“So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you met on the train,
And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?”

“Of course,” he replied, “she would know me; there never was womankind yet
Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not forget”

“Then you told her your love?” asked the elder. The younger looked up with a smile:
“I sat by her side half an hour—what else was I doing the while?

“What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky,

Sunk and set our sun, that shone:
Now are light and glory gone
From glittering Llanarmon!
We heard the doom, the deathcry, wail
Between the mountains and the vale,
Through desolate Llanarmon.

For a crown, Llanarmon bears
But a bristling crest of spears:
Fierce are thy joys, Llanarmon!
And older than the Druid oak
His line, the leader of thy folk,
Llewellyn of Llanarmon!

Valiant and divinely proud,
He: till death against him vowed
Malevolence, Llanarmon!
Death, angered at a man so great,
Sent travelling from the Ghostly Gate

Come here fond youth, whoe'er thou be
That boasts to love as well as me,
And if thy breast have felt so wide a wound,
Come hither and thy flame approve;
I'll teach thee what it is to love,
And by what marks true passion may be found.

It is to be all bath'd in tears,
To live upon a smile for years,
To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet;
To kneel, to languish and implore,
And still tho' she disdain, adore;
It is to do all this and think thy sufferings sweet.

It is to gaze upon her eyes
With eager joy and fond surprize,

Our minor daily acts are in our hand
To do, or not to do. Our deeds are planned
Slowly from day to day.
We fix the hour for meeting with a friend.
We bring our mapped-out labour to an end.
We speak. The months obey.

The human will is free. Yes, free indeed!
Along its woodland path it can proceed,
Dealing with wood-side flowers.
It gathers here a pink anemone
And there a blue-bell, bluer than the sea
In its most sunlit hours.

The human will appoints its daily track;
Climbs the steep mountain,—loiters, or turns back;
The human heart is proud:

I knew a boor—a clownish card
(His only friends were pigs and cows and
The poultry of a small farmyard),
Who came into two hundred thousand.

Good fortune worked no change in BROWN,
Though she's a mighty social chymist;
He was a clown—and by a clown
I do not mean a pantomimist.

It left him quiet, calm, and cool,
Though hardly knowing what a crown was -
You can't imagine what a fool
Poor rich uneducated BROWN was!

He scouted all who wished to come
And give him monetary schooling;
And I propose to give you some

How sweet the Contemplation, of that High
Tremendous Ruler of Eternity!
To think, how Great! how Good! how Wife that God !
Who puts whole Worlds in Motion, at His Nod.
Made that bright, glitt'ring Planet, call'd the Sun,
Which doth its daily Course, to light us, run;
Transparent Skies, whose Curtain-clouds deny
A boundless Prospect to the aching Eye,
And screen that Glory, from our mortal View,
As if to say, the Sight's too grand for you.

Alas! I know, the Rays that dart around,
That burnish'd Orb, doth ev'ry Sense confound;

There was no star in the East the night I came
With spikenard in hushed Jerusalem—
But a light in an upper chamber dimly lit
Was star enough—I would have followed it
Through lonelier streets unto the smaller room
Where afterwards it blossomed in the tomb.
Light of the world, but how much more to me
The light that other women also see!
No choiring angels in gold groups adored
Their king that night, but searching for my Lord
Unchoired, uncrowned, whose Kingdom had not come,
I heard none call, but dumb, as death is dumb,

There is no Hell; there is no Heaven;
Our bodies on the winds of chance are blown;
Our spirits for the pre-ordained have striven,
With neither wills nor passions of our own;
All that we give, to us was ever given;
The seeds of all our sins in us were sown;
Poor, futile fools, by fate and folly driven;
Poor, sinless sinners, fettered flesh and bone,
And soul, by fetters never to be riven,
Saving by Death alone.

Poor, fragile bodies, fashioned in the fire
That smouldered in the ashes of a star;
Poor, fickle spirits, duped by a desire

A GAIN , like the return of day,
From Avon's banks the cheering lay
Warms up a muse was well nigh lost
In depths of snow and chilling frost;
But generous praise the soul inspires,
More than rich wines and blazing fires.

Tho' on the Grampians I were chain'd,
And all the winter on me rain'd;
Altho' half starv'd, my sp'rit would spring
Up to new life to hear you sing.

I take even criticism kind,
That sparkles from so clear a mind:
Friends ought and may point out a spot,
But enemies make all a blot.
Friends sip the honey from the flow'r;

I' M glad to see yon springtide sun
Go down, albeit I love his light;
My bread is won, my labour done,
My reason clear, my conscience right;
And as I take my homeward way,
I see, with not irreverent eyes,
The grandeur of departing day,
In the rich glory of the skies;
Whilst yet the shadowy coppice rings,
Where the brave throstle blithely sings.

To-morrow, when his earliest beams
Turn to loose gold the quivering rills,—
Rekindle the rejoicing streams,—
In purple vesture swathe the hills,—
With buoyant mind, and sinews strong,