THE LADY MARGARET'S PROFESSOR IN CAMBRIDGE .

Were 't not peculiar to weep for thee,
The world might put on mourning, and yet be
Below just grief: Stupendous man! who told
By vast endowments that she grew not old.
But thine own hands have rais'd a monument
Far greater than thyself, which shall be spent
When error conquers truth, and time shall be
No more, but swallow'd by eternity;
But when shall sullen darkness fly away,
And thine own ectype, Brownrigg, give it day!
Or when shall ravish'd Europe understand,

Winter and snow-drifts compass me, —
You dwell where warmth and sunshine are, —
Between, the miles stretch drearily;
O inaccessible and far!
I wonder if your memory thrills
When threatening clouds the sunset drown?
Look toward these bleak and desolate hills,
Beloved, when the night shuts down!

O winter-fettered soul! O love,
With sorrow's self forever twinned!
The cold skies threaten from above, —
The wild waves wrestle with the wind, —
While Eve unbraids her shadowy locks,
And scatters stars amid their brown, —

Handmaids of the Queen of Love!
Earth grows white with stars;
Young Fertility is leaping,
Soft the springing grasses teem;
Slothful days have left their sleeping —
You alone do dream!

Maidens of the Queen of Flowers!
Trees hang orange lamps;
All the winds are pollen blowing;
Through the failing golden light
Gentle Gravity is going —
Passion is the Night!

Maidens of the silver feet!
Violent Spring's awake!
Hearts are seeking, birds are nesting;
Earth below and skies above
Teach the hour of sweet unresting! —

The waves were gleaming: the sunlight shone
On the Queen of the Antilles, —
On peopled city, savanna lone,
On olden castle with moss o'ergrown,
On palms, whose frondage was idly blown
By the slumb'rous tropic breeze.

O life was lovely and earth was fair
In the blaze of that golden day!
But there breathed a dirge in the sunny air,
A plaintive wailing of woe was there,
Which even the waters seemed to share,

Steady and small, the summer rain
Drops freshness, all the long day through,
The lilac-tree takes heart again,
And trims her purple plumes anew;

The opulent viburnum's robes
Trail, heavy-weighted by the shower;
While slowly all its light-green globes
Whiten to snowballs hour by hour.

Sweet incense-breaths of gratitude
Betray the valley-lily meek;
And from the shade in cheerful mood
The pansy lifts its velvet cheek.

Yet some of June's fair pensioners
Love not this gray and weeping sky;

From lands of sunrise far away,
From Jural cliffs, from Caspian shore,
From Scythian deserts waste and gray,
From rose-decked Persia's floral floor,
One race has kept the western trail —
The bonnie, braw, warm-hearted Gael:
The sturdy Gael who came from far,
Led onward by the morning-star.

By many a stream their footsteps strayed,
From Indus to the Elbe and Rhine,
Before their ruddy children played
By Bonnie Doon or crystal Tyne.
The music of Arabian rills
Finds echo in old Scotia's hills;
The Oriental thread remains

We are ever waiting, waiting,
Waiting for the tide to turn —
" For the train at Coventry " —
For the sluggish fire to burn —
For a far-off friend's return.

We are ever hoping, hoping,
Hoping that the wind will shift —
That success may crown our venture —
That the morning fog may lift —
That the dying may have shrift.

We are ever fearing, fearing,
Fearing lest the ship have sailed —
That the sick may ne'er recover —
That the letter was not mailed —
That the trusted firm has failed.

The Highlanders come in their gay plaided tartan,
The music of Scotia floats free on the air;
Come over, brave lads, from Barnet and Barton,
From McIndoe's Falls and St. Johnsbury fair.
Come over and witness the games of a nation
Whose prowess is noted in story and song;
We'll furnish you all a fine " muscle " collation —
Come over, and bring your fair cousins along.

Our fathers who came here were fresh from the heather,
Our county still bears the old name of the Gael;
So up wi' the bonnet and bonnie blue feather,

Ah, Sydney! — as we journeyed toward the main,
Visions of old Byzantium worked in thee;
Thy talk was of the gorgeous Osmanli: —
O how it rose like a bewildering strain
Of oriental music — paused again —
And changed unto the savage glens of pine
Which cradled thee! and yet the twilight power
Of English scenes, most felt at that still hour,
Some words of dearest rapture then could win,
As we walked forth by Leven's tranquil side.
Now, as thy hand is fondly clasped in mine
In this Cistercian chapter-house, the pride

In the grey wilderness — a dog!
Where are his friends — the scents he knew?
Who owned him, fed him, as he grew
From pup to shadow lost in fog?

His little world has thinned away;
He runs — a phantom; Fate will drive
Him up street, down street, all the day
And then at night no shelter give.

The trail is vapoured, gone the sense
Of human refuge; run and run,
'Tis all he can, not knowing where
Or whither — run, and sniff, and shun!

In the grey wilderness — a ghost,
A thin brown helpless ghost astray!