The fowls seek shelter, and the eaves
Drip-drip with melancholy rain —
I wonder why it makes me think
Of times which will not come again
And of great men who lived in vain?

O Faces! that look forward, eyes that spell
The future time for signs, what see ye there?
On what far gleams of portent do ye dwell?
Whither, with lips like quivering leaves and hair
Back-blowing in the whirlwind, do ye stare
So steadfast and so still? Oh speak and tell!
Is the soul safe? shall the sick world be well?
Will morning glimmer soon, and all be fair?
O Faces! ye are pale, and somewhat sad,
And in your eyes there swim the fatal tears;
But on your brows the dawn gleams cold and hoar.
I, too, gaze forward, and my heart grows glad;

Lone House amid the Main, where I abide,
Faces there are around thy walls; and see
With constant features, fair and faithful-eyed,
In solemn silence these admonish me.
They are the Faces of the strong and free;
Prophets who on the car of Tempest ride;
Martyrs who drift amid the waters wide
On some frail raft, and pray on bended knee.
Stay with me, Faces! make me free and strong!
On other walls let flush'd Bacchantes leer;
In quainter rooms of snugger sons of song
Let old fantastic tapestries appear.

That dusky child upon your knee
Is breath of God's eternity;
Direct his vision to the height —
Let naught obscure his royal right.

Although the highways to renown
Are iron-barred by fortune's frown,
'Tis his to forge the master-key
That wields the locks of destiny!

I hear you singing happily,
My boy of tarnished mien,
Lifting your limpid, trustful gaze
In innocence serene.

A thousand javelins of pain
Assault my heaving breast
When I behold the storm of years
That beat without your nest.

O sing, my lark, your matin song
Of joyous rhapsody,
Distil the sweetness of the hours
In gladsome ecstasy.

For time awaits your buoyant flight
Across the bar of years,
Sing, sing your song, my bonny lark,
Before it melts in tears!

To think that we dwell on a star
And poise in the infinite sky
While all about us, a-far,
Systems and sun-drifts ply!

To think that we balance in space
Like an irised bubble in air
Where comets flash and race
With thunder in their hair!

The mother soothes her mantled child
With incantation sad and wild;
A deep compassion brims her eye
And stills upon her lips, the sigh.

Her thoughts are leaping down the years,
O'er branding bars, through seething tears,
Her heart is sandaling his feet
Adown the world's corroding street.

Then, with a start she dons a smile
His tender yearnings to beguile,
And only God will ever know
The wordless measure of her woe.

Nor shall I in sorrow repine,
But offer a paean of praise
To the infinite God of my days
Who marshals the pivoting spheres
Through the intricate maze of the years,
Who loosens the luminous flood
That lightens the purlieus of men,
I shall not in sorrow repine
To break the eternal Amen!

(To You —E VERYWHERE ! D EDICATED )

They seem to smile as others smile, the masquerader's art
Conceals them, while, in verity, they're eating out their heart,
Betwixt the two contending stones of crass humanity
They lie, the fretted fabric of a dual dynasty.

A single drop, a sable strain debars them from their own,—
The others—fold them furtively, but God! they are alone,
Blown by the fickle winds of fate far from the traveled mart
To die, when they have quite consumed the morsel of their heart.

Maypole dance and Whitsun ale,
Sports of peasants in the dale,
Harvest mirth and junketting,
Fireside play and kiss-in-ring,
Ancient fun and wit and ease, —
Gone are one and all of these;
All the pleasant pastime planned
In the green old Mother-land:
Gone are these and gone the time
Of the breezy English rhyme,
Sung to make men glad and wise
By great Bards with twinkling eyes:
Gone the tale and gone the song
Sound as nut-brown ale and strong,
Freshening the sultry sense
Out of idle impotence,
Sowing features dull or bright