English

F EBRUARY 28, 1892

Esteem'd, admir'd, belov'd, — farewell!
Alas! what need hast thou of peace?
Our bitterest winter tolls the knell,
And tolls, and tolls, and will not cease.

It tolls and tolls with iron tongue
For empty lives and hearts unbless'd,
And tolls for thee, whose heart was young,
Whose life was stored with hope and rest.

Thy meditative quaint replies,
Cast out like arrows on the air,
The humour in thy dark grey eyes,
The wisdom in thy silver hair, —

Who lags for dread of daily work,
And his appointed task would shirk,
Commits a folly and a crime;
A soulless slave — a paltry knave —
A clog upon the wheels of Time.
With work to do, and store of health,
The man's unworthy to be free,
Who will not give, that he may live,
His daily toil for daily fee.

No! Let us work! We only ask
Reward proportioned to our task: —
We have no quarrel with the great;
No feud with rank — with mill or bank —
No envy of a lord's estate.

Just because thou readest in Nature what thou hast written,
Just because thine eye all her phenomena marks,
Reckoning on the bonds which man upon Nature imposes,
Does thy mind presume infinite Nature to know?
So the Astronomer's art lays out the chart of the heavens
Better his way to steer through inaccessible space;
Suns in a focus he brings though by infinity parted,
Mates the distant swan with the redoubtable bull.
But can he comprehend the spheres' mysterious orbit
Merely because on a globe planets in order appear?

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;

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;

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,

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

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,

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,