Here stood thy temple, on the mountain's horn,
Lifted high over the subjected plain;
Here rose the sower's incense in the morn;
Here pealed his loud thanksgiving for the rain.
Demeter, goddess of the fruitful earth,
Our Mother of the Wheat, behold thy hearth!

Vacant the rock, of every herb swept clean,
Juts naked in the blue sky,—all is gone:
Tall grow the crops beneath; the fields lie green;
The rain cloud has not failed; the sun has shone.
Were the hands crazed that reared thy altar-stone
And laid the first-fruits of the world thereon?

Though , when other maids stand by,
I may deign thee no reply,
Turn not then away, and sigh,—
——Smile, and never heed me!
If our love, indeed, be such
As must thrill at every touch,
Why should others learn as much?—
——Smile, and never heed me!

Even if, with maiden pride,
I should bid thee quit my side,
Take this lesson for thy guide,—
——Smile, and never heed me!
But when stars and twilight meet,
And the dew is falling sweet,
And thou hear'st my coming feet,—
——Then—thou then—mayst heed me!

A RACE of nobles may die out,
A royal line may leave no heir;
Wise Nature sets no guards about
Her pewter plate and wooden ware.

But they fail not, the kinglier breed,
Who starry diadems attain;
To dungeon, axe, and stake succeed
Heirs of the old heroic strain.

The zeal of Nature never cools,
Nor is she thwarted of her ends;
When gapped and dulled her cheaper tools,
Then she a saint and prophet spends.

Land of the Magyars! though it be
The tyrant may relink his chain,
Already thine the victory,

A fortnight before Christmas Gypsies were everywhere:
Vans were drawn up on wastes, women trailed to the fair.
‘My gentleman,’ said one, ‘You've got a lucky face.’
‘And you've a luckier,’ I thought, ‘if such a grace
And impudence in rags are lucky.’ ‘Give a penny
For the poor baby's sake.’ ‘Indeed I have not any
Unless you can give change for a sovereign, my dear.’
‘Then just half a pipeful of tobacco can you spare?’
I gave it. With that much victory she laughed content.
I should have given more, but off and away she went

Is any one sad in the world, I wonder?
Does any one weep on a day like this,
With the sun above, and the green earth under?
Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?

With the sun, and the skies, and the birds above me,
Birds that sing as they wheel and fly—
With the winds to follow and say they love me—
Who could be lonely? O ho, not I!

Somebody said, in the street this morning,
As I opened my window to let in the light,
That the darkest day of the world was dawning;
But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight.

Tho' safe thou think'st thy treasure lies,
Hidden in chests from human eyes,
A fire may come, and it may be
Bury'd, my friend, as far from thee.
Thy vessel that yon' ocean stems,
Loaded with golden dust and gems,
Purchas'd with so much pains and cost,
Yet in a tempest may be lost.
Pimps, whores, and bawds, a thankless crew,
Priests, pickpockets, and lawyers too,
All help by several ways to drain,
Thanking themselves for what they gain.
The liberal are secure alone,
For what we frankly give for ever is our own.

My spirit stood and listened in its awe
Beside the great abyss where seethes the Past,
And caught the voices that were upward cast
By those whom Fate whirled on like floating straw;

While, in the glimmering depth, I vaguely saw,
Lashed to some frail remainder of a mast,
The wretches drifting faster and more fast,
Sucked down for ever in the whirlpool's maw:

And these wild voices of despair and fear,
Of love and hate, from out the deep abyss
I treasured up, just as they struck the ear,—

Appeals which rise above the roar and hiss

Ile get me hence,
Because no fence,
Or Fort that I can make here;
But Love by charmes,
Or else by Armes
Will storme, or starving take here.

When I—the fool—am dead,
There will be one to stand above my head,
Her wan lips yearning for my quiet lips
That stung her soul so oft with bitter cries.
And I shall feel forgiving finger-tips
And I shall hear her saying with her sighs:
“This fool I mothered sucked a bitter breast;
His life was fever and his soul was fire:
O burning fool, O restless fool at rest,
No other knew how high you could aspire,
No other knew how deep your soul could sink!”

And when these words above the fool are said,
The others ranged about the room shall think:

Blessed the Dead in Spirit, our brave dead
Not passed, but perfected:
Who tower up to mystical full bloom
From self, as from a known alchemic tomb;
Who out of wrong
Run forth with laughter and a broken thong;
Who win from pain their strange and flawless grant
Of peace anticipant;
Who cerements lately wore of sin, but now,
Unbound from foot to brow,
Gleam in and out of cities, beautiful
As sun-born colours of a forest pool
Where Autumn sees
The splash of walnuts from her thinning trees.

Though wondered-at of some, yea, feared almost