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

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

From thy semblance, dumb and stark, The soul has taken its flight

Out of the finite dark,

Into the Infinite Light.

LOVE'S RESURRECTION DAY

ROUND among the quiet graves,
When the sun was low,

Love went grieving, Love who saves:
Did the sleepers know?

At his touch the flowers awoke,
At his tender call
Birds into sweet singing broke,
And it did befall

From the blooming, bursting sod
All Love's dead arose,
And went flying up to God
By a way Love knows.

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 outblows

From its deep heart of ice, the mountain's

breath Tempers the ardor of the Delphian vale. Beside the stream from the black mould upsprings

Narcissus, robed in snow, with ruby crowned.

Long ranks of crocus, humble servitors,
But clad in purple, mark his downcast face.
The sward, moist from the flood, is pied
with flowers,

Lily and vetch, lupine and melilot,
The hyacinth, cowslip, and gay marigold,
While, on the border of the copse, sweet
herbs,

Anise and thyme, breathe incense to the bay
And myrtle. Here thy home, fair Muse!
How soft

Thy step falls on the grass whose morning drops

Bedew thy feet! The blossoms bend but break

Not, and thy fingers pluck the eglantine,
The privet and the bilberry; or frame
A rustic whistle from a fresh-cut reed.
Here is thy home, dear Muse, fed on these
airs;

The hills, the founts, the woods, the sky are thine!

MY NEW WORLD

I have expresst your history in a cyfer,

I've done your sum for all ensuing time, I don't know what you longer wish to lie for Beneath these stones or in your doggerel rhyme.

Get up and flit, or plunge into the river, Or walk the chancel with a ghostly squeak,

You were an ignorant and evil liver,

Who could not spell, nor write, nor read

much Greek.

Tho' you enslaved the ages by your spell, And Fame has blown no reputation louder,

Your cake is dough, for I by sifting well Have quite reduced your dust to Baconpowder.

MAN'S PILLOW

A BABY lying on his mother's breast
Draws life from that sweet fount;
He takes his rest

And heaves deep sighs;
With brooding eyes
Of soft content

POETRY

She shelters him within that fragrant nest,
And scarce refrains from crushing him
With tender violence,

His rosebud mouth, each rosy limb
Excite such joy intense;
Rocked on that gentle billow,
She sings into his ear

A song that angels stoop to hear.
Blest child and mother doubly blest!
Such his first pillow.

A man outwearied with the world's mad

race

His mother seeks again;

His furrowed face,
His tired gray head,
His heart of lead
Resigned he yields;

She covers him in some secluded place,
And kindly heals the earthy scar

Of spade with snow and flowers,
While glow of sun and gleam of star,
And murmuring rush of showers,
And wind-obeying willow

Attend his unbroken sleep; In this repose secure and deep, Forgotten save by One, he leaves no trace. Such his last pillow.

SOMETHING more than the lilt of the strain, Something more than the touch of the lute;

For the voice of the minstrel is vain,
If the heart of the minstrel is mute.

ON THE HEIGHTS

HE crawls along the mountain walls,
From whence the severed river falls;
Its seething waters writhe and twist,
Then leap, and crumble into mist.
Midway between two boundless seas,
Prone on a ragged reef he lies;
Above him bend the shoreless skies,
While helpless, on his bended knees,
Into that awful gulf profound,
Appalled, he peers with bated breath,
Clutches with fear the yielding ground,
And crouches face to face with death.

The fearful splendor of the sight
Begets in his bewildered brain
A downwright torture of delight,
The very ecstasy of pain.

A sudden frenzy fills his mind, -
If he could break the bonds that bind,
And launch upon the waves of wind;
Only to loose his hold and leap,
Then, cradled like a cloud, to sleep
Wind-rocked upon the soundless deep.
With eyes upturned, he breaks the spell,
And creeps from out the jaws of hell.
Pohono's siren wiles beguile,

He drinks her kisses in the wind,
He leaves the nether world behind.
Up, and still upward, mile on mile,
With muffled tramp, the pilgrim creeps
Across the frozen winding-sheet,

Where white-faced death in silence sleeps.
Up, and still upward, to the light,
Until at last his leaden feet
Have mocked the eagle in its flight.

Grim-browed and bald, Tis-sa-ack broods
Above these white-robed solitudes.
A mute, awe-stricken mortal stands
Upon the fragment of a world,

And, when the rifted clouds are curled,
Sees far below the steadfast lands.

DON JUAN

DON JUAN has ever the grand old air,
As he greets me with courtly grace;
Like a crown of glory the snow-white hair
That halos his swarthy face;

And he says, with a courtesy rare and fine,
As he ushers me in at the door,
"Panchita mia will bring us the wine,
And the casa is yours, señor."

His fourscore years have a tranquil cast,
For Time has tempered his heart and hand;
Though the seething tide of his blood ran
fast

When he ruled like a lord in the land.
In the wild rodeo and mad stampede
He rode, I am told,

But he says with a courtesy rare and fine,
As he ushers me in at the door,
"Panchita mia will bring us the wine,
And the casa is yours, señor."

EL VAQUERO

TINGED with the blood of Aztec lands,
Sphinx-like, the tawny herdsman stands,
A coiled reata in his hands.
Devoid of hope, devoid of fear,
Half brigand and half cavalier,
This helot, with imperial grace,
Wears ever on his tawny face
A sad, defiant look of pain.
Left by the fierce iconoclast
A living fragment of the past,
Greek of the Greeks he must remain.

THE DERELICT

UNMOORED, unmanned, unheeded on the deep

Tossed by the restless billow and the breeze, It drifts o'er sultry leagues of tropic seas, Where long Pacific surges swell and sweep. When pale-faced stars their silent watches keep,

From their far rhythmic spheres, the
Pleiades,

In calm beatitude and tranquil ease,
Smile sweetly down upon its cradled sleep.
Erewhile, with anchor housed and sails un-
furled,

We saw the stout ship breast the open main,

To round the Stormy Cape, and span the world,

In search of ventures which betoken gain. To-day, somewhere, on some far sea, we

know

Her battered hulk is heaving to and fro.