LINES Written ON AGAIN R EADING AN OLD R OMANCE

O I SOLINA , loved in boyish fashion,
Loved when the heart was nobly pure and free,
Again I read thy tale of love and passion,
Again forget the world and gaze on thee.

Romance beyond romance is in thy story:
I read the wild tale thirty years ago —
Yet still I see the sunlight's ceaseless glory
Poured over plains and hills of Mexico.

Your predicessours' prayse, and prowes hie;
Thair hardie hairts, hawtie, heroicall,
Of dew desert deservis never to die;
Bot to be pen'd, and plac'd as principall,
And metest, mirrour of manheid martiall:
Unto thair lyne and linage to give licht.
Of quhom ye come: quhose ofspring yow to call
Ye merit weill, resembling thame so richt.
Thoch thay wer manfull men of mekil micht,
Thair douchtie deids in yow hes not decayit.
Ye, wittie, wyse, and valyeant, warriour wicht!
Hes with the pen the poet's pairt weill playit:

While some, in all the luxury of health,
The price of pleasure, and the pomp of wealth,
Inglorious, rous'd at passion's frantic call,
Soak o'er the bowl, or madden at the ball,
Triumph illiberal o'er the simple maid,
By love, or promise, to their arms betray'd;
Some painted trifle with anxiety chase,
Or wallow fulsome in the lewd embrace,
By foul debauch and worthless feats secure,
Remorse vindictive in the sober hour.
The grave associate of the good and sage,
Or nerv'd with youth, or silver'd o'er with age;

A YOUNG girl's perfect ringing silvery laugh;
The strange slow sullen plunge of waves that break;
The ripple of leafage which the June winds shake;
The lisp of rivers which the breezes quaff;
The flapping of the flag around its staff;
The subtle hissing of the sinuous snake;
The sighing of reeds upon the mountain-lake;
The salmon's fierce splash, bleeding from the gaff; —
The cheer of legions thundering through the breach;
The songs of children, and their thoughtless glee;
A woman's heartfelt moan of dull despair;

A Fragment.

I Sought repose from love's perplexing cares,
His groundless hopes, and still more groundless fears;
The luscious nights with Z ION'S monarch past,
In spite of ev'ry art grew stale at last,
I long'd in solitude to doze the day,
Nor languishingly dull, nor vainly gay;
Now in grave contemplation strive to scan
That charming, teazing, froward creature, man;
And now with dancing damsels plant a net
Before the unsuspecting monarch's feet;
For still (whate'er I thought) my tender breast

My spirit revelled in a green arcade
And felt the motion and the bloom of flowers, —
The feathery cool despondence of the shade,
The joy of rivulets in summer showers,
And the inner sense of passion's secret bowers:
And then there came a maiden and she said,
" I dwell beyond the immortal blue-tipped towers
And valleys tenanted by the extreme dead
Where the perpetual swift sun's rays are red,
And, long before the mystery of birth,
These eyes that shine like emeralds in my head
Flashed upon thine with laughter and quick mirth; —

O GIRL who turnest down the street,
Over-slow yet over-fleet,
Half-seen,
Thy face was fair and soft and sweet
I ween!

Never through all eternity
Shall I thy full true beauty see:
Thou art lost
For ever now alas! to me,
Crowd-tost.

It is so strange and sad to think
That just one sudden broken link
Snaps all.
Our dreams are light-beams. Through a chink
They crawl:

Then something passes and the light
Is quenched, and all again is night.
So now
Thou art gone, O clear of gaze and white
Of brow!

Hold thou thy loved one through the summer night;
Soon 'twill be light;
The armies of the stars will own defeat:
The sun will frighten love from out the skies,
With flaming eyes:
But yet the night was sweet!

The velvet lips that rested once on thine,
With touch divine,
Turn elsewhere. Will love pause, though tears entreat?
Through all time, never! — Yet in days gone by
(Yes, one swift sigh!)
Those lips to thee were sweet.

One hour of rapture, and the sun's warm breath;
Then sunless death;
Death for the poppies and the golden wheat:

I.

I F God be dead, and life be void
Of hope that lifted us and buoyed, —
If heaven no more in front may shine, —
Yet have we love's own wreaths to twine!

If all be passed and over soon,
And soulless gleam the stars and moon,
And heartless the triumphant sun, —
Yet have we toil, till toil is done!

If ne'er the dreams that once so bright
Laughed golden-winged in April light
A heavenly fair reward shall find, —
Yet have we rose-breath on the wind!

If now beside the rush-fringed stream

( " O Charles, je te sens pres de moi. " )

I feel thy presence, Charles. Sweet martyr! down
In earth, where men decay,
I search, and see from cracks which rend thy tomb,
Burst out pale morning's ray.

Close linked are bier and cradle: here the dead,
To charm us, live again:
Kneeling, I mourn, when on my threshold sounds
Two little children's strain.

George, Jeanne, sing on! George, Jeanne, unconscious play!
Your father's form recall,
Now darkened by his sombre shade, now gilt