A STORMY NIGHT'S DREAM .

I.

The T IGRESS .

A Dream I had in the dead of night:
Darkness — the Jungle — a black Man sleeping —
Head on his arm, with the moon-dew creeping
Over his face in a silvern light:
The Moon was driving, the Wind was crying;
Two great lights gleam'd, round, horrid, and red,
Two great eyes, steadfast beside the bed
Where the man was lying.

Set your love before me as a shield!
That, whistling by, the shadowy, wounding spear
Of the world's hate may seek my heart in vain,
Where on your breast it nestles — half in fear
Of the divine sweet silence round us twain —
Set your love before me as a shield!

Set your love before me as a light!
A candle tall: so shall I, weak, prevail
O'er darkness; pass beyond all venomed things
Into the endless Dawn, gold-starred, rose-pale,
And murmurous with whirring silver wings —
Set your love before me as a light!

Now that the gates are shut on all I cherished,
O wistful Love, I pray,
Blow no more haunting scents of roses perished,
About my lonely way.

Take from me memory of happy laughter,
Of kisses more than kind:
And that I may not meet his eyes hereafter,
I pray thee strike me blind.

Lest I should knock against the bars, and, bleeding,
Cry to him, faithless—“Come!”
The while he passes by my grief, unheeding,
I pray thee strike me dumb.

So it were best. And dumb and blind, forgetting,
White peace may wrap my soul;

OR, " A NEW POET."

I.

Potts, in his dusty chamber, writes,
A dilettante lord to please:
A ray of country sunshine lights
The foggy region ruled by these;
Flock, kind advisers, critics sage,
To damn the simple country clown, —
The mud of English patronage
Grows round his feet, and keeps him down.

" This little mean-faced duodecimo,

I bared my heart to the winds and my cry went after you —
A brown west wind blew past and the east my secret knew,
A red east wind blew far to the lonesome bogland's edge,
And the little pools stirred sighing within their girdling sedge.

The north wind hurled it south — the black north wind of grief —
And the white south wind came crooning through every frozen leaf;
Yet never a woe of mine, blown wide down starlit space,
Hath quickened the pulse of your heart, or shadowed your rose-red face.

The crimson light of sunset falls
 Through the gray glamour of the murmuring rain,
And creeping o'er the housetops crawls
 Through the black smoke upon the broken pane,
Steals to the straw on which she lies,
 And tints her thin black hair and hollow cheeks,
Her sun-tann'd neck, her glistening eyes,—
 While faintly, sadly, fitfully she speaks.
But when it is no longer light,
 The pale girl smiles, with only One to mark,
And dies upon the breast of Night,
 Like trodden snowdrift melting in the dark.

I.

A H , rain, rain, rain!

I.

" O who among you will win for me
The soul of the Preacher of Woodilee?
For he prays, he preaches, he labours sore,
He cheats me alike of rich and poor,
And his cheek is pale with a thought divine,
And I would, I would that he were mine?"
" O surely I will win for thee
The Minister of Woodilee;
Round and around the elfin tree,
Where we are fleeting in company,
The Minister of Woodilee,
Laughing aloud, shall dance with me!"

II.

The Minister rode in the white moonshine,
His face was pale with his thought divine,

I.

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep,
Under the grass as I lay so deep,
As I lay asleep in my cotton serk
Under the shade of Our Lady's Kirk,
I waken'd up in the dead of night,
I waken'd up in my death-serk white,
And I heard a cry from far away,
And I knew the voice of my daughter May:
" Mother, mother, come hither to me!
Mother, mother, come hither and see!
Mother, mother, mother dear,
Another mother is sitting here:
My body is bruised, and in pain I cry,
On straw in the dark afraid I lie,

The aged Minister of Inverburn,
A mild heart hidden under features stern,
Leans in the sunshine on the garden-pale,
Pensive, yet happy, as he tells this tale, —
And he who listens sees the garden lie
Blue as a little patch of fallen sky.

— The lily minds me of a maiden brow, —
Hugh Sutherland would say; — the marigold
Is full and sunny like her yellow hair,
The full-blown rose her lips with sweetness tipt;
But if you seek a likeness to her eyes —
Go to the pansy, friend, and find it there! —

Aw Mother o' Moses, what do 'ee think?
The Daughter of Pharaoh is here:
" I do want my awn little boy, " says she —
" My little one so dear. "

Aw Mother o' Moses, make haste, make haste,
They'll dress en up so gay,
And learn en all sorts o' wonderful things,
And make en a King one day.

Aw Mother o' Moses, where are 'ee to?
Here's such a grand coach and four,
And the Daughter of Pharaoh her awn self
Is knockin' to the door.

Aw Mother o' Moses, make haste, make haste,
Can 'ee hear what they do say?