I made a feast; I bad him come; The wind is roaring in turret and tree. Upon my lap he laid his head : O the Earl was fair to see! I kiss'd his eyelids into rest: The wind is raging in turret and tree. I rose up in the silent night : The wind is raving in turret and tree. Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, The wind is blowing in turret and tree. And laid him at his mother's feet. ΤΟ WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. SEND you here a sort of allegory, (For you will understand it) of a soul, A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters Howling in outer darkness. Not for this Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, I THE PALACE OF ART. BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse, A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass, Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf In her high palace there. And "while the world runs round and round,” I said, 66 Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast shade Sleeps on his luminous ring." To which my soul made answer readily: In this great mansion, that is built for me, Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam. And round the cool green courts there ran a row And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands, From those four jets four currents in one swell In misty folds, that floating as they fell Lit up a torrent-bow. And high To hang on every peak a statue seem'd on tiptoe, tossing up A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd From out a golden cup. So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon While this great bow will waver in the sun, For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, Burnt like a fringe of fire. Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced, Full of long-sounding corridors it was, Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, From living Nature, fit for every mood For some were hung with arras green and blue, Showing a gaudy summer-morn, Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew His wreathed bugle-horn. One seem'd all dark and red a tract of sand, And some one pacing there alone, |