“Hullo, Alice!”
“Hullo, Leon!”
“Say, Alice, gi' me a couple
O' them two for five cigars,
Will yer?”
“Where's your nickel?”
“My! Ain't you close!
Can't trust a feller, can yer.”
“Trust you. Why
What you owe this store
Would set you up in business.
I can't think why Father 'lows it.”
“Yer Father's a sight more neighbourly
Than you be. That's a fact.
Besides, he knows I got a vote.”
“A vote! Oh, yes, you got a vote!
A lot o' good the Senate'll be to Father
When all his bank account
Has run away in credits.
There's your cigars,

Bird-like, my heart was glad to soar and vault;
Fluttering among the cordages; and on
The vessel flew, under an empty vault:
An angel drunken of a radiant sun.

Tell me, what is that gray, that sombre isle?
'Tis Cythera, famed on many a poet string;
A name that has not lacked the slavering smile;
But now, you see, it is not much to sing.

Isle of soft whispers, tremours of the heart!
The splendid phantom of thy rude goddess
Floats on thy seas like breath of spikenard,
Charging men's souls with love and lusciousness.

By the waters of Life we sat together,
Hand in hand in the golden days
Of the beautiful early summer weather,
When skies were purple and breath was praise,
When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds,
And the birds kept tune to the songs which ran
Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards,
And trees with voices æolian.

By the rivers of Life we walked together,
I and my darling, unafraid;
And lighter than any linnet's feather
The burdens of being on us weighed.
And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threw
Mantles of joy outlasting Time,

The star is not extinguished when it sets
Upon the dull horizon; it but goes
To shine in other skies, then re-appear
In ours, as fresh as when it first arose.

The river is not lost, when, o'er the rock,
It pours its flood into the abyss below:
Its scattered force re-gathering from the shock,
It hastens onward, with yet fuller flow.

The bright sun dies not, when the shadowing orh
Of the eclipsing moon obscures its ray:
It still is shining on; and soon to us
Will burst undimmed into the joy of day.

Waked at night by a heavy tread,
Soldiers were standing around his bed;
“You are the man for whom we are sent,
Of Delaware Rebels the President;
Come with us or we run you through;
Prisoner of war to the King are you!”

Scarcely clothed and upon a run
Down to the river at Wilmington,
Elbows tied and a gag in his throat,
John McKinly boarded a boat;
Tide and night zephyrs sped him away
To the captured port—Philadelphia.

“You are the type that aye do and dare,
Calvinist Irish of Delaware;
Take the oath to the King and go.”

Plundering , and dreadful, and dark as a storm,
Abdalla conducteth the Saracen swarm
To the African land,
Till soon before Tripoli's turrets they stand.

But ere they beleaguer a bastion or post,
The Stadtholder Gregory comes with his host;
With sword and with lance,
Victorious he comes from the walls of Byzance.

And while the fanatical foe he doth dare,
Beside him there rideth with gold-flowing hair,
Her spear flashing bright,
His beautiful daughter in armour bedight.

The maiden had chosen a manly career,

Slumber's heavy chain hath bound thee,—
Where is now thy fire?
Feebler wings are gathering round thee,—
Shall they hover higher?
Can no power, no spell recall thee
From inglorious dreams?
O, could glory so appall thee
With his burning beams?

Thine was once the highest pinion
In the midway air;
With a proud and sure dominion,
Thou didst upward bear:
Like the herald, winged with lightning,
From the Olympian throne,
Ever mounting, ever brightening,
Thou wert there alone.

Where the pillared props of heaven

When withered leaves around my way
Drift in the fresh autumnal blast,
I view them, as they rustling play,
As Summer's phantoms flitting past.
In some still nook, or sheltering lee
Of roaring woods, they seem to me
When resting from their eddying flight,
To build departed Summer's urn;
Where Phœbus pours a saddened light
Like moonlight fanned to burn.

The rivulet lowers its babbling voice,
Past its brown banks runs dreamily;
It seems to take, as if from choice,
The melancholy minor key.
All nature 's full of sympathy:

I can remember the day,
(I've got the look on it still)—
I can remember when Swanage lay
Like a grey cat under the hill.

Curled in close by the shore,
There couldn't have been, all told,
(If you went to count) not above fourscore
Of houses; and all of 'em old:

All stone, all native rock,
And the roofs grey tile or thatch;
And never a door where you had to knock,—
You'd only to lift the latch.

New Town, it be all brick-red,
And slippy wi' roofs of slate;
And Swanage do look to be off her head,

On the crag I sat in wonder,
Stars above me, forests under;
Through the valleys came and went
Tempest forces never spent,
And the gorge sent up the thunder
Of the stream within it pent.

Round me with majestic bearing
Stood the giant mountains, wearing
Helmets of eternal snows,
Cleft by nature's labour throes—
Monster faces mutely staring
Upward into God's repose.

At my feet in desolation
Swayed the pines, a shadowy nation,
Round the wood-lake deep and dread,
Round the river glacier-fed,
Where a ghostly undulation