Mother, with your fond heart southward turning,
And your face so full of anxious yearning, —
By the sorrow in your deep eyes growing,
Well I know where all your thoughts are going.

To the brave, bright boy, all danger scorning,
Gone to battle in his youth's fresh morning, —
For his country's bitter need, defying
Pain and hardship, and the dread of dying.

Fair young girl, whose startled heart beats faster
At the news of triumph or disaster, —
Ah! the word you whisper softly over,
Is the dear name of your valiant lover.

My birthday! I must keep it, as of old,
And wear some token of a holiday;
For see the woods are gay with red and gold,
And Autumn sings her merriest roundelay.

I have no heart for dainty robes to-day,
And flowers do not suit me any more;
So, from the darkness where it hides away,
I take this relic of the days of yore, —

Only an antique amber rosary,
Whose beads still hold the mellow light of Rome,
Clasped by a cross of blackest ebony,
Fashioned by loving fingers here at home.

And as I lift again the chain and cross,

Fair rose, that fortune favors so,
So near her heart to die,
Her tenderest-spoken word to know,
To share her gentlest sigh;

I fear me, rose, we both shall miss
Joy's perfect measure — thou
Who knowest not, yet hast, the bliss,
And I, who only know.

Alas! the mallows, when along the dale
They fade and perish—when the parsley pale
And the bright-leaved anethus droops—once more
These live, and bloom in beauty, as before.
But we—the wise, the warlike, and the great,
Wither beneath the touch of death—and straight
Sleep, deaf within the hollow earth, a sleep
Eternal, without dreams, and deep.

SONNET .

Thus sung the ancient bard of Sicily,
 The shepherd poet—as he wandered forth,
And saw the flowers of summer droop and die,
 Under the touch of the malignant north,

1

Such perfect Blisse faire Chloris, wee
In our Enjoyment prove
'Tis pitty restless Jealiousy
Should Mingle with our Love.

2

Lett us (since witt has taught us how)
Raise pleasure to the Topp
You Rivall Bottle must allow
I'le suffer Rivall Fopp.

3

Thinke not in this, that I designe
A Treason 'gainst Loves Charmes
When following the God of Wine

No bird hath ever lifted note so clear,
Or poured so prodigal his lyric breast,
But carried still some music from the nest,
When Winter laid the seal of silence there.
No sea hath ever woo'd the shore so fair
But turn of tide left something half expressed;
Nor true love every burned so strangely blest
That words could hold it all or heart could hear.

And yet the tide will turn again, and tell
Its sweet persistent story o'er and o'er —
The bird take up the cadence where it fell,
And pipe it towards the ending more and more —

Thrilled with heavenward-flaming fires,
When my eyes meet yours,
Mingled joy and pain divine
My prisoned heart endures.
Prisoned still my heart aspires
And never has its say,
Till your dear lips, set to mine,
Drink my soul away.

“The furnace is kindling,” Mohammed said,
As he stood on El Honein's height—
Through the black defile began to spread
Clink and glimmer, angry and red,
Of the fiery spears in fight.

Our spark is stricken!—how fast
The mighty furnace hath lit!
Or ever an hour be past,
'Twill roar, the terrible Blast,
Roar and seethe like the Pit!

Aye, many the day it hath
Stood, heaped with fuel o'ermuch—
Horrors piled for the flame's red path,
Wrath laid up for the Day of Wrath,
And Wrong, with its tinder touch.

Where the elm-tree branches by the rain are stirred,
Careless of the shower, swings a little bird:
Clouds may frown and darken, drops may fall in vain; —
Little heeds the warbler singing in the rain!

Silence soft, unbroken, reigneth everywhere, —
Save the rain's low heart-throbs pulsing on the air, —
Save the song, which, pausing, wins no answering strain; —
Little cares the robin singing in the rain!

Not yet are the orchards rich with rosy snow,
Nor with dandelions are the fields aglow;

S CYTHIAN .

 What does this olive here?

D ELIAN P RIEST

Its branches weave a holy gloom,
Over the northern maiden's tomb,
 Throughout the year:
She came from a land that is far away,
Where the brightness of our southern day
 Is all unknown,
To listen to our Delian god;
And here, beneath the flowery sod,
 She sleeps alone.
And this olive rose up silently,
To shade, with its sacred canopy,
 Her quiet sleep: