That low man seeks a little thing to do,

Sees it and does it:

This high man, with a great thing to pursue,
Dies ere he knows it.

That low man goes on adding one to one,
His hundred's soon hit:

This high man, aiming at a million,

Misses an unit.

That, has the world here,

should he need the next,

Let the world mind him!

This, throws himself on God, and unperplext
Seeking shall find Him.

So, with the throttling hands of Death at strife,
Ground he at grammar;

Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife.
While he could stammer

He settled Hoti's business, let it be !-
Properly based Oun, -

Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De,
Dead from the waist down.

Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place.
Hail to your purlieus

All ye highfliers of the feathered race,
Swallows and curlews!

Here's the top-peak! the multitude below
Live, for they can there.

This man decided not to Live but Know,

Bury this man there?

Here, — here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,

Lightnings are loosened,

Stars come and go! let joy break with the storm,

Peace let the dew send!

Lofty designs must close in like effects:

Loftily lying,

Leave him, still loftier than the world suspects,

Living and dying.

I

THE CONFESSIONAL.

T is a lie,

[SPAIN.]

their Priests, their Pope,
Their Saints, their . . . all they fear or hope
Are lies, and lies, - there! through my door
And ceiling, there! and walls and floor,
There, lies, they lie, shall still be hurled,
Till spite of them I reach the world!

You think Priests just and holy men!
Before they put me in this den,

I was a human creature too,

With flesh and blood like one of you,
A girl that laughed in beauty's pride
Like lilies in your world outside.

I had a lover, - shame avaunt!

This poor wrenched body, grim and gaunt, Was kissed all over till it burned,

By lips the truest, love e'er turned

His heart's own tint: one night they kissed My soul out in a burning mist.

So, next day when the accustomed train
Of things grew round my sense again,
"That is a sin," I said, and slow
With downcast eyes to church I go,
And pass to the confession-chair,
And tell the old mild father there.

But when I falter Beltran's name,

"Ha? quoth the father; "much I blame The sin; yet wherefore idly grieve?

Despair not,

strenuously retrieve!

Nay, I will turn this love of thine

To lawful love, almost divine.

"For he is young, and led astray,
This Beltran, and he schemes, men say,
To change the laws of church and state;
So, thine shall be an angel's fate,
Who, ere the thunder breaks, should roll
Its cloud away and save his soul.

For, when he lies upon thy breast, Thou mayst demand and be possessed Of all his plans, and next day steal To me, and all those plans reveal,

THE CONFESSIONAL.

That I and every priest, to purge

His soul, may fast and use the scourge."

That father's beard was long and white,
With love and truth his brow seemed bright;
I went back, all on fire with joy,
And, that same evening, bade the boy,
Tell me, as lovers should, heart-free,
Something to prove his love of me.

He told me what he would not tell
For hope of Heaven or fear of Hell;
And I lay listening in such pride,
And, soon as he had left my side,
Tripped to the church by morning-light
To save his soul in his despite.

I told the father all his schemes,

Who were his comrades, what their dreams,
"And now make haste," I said, "to pray
The one spot from his soul away:
To-night he comes, but not the same
Will look!" At night he never came.

Nor next night: on the after-morn,
I went forth with a strength new-born:
The church was empty; something drew
My steps into the street; I knew

It led me to the market-place,

Where, lo! on high-the father's face!

That horrible black scaffold drest, -
The stapled block . . . God sink the rest!
That head strapped back, that blinding vest,
Those knotted hands and naked breast,
Till near one busy hangman pressed,
And

on the neck these arms caressed. . .

...

No part in aught they hope or fear!
No Heaven with them, no Hell, and here,

87

No Earth, not so much space as pens
My body in their worst of dens

But shall bear God and Man my cry,
Lies,

lies, again, — and still, they lie!

ONE WAY OF LOVE.

LL June I bound the rose in sheaves.

rest rose, sup the

And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside? Alas!

Let them lie. Suppose they die?

The chance was they might take her eye.

How many a month I strove to suit
These stubborn fingers to the lute!
To-day I venture all I know.

She will not hear my music? So!
Break the string, fold music's wing.
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!

My whole life long I learned to love.
This hour my utmost art prove

And speak my passion. - Heaven or hell?
She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!
Lose who may, I still can say,

Those who win heaven, blest are they.