"Now, God speed you, though the shout should be our last,

Through the channel where the maddened breakers comb,

Through the wild sea's hill and hollow,
On the path we cannot follow,

To your women and your children and your home."

Oh! remember it, good brothers. We two people speak one tongue,

And your native land was mother to our land;

But the head, perhaps, is hasty when the nation's heart is young,

And we prate of things we do not understand.

But the day when we stood face to face with death,

(Upon whose face few men may look and tell),

As long as you could hear, or we had breath,

Four hundred voices cheered you out of hell!

By the will of that stern chorus,
By the motherland which bore us,

Judge if we do not love each other well.

A PORTRAIT

A MAN more kindly, in his careless way, Than many who profess a higher creed; Whose fickle love might change from day to day,

And yet be faithful to a friend in need;

Whose manners covered, through life's outs and ins,

Like charity, a multitude of sins.

A man of honor, too, as such things go; Discreet and secret - qualities of use Selfish, but not self-conscious, generous, slow

To anger, but most ready in excuse.

SONG

THE light of spring

On the emerald earth,

A man, a maid,

And a mood of mirth,

A foolish jest,

That a smile amends

It took no more

To make us friends.

An evening breeze,

The year in bloom, Lips quickly met

In the garden's gloom; The trees about us,

The stars above

It took no more

To teach us love.

Frost in the air

The air like wineGo you your way, And I'll go mine. Lightly we part

Who lightly met What more is needed, When both forget?

HELEN

A SONNET

DEAR, if you love me, hold me most your friend,

Chosen from out the many who would bear

Your gladness gladly - heavily your care; Who best can sympathize, best comprehend, Where others fail; who, breathless to the end,

Follows your tale of joy or of despair.
Hold me your counsellor, because I dare
To lift my hand to guide you, that I lend
My love to help you. And I would you
knew

That I am fair enough to win men's hearts,
If so I willed; yet honor me above
All other women, since I am too true
To trap you with my sex's smaller arts.
Deem me all these, but love me as your
love.

SHE sits within the white oak hall,
Hung with the trophies of the chase -
Helen, a stately maid and tall,

Dark-haired and pale of face;
With drooping lids and eyes that brood,
Sunk in the depths of some strange
mood,

She gazes in the fireplace, where

The oozing pine logs snap and flare, Wafting the perfume of their native wood.

The wind is whining in the garth,

The leaves are at their dervish rounds, The flexile flames upon the hearth

Hang out their tongues like panting hounds.

The fire, I deem, she holds in thrall;
Its red light fawns as she lets fall

Escaloped pine-cones, dried and brown,
From loose, white hands, till up and
down

The colored shadows dye the dusky wall.

The tawny lamp flame tugs its wick;
Upon the landing of the stair
The ancient clock is heard to tick

In shadows dark as Helen's hair;

And by a gentle accolade

A squire to languid silence made,
I lean upon my palms, with eyes
O'er which a rack of fancy flies,
While dreams like gorgeous sunsets flame
and fade.

And as I muse on Helen's face,

Within the firelight's ruddy shine,
Its beauty takes an olden grace

Like hers whose fairness was divine;
The dying embers leap, and, lo!
Troy wavers vaguely all aglow,

And in the north wind leashed without, I hear the conquering Argives' shout; And Helen feeds the flames as long ago!

THE SPIRIT OF THE WHEAT

SUCH times as windy moods do stir

The foamless billows of the wheat, I glimpse the floating limbs of her In instant visions melting sweet.

A milky shoulder's dip and gleam, Or arms that clasp upon the air, An upturned face's rosy dream, Half blinded by the sunlit hair.

He leans and moves, restraining, yet drawn on by tossing heads.

He feels the festal music; rapid and strong are his arms and breast;

Yet from his waist beneath, loose and slow is his resting pace,

Flowers are in his hair, and he is fair. He thinks he is but strong; he can overcome,

And his mind sees only the impatient horns; But my heart sees his slimness, and would care for him like a mother.

My love leads the white bulls to sacrifice.

Gray, heavy clouds muffled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward God alone.

"O Master, that movest the wind with a finger,

Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. Grant that we may run swiftly across the world

To huddle in worship at Thy feet."