English

The sculptor paused before his finished work, —
A wondrous statue of divinest mould.
Like Cytherea's were the rounded limbs,
The hands, in whose soft fulness, still and deep,
Like sleeping Loves, the chiselled dimples lay,
The hair's rich fall, the lip's exquisite curve.
But most like Juno's were the brow of pride,
And lofty bearing of the matchless head; —
While over all, a mystic holiness,
Like Dian's purest smile, around her hung,
And hushed the idle gazer, like the air
Which haunts at night the temples of the gods.

Though most of us may disbelieve in fairies,
And label Luck a superstitious myth,
If we 'd had an experience like Mary's
(I mean, of course, my cousin Mary Smith)
We certainly should realize, like her,
How of the Unexpected does occur.

An aunt of hers, old Mrs Smith (of Barnet),
Had given her a bracelet, subtly chased —
Two aluminium snakes with eyes of garnet
Whose bodies were adroitly interlaced —

I went to Murren (Switzerland)
For winter sports, you'll understand.
(I'm very fond of snow and ice,
Of alpenstocks and edelweiss.)
I booked my rooms at the hotel,
Unpacked, and, having rung the bell,

I asked the waiter would he please
To oil my skates and air my skis.
" Alas! " said he, " I greatly fear
You'll neither skate nor ski this year!
The thaw has melted ice and snow!
Now, if you'd come a year ago...! "

The sunny South of France I sought;
Blue goggles and a helmet bought;

MADAM ,

Some of these Papers coming to your view,
Receiv'd incouragement from you,
You first commended them unto the Press
And therefore I could do no less
Then give them these commands,
First that they kiss your hands,
Then at your Honour's feet let them fall low,
Confessing they their being to you owe.

Nor is this all, but let them further say,

Daughter of Crete, how one brief hour,
 E'en in thy young love's early morn,
Sends storm and darkness o'er thy bower,—
 O doomed, O desolate, O lorn!
The breast which pillowed thy fair head
 Rejects its burden, and the eye
 Which looked its love so earnestly
Its last cold glance hath on thee shed;
The arms which were thy living zone,
Around thee closely, warmly thrown,
Shall others clasp, deserted one!

Yet, Ariadne, worthy thou
Of the dark fate which meets thee now,
For thou art grovelling in thy woe;

Some poet dreams come to the soul
 In mystic beauty clad,
Unearthly in their loveliness,
 So exquisitely sad.
Shadowy and dim and cloud-like things
Floating about on unseen wings,
 They tremble on our sight;
As in our nightly visions come
Pale spirits from their starry home,
 To vanish with the light,
And by the waking heart forgot,
E'en as a rose remembers not,
 In sunshine rich and warm,
The moonbeams that through night's long hours
Came still and cold, in silver showers,
 Upon her slumbering form.

Know ye the Red Cloud — Red Cloud of Afric —
Endless, unfathom'd, unceasing, borne on the warm wind;
Whelming the corn and fruit-land, farm and rick,
With the green veld before it, and the brown veld behind.
Green are the mealies, green the fields of corn,
Pink hangs the peach-blossom, and white the bloom of the plum,
And the garden whispers with things new-born,
When swift through the Spring air the scouts of the Red Cloud come.

Bright is the day, and rich the wind with flowers —

1.

THE PRESENT. 1.

Magnify not the times in which we live:
The Present is a double shadow cast,
Part from the Future, partly from the Past,
And deeply blended is the light they give.
The shadow is across our spirits thrown,
We know not how much further it hath gone.
The great ennobling Past is only then
A misty pageant, an unreal thing,
When it is measured in the narrow ring
And limit of the Present by weak men.
The Future is the open trench, the ground

I look at man in grim dismay;
He tried my virtue all to steal:
My heart is full of joy today,
No sin is on my soul I feel.

The guiling tongue of Adam's son,
Has left me free to see the light
The Master saw o'er Satan won,
In battles they did often fight.

The white man forced my head to bow,
My chastity to treat with scorn;
But I am queen of self, and now
I feel as pure as I was born.

With firm respect I love my race:
No one shall lead me thus astray,
Of kin to lose the ancient trace

WHEN ITS COURSE WAS CHANGED, AND THE WRITER WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE ITS NEIGHBORHOOD.

Gentle Stream, that from the mountains
Here invokest many a rill,
While two lakes thy channel fill,
Lading from their own sweet fountains
Waters which for thee they hoard,
In softly throbbing pulses poured!
Gentle Stream! I mourn for thee,
And the pleasant liberty
Guiding once thy twinkling feet
Down the vale in measures fleet
And mazy circuits; all is o'er,
Thou must wander forth no more,
Compassing the meadow-lands