If I had peace to sit and sing,
Then I could make a lovely thing;
But I am stung with goads and whips,
So I build songs like iron ships.

Let it be something for my song,
If it is sometimes swift and strong.

A FAIRY dream that stole,
With evanescent light,
Across thy waken'd soul,
One early Autumn night—
Am I not this to thee?

A lone and languid rose
That in thy care might bloom,
But on the distance throws,
Vainly, its vague perfume—
Am I not this to thee?

A faint and trembling star
That drew thine eyes awhile,
Still shining on afar,
Deserted by thy smile—
Am I not this to thee?

A pearl cast at thy feet
And worn by thee an hour,
Then left where fierce waves beat,
The plaything of their power—
Am I not this to thee?

My lord said to my lady,
when he went from home,
Take care of Long Longkin,
he lies in the lone.

My lady said to my lord,
when he went abroad,
. . . .
. . .

‘I care not for Longkin,
nor none of his kin,
For my gate 's fast barrd,
and my windows shut in.’

My lord was not gone
many miles from the place,
Untill the false Longkin
came straight to the place.


‘Pinch the bairn, nourry,
pinch it very sore,
Untill the mother
shall come down below.’

‘Still the bairn, nury,
still it with the pap:’

In a cot-studded, fruity, green deep dale,
There grows the ruin of an abbey old;
And on the hill side, cut in rock, behold
A sainted hermit's cell; so goes the tale.
What of that ruin? There is nothing left
Save one sky-framing window arch, which climbs
Up to its top point, single stoned, bereft
Of prop or load. And this strange thing sublimes
The scene. For the fair great house, vowed to God ,
Is hurled down and unhallowed; and we tread
O'er buried graves which have devoured their dead;
While over all springs up the green-lifed sod,

Down dropped the sun upon the sea,
The gradual darkness filled the land;
Amid the twilight, silently,
I felt the pressure of a hand.

And a low voice: “Have courage, friend.
Be of good cheer, 'tis not for long;
He conquers who awaits the end,
And dares to suffer and be strong.”

I have seen many a land since then,
Known many a joy and many a pain
Victor in many a strife of men,
Vanquished again and yet again.

The ancient sorrow now is not,
Since time can heal the keenest smart;
Yet the vague memory, scarce forgot,

They wandered through the massive gates,
And gazed upon the motley throng,
They heard the white-robed band pour out,
The flood of solemn, ancient song.

The turbaned Rabbi and the Scribe,
In broidered robes and fringes gay,
Pressed on with eager glance to join,
The rites of that thrice festal day.

But they—the Grecian Pilgrims—saw,
No magic show to bind them there,
Though incense with a perfumed cloud,
Was filling fast the House of Prayer.

The Sanhedrim enthroned in State,
To these poor wanderers all were nought,

Happy, ye leaves! when as those lilly hands,
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might,
Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands,
Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight.
And happy lines! on which, with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to looke,
And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright,
Written with teares in harts close-bleeding booke.
And happy rymes! bath'd in the sacred brooke
Of Helicon, whence she derived is;
When ye behold that Angels blessed looke,
My soules long-lacked foode, my heavens blis;

Thus have I seen a Magpye oft
Spend all it's little rage;
And strut, and thrust its scolding beak
No farther than the cage.

Upon the high mount, low, of heavenly stars,
Sweeps the deep, eternal muse
Of vapored calm refading blue.
I sought the hill, that of radium
From the moon espies our grove;
There the rustling, quivering blades about us
Through flower, clover and feigned
Images around us flitter and rise.
Restless floated hoods and cloaks.
That cape of fluttering, as rivals meet
Through wind that causes gaiety, sings
Its caressing lyre breeze, there
In enthralled lust's displayed creation
Has sought its tribute of love's tacit guide.

When the crop is fair in the olive-yard,
And the earthen jars are ready
For the golden oil from the barrels poured,
And the big cart rocks unsteady
With its tower of gathered sheaves, and strains
And groans on its way through fields and lanes.

When brawny and bare as an old athlete
Comes Bacchus the dance a-leading,
And the laborers all, with juice-dyed feet,
The vintage of Crau are treading,
And the good wine pours from the brimful presses,
And the ruby foam in the vats increases;

When under the leaves of the Spanish broom