Have you not seen the young men
Going off to the wars?
They have turned into white-haired exiles
Because they can never return
Their homes are hidden in the distance,
Cut off by night and day
Rivers and mountain passes
Bar them off from their world.
The desert-wind moans sadly,
Scudding white clouds
Poignant the flutes of the nomads
In the bitter, frontier air.
The music fills them with sadness,
But what are they to do?
Climbing a hill and gazing south,
For a while they are young again
Trampled under nomad horses,

R EMEMBERING this—how Love
Mocks me, and bids me hoard
Mine ill reward that keeps me nigh to death,—
How it doth still behove
I suffer the keen sword,
Whence undeplor'd I may not draw my breath
In memory of this thing
Sighing and sorrowing,
I am languid at the heart
For her to whom I bow,
Craving her pity now,
And who still turns apart.

I am dying, and through her—
This flower, from paradise
Sent in some wise, that I might have no rest.
Truly she did not err
To come before his eyes

You who love to look on statues,
And the rarest would not miss,
Speak in whispers and step softly
When you come to look at this.
Was there ever whiter marble?
Not a hint of color there,
Save—or is it light from Heaven?—
Golden glints upon the hair.

They who look upon this statue
Must come quickly. Ere the dawn
Of another day shall brighten
Heavy curtains will be drawn
O'er the niche that must receive it:
There, in silence consecrate,
Where no mortal eye can see it,
It will resurrection wait.

Do you say, as you stand weeping,

He greets you with a smile from friendly eyes,
But never speaks nor rises from his bed:
Beneath the green night of the sea he lies,
The whole world's waters weighing on his head.

The empty wain made slowly over the sand,
And he with hands in pockets by the side
Was trudging, deep in dream, the while he scanned
With blue unseeing eyes the far-off tide,
When, stumbling in a hole, with startled neigh
His young horse reared and, snatching at the rein,
He slipped: the wheels crushed on him as he lay;
Then, tilting over him, the lumbering wain

A hapless bird was Zulaikha. She pined
In the narrow cage of the world confined.
Befriended by fortune, in pride and power,
When a rose-bed bloomed in her secret bower;
With her lord beside her to shade and screen
The tender plant when her bud was green—
With all dainty things, if she cared but to speak;
When no lamp was so bright as her youthful cheek:
Yusuf e'en then her whole heart possessed—
The sweet name on her lips, the dear hope in her breast.
Now, when from her side her protector was reft,
When nought of her rank and her treasures was left,

Yes, you lie there in state unearthly-solemn,
As though you'd been a heaven-supporting column,
Not a dead tree, of bark and foliage stript,
Gigantic Eucalypt!

Your brothers, standing still, look half-defiant,
Half in mute silence for the fallen giant:
I doubt if aught so great e'er fell so far
Except a falling star.

How tall would you have grown in course of Nature?
How old are your five hundred feet of stature?
Can you remember Noah and the flood
When you were yet a bud?

Standing beside your trunk, one almost fancies

Tenacious Usurer, in Friendship! you
Ne'r did one Good Turn, but to get by't two;
And are so Covetous, you, to your Shame,
Wou'd get, what's not your Due too, your Good Name;
To Double Use, put out your Benefit,
Both Praise, and Gain, to get at once, for it,
Which you ne'er did, but for it, more to get;
So Forc'd Loans brought you in your Debtor's Debt;
Since a Good Turn you never yet wou'd do,
Till, for our Waiting, it did Wages grow;
Was our Due from you, e'er our Debt to you;
So, since our Due, with Shame, or Pain, we get,

“O, S ILLARWOOD ! sweet Sillarwood,
Gin Sillarwood were mine,
I'd big a bouir in Sillarwood
And theik it ower wi' thyme;
At ilka door, and ilka bore,
The red, red rose, wud shine!”

It's up and sang the bonnie bird,
Upon her milk-white hand—
“I wudna lig in Sillarwood,
For all a gude Earl's land;
I wudna sing in Sillarwood,
Tho' gowden glist ilk wand!

“The wild boar rakes in Sillarwood,
The buck drives thro' the shaw,
And simmer woos the Southern wind
Thro' Sillarwood to blaw.
“Thro' Sillarwood, sweet Sillarwood,

This is the Mexican
Don José Calderón
One of God's countrymen.
Land of the buzzard,
Cheap silver dollar, and
Cacti and murderers.
Why has he left his land
Land of the lazy man,
Land of the pulque
Land of the bull fight,
Fleas and revolution.

This is the reason,
Hark to the wherefore;
Listen and tremble.
One of his ancestors,
Ancient and garlicky,
Probably grandfather,
Died with his boots on.
Killed by the Texans,
Texans with big guns
At San Jacinto.
Died without benefit
Of priest or clergy;
Died full of Minié balls,

Hail Learned Bard! who dost thy power dispence,
And show'st us the first State of Innocence.
In that blest golden Age, when Man was young,
When the whole race was Vigorous and Strong;
When Nature did her wond'rous dictates give,
And taught the Noble Savage how to live;
When Christal Streams, and every plenteous Wood
Afforded harmless drink, and wholsom food;
E'er that ingratitude in Man was found,
His Mother Earth with Iron Ploughs to wound;
When unconfin'd, the spacious Plains produc'd
What Nature crav'd, and more than Nature us'd;