There are three preachers, ever preaching,
Fill'd with eloquence and power.
One is old, with locks of white,
Skinny as an anchorite;
And he preaches every hour
With a shrill fanatic voice,
And a Bigot's fiery scorn: —
" Backward ! ye presumptuous nations;
Man to misery is born!
Born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer —
Born to labor and to pray;
Backward ! ye presumptuous nations,
Back! — be humble and obey!"

The second is a milder preacher;
Soft he talks, as if he sung;
Sleek and slothful is his look,

What do we want? Our daily bread;
Leave to earn it by our skill:
Leave to labor freely for it,
Leave to buy it where we will:
For 'tis hard upon the many,
Hard — unpitied by the few,
To starve and die for want of work,
Or live, half-starved, with work to do.

What do we want? Our daily bread;
Fair reward for labor done;
Daily bread for wives and children;
All our wants are merged in one.

O CTOBER 1892

When first the clamorous poets sang, and when
Acclaim'd by hosts of men,
While music filled with silver light and shade
Cloister and colonnade,
With pomp of catafalque and laureate crown
We laid him softly down
To sleep until the world's last morning come,
My stricken lips were dumb.

But now that all is silent round his grave,
Dim, from the glimmering nave,

I've learned, in dream or legend dark,
That all love-letters purged with fire,
Drawn in one constellated spark,
To heaven aspire.

To-night there streams across the sky
An unfamiliar reef of stars;
Are those the letters you and I
Thrust through the bars?

In tears of joy they once were read,
In tears of suffering slowly burned;
And now to stars hung overhead
Can each be turned?

O leaves too warm to be discreet,
O panting words that throbbed too loud
With starry laughter now you meet
Behind a cloud!

Sad and heart-sore my weeping, for I find myself tonight without rest, without peace, without cheer;
With no will for aught that profiteth, without hope to be well; my joy is vanished for ever more.
My substance hath waxed listless, cause of my grief each day, as ever I recount the ways of my dear one;
My grief for Roderick's son of galleys, his a hand to lavish wealth, who esteemed the minstrel's lay.
It is thinking of thee that hath tortured my body, and wasted the lashes from mine eyes;

FROM THE G REEK

After many a dusty mile,
Wanderer, linger here awhile;
Stretch your limbs in dewy grass;
Through these pines a wind shall pass
That shall cool you with its wing;
Grasshoppers shall shout and sing;
While the shepherd on the hill,
Near a fountain warbling still,
Modulates, when noon is mute,
Summer songs along his flute;
Underneath a spreading tree,
None so easy-limbed as he,
Sheltered from the dog-star's heat.

Rest; and then, on freshened feet,
You shall pass the forest through.

Oh the fragrance of the air
With the breathing of the flowers!
Oh the isles of cloudlets fair,
Shining after balmy showers!

Oh the freshly rippling notes!
Oh the warbling, loud and long,
From a thousand golden throats!
Oh the south wind's tender song!

Oh the mellow dip of oars
Through the dreamy afternoon!
Oh the waves that clasp the shores,
Chanting one delicious tune!

Wears the warm, enchanted day
To the last of its rich hours,
While my heart, in the sweet May,
Buds and blossoms with the flowers.

Count the flashes in the surf,
Count the crystals in the snow,
Or the blades above the turf,
Or the dead that sleep below!
These ye count — yet shall not know, —
While I wake or while I slumber, —
Where my thoughts and wishes go,
What her name, and what their number.

Ask the cold and midnight sea,
Ask the silent-falling frost,
Ask the grasses on the lea,
Or the mad maid, passion-crost!
They may tell of posies tost
To the waves where blossoms blow not,
Tell of hearts that staked and lost, —

Graceful, tossing plume of glowing gold,
Waving lonely on the rocky ledge;
Leaning seaward, lovely to behold,
Clinging to the high cliff's ragged edge;

Burning in the pure September sky,
Spike of gold against the stainless blue,
Do you watch the vessels drifting by?
Does the quiet day seem long to you?

Up to you I climb, O perfect shape!
Poised so lightly 'twixt the sky and sea;
Looking out o'er headland, crag, and cape,
O'er the ocean's vague immensity.

Up to you my human thought I bring,

Venus, take this shell,
Offering of a bride!
Once it rose and fell
On thy moony tide;
Let its pearly bulwarks dwell
By thy side.

Rigged with gossamer,
O'er thy seas it flew;
Never a wind would stir
Cord or sail or crew;
Halcyon-like, this mariner
Cleft the blue.

Blithe even so was I,
Gay, light-hearted maid;
Now my sails are dry,
My fond crew afraid;
Goddess, goddess! come, I cry,
To my aid!

Is it bliss or woe,
Nevermore to flee
O'er the full heart's flow,
Indolent and free, —