The light of battle and the light that gleams
From woman's eyes — these are the rays divine
That on the passionate heart of manhood shine
And fill life's highways with tempestuous dreams.
The sweetest light of all is that which streams
Along the glistening bayonets' serried line
When, just now, under growth of rose or pine
Love lightened forth: — how close the memory seems!

Love in the heart, and the strong sword in hand:
The old Elizabethan bards loved so.
The heart of manhood has waxed faint and slow

Now that I pass towards the pure Ideal,
All earthly things are sanctified and white;
Now that I live as in my Lady's sight,
Superb imaginations crown the real.
I am happy now: before me shines the right, —
Sweet to pursue, a gracious flag to follow:
All lesser lamps are glow-worms in a hollow,
By Purity's unutterable light.

I seek my Lady now with tender pleasure,
With hands made bold and spirit undefiled;
Happy I am as in the golden leisure
Of early love, — no more perverse and wild;
I love beyond all words, beyond all measure,

IN MID-STREAM

Not to the placid heights of middle age
Let you and me with loitering steps ascend.
Nay, let us perish in the strife, O friend,
Where round the standard most the war-waves rage
If this be life — to move from stage to stage
And watch life's passion dwindle till the end
And slowly all our power of love expend,
Life then is poorer for each added page.

Nay! If our love and passion may not grow

Yes, this is our reward.—Not life's fair dreams,
But the new-wakened and majestic sense
That after silent years of pain intense
Light, marvellous light, behind the hill-top gleams.
Not by life's pleasant blossom-bordered streams
To find our long-delayed large recompence,
But in soul-thrilling joy that through the dense
Dark worldly clogging air with golden beams
Darts on a sudden downward:—the wild hope
That not much longer shall this pain endure,—
This agony of fierce desire to cope
With all love's foes in wrestle close and sure;

My idle head retaynes the busie hope,
My gasing eye giues ouer her desyre:
My reaching hand would after fauor grope,
My legs yeelde vp and leaue me in the myre.
Tis light t'outrunne, but not to outread the wife,
Thus finde I strife to hinder my deuise.

The time too shorte, to weare so speedie greese,
I still pursue, that shunnes my wylling holde:
Skill is to weake to yeelde my woe releefe,
My cares lyke clowds, infect my hart with colde.
So that if heat should melt so cruell frost,
My heart were drownde, and all the loue were loft.

( " Booz s'etait couche. " )

At work within his barn since very early,
Fairly tired out with toiling all the day,
Upon the small bed where he always lay
Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley.

Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well,
Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood
That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud
And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.

His beard was silver, as in April all
A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook.
When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look,

For love's sake keep thine inmost body pure:
Pure not in coarse Convention's meagre sense
But pure through effort terribly intense
High joys to gain, whose sweetness shall endure.
The sea is thine, all flowers are thine, the sure
Strong sun is thine, and morning on the hills:
From these win somewhat of the Force that fills
The world with raptures thy soul may secure.

For love's sake let not any stain abide
Upon the deathless body thou mayest give
Supremely splendid to a deathless Bride,

Ere love's divine ineffable embrace
Be fully won, within some garden-close
Drink all the fragrance of the perfect rose
And let the South West breeze caress thy face.
Give thou to woman the pure inmost grace
Of the delicious-hearted heliotrope:
Love with the rich carnation's power and scope;
Let not God's blossoms worst thee in the race.

See that she giveth thee within her breast
The secret-scented souls of all the flowers
And their strange dim heaven-message in her hair:
Yea, win thou likewise from the summer air

My ladyis pulchritud
Hes me so plong'd in paine,
That mar'd in mynd and muid,
Mirthles I man remaine.
Unles that fluid
Of graces gud,
Be mansuetud,
My rest restoir againe.

Blind Boy! thow dois so beir
My fortoun in ballance,
I flie from houp to feir;
From feir till esperance.
Now thair, now heir;
Now peace, now weir;
Chainging my cheir,
As chainges ay my chance.

As in the wind I wie,
Ay wavering with the wechtis,
Feir wald force Fayth to flie;
And Faith with Fortoun fechtis.
And this, ye se,

Not thus did Christ the Eternal loving King
Teach truth to man. Not thus did Christ extract
The core of pain, but by strong word and act,
By touch of hand, by glance o'ermastering
The foul disease, the dark invasive thing
Within the suffering body pent and packed.
Love, ever love — by love he could attract,
And draw from deadliest pain its deepest sting.

Learn, ye whose chosen office is to heal,
That all disease is subject to the power
Of Love, — that Love is as a river sweet
Pouring with silvery ripples of appeal