IN THE FORTRESS OF PETER AND PAUL

The liberal summer wind and sky and sea,
For thy sake, narrow like a prison cell
About the wistful hearts that love thee well
And have no power to comfort nor set free.
They dare not ask what these hours mean to thee:
Delays and silences intolerable?
The joy that seemed so near, that soared, and fell,
Become a patient, tragic memory?

A WAKE , lovely Alice, the dawn's on the hill,
The voice of the mavis is heard by the rill,
The blackbird is singing his song in the brake,
And the green woods are ringing — awake, love, awake!

The wild rose is blushing, the pea is in bloom,
The zephyr is brushing the long yellow broom;
But thy voice is far sweeter than bird's on the tree,
And joy is far deeper, sweet Alice, with thee.

The voice of lone Locher comes mellow and sweet,
But sweeter to me were the fa' o' thy feet;
The hawthorn is hoary and rich with perfume,

When youthful charms
Fly pleasure's arms
Kind nature's gifts are vain;
We should not save
What nature gave,
But kindly give again.

Though scorn and pride
Our wishes hide
And though the tongue says " Nay " ,
The honest heart
Takes pleasure's part,
Denying all we say.

The birds in spring
Will sport and sing
And revel through the grove;
And shall not we.
As blithe and free,
With them rejoice and love?

Whate'er you say, whate'er you do,
My heart shall still be fixed and true.
The vicious bosom love deforms
And rages there in gusts and storms,
But love with us a constant gale,
Just swells the sea and fills the sail:
Neither of winds or waves the sport,
We rule the helm and gain the port.

While before St. Agnes' shrine
Knelt a true knight's lady-love,
From the wars of Palestine
Came a gentle carrier-dove.
Round his neck a silken string
Fastened words the warrior writ:
At her call he stooped his wing,
And upon her finger lit.

She, like one enchanted, pored
O'er the contents of the scroll —
For that lady loved her lord
With a pure, devoted soul.
To her heart her dove she drew,
While she traced the burning line;
Then away his minion flew
Back to sainted Palestine.

To and fro, from hand to hand

The truest is the simplest. Why entail
Whole days of years to some complex pursuit,
To probe life's flower and analyze its fruit?
O weary student, perplexed, spectre-pale,
Why beat against the granite of thy gaol,
Self-built; or kill the flower to search the root?
Doth lore make mankind any less the brute?
Or knowledge alone for godlike flight avail?

'Tis love draws all from earth to heaven's heights.
Not all thy weary lore of sleepless nights
Hath power to touch like one low daisied sod; —
'Tis love, not lore, whatever come to pass.

I STOOD last night on Dante's bridge of woe,
And saw that awful host of those who pass,
Like phantom shadows on a wizard's glass,
In all dread miseries of the stygian throe.
I saw the fated lovers come and go
In agony of love's despair, alas,
Ixion's wheel; and Sisyphus' taunting glass
Escape his lips amid the hellish glow.

But nowhere saw I ill so great as here
Goes grinding sadly, patient day by day,
Jealousy, hate, yon miser aged and grey
Gripping his gold with mocking death anear;
Or that dread dart of all dread woes above,

Love thee, dearest? — Hear me. — Never
Will my fond vows be forgot!
May I perish, and for ever,
When, dear maid, I love thee not!
Turn not from me, dearest! — Listen!
Banish all thy doubts and fears!
Let thine eyes with transport glisten!
What hast thou to do with tears?

Dry them, dearest! — Ah, believe me,
Love's bright flame is burning still!
Though the hollow world deceive thee,
Here's a heart that never will!
Dost thou smile? — A cloud of sorrow
Breaks before Joy's rising sun!
Wilt thou give thy hand? — To-morrow,

Love and be loved! yet know love's holiest deeps
Few sound while living! when the loved one sleeps
That last, strange sleep beneath the mournful sod,
Then Memory wakes, like some remorseful god,
And all the golden past, we scarce did prize,
Subtly revives, with light of tender eyes,
That smiled their soft forgiveness on our wrongs, —
And old thoughts rise, with echoes of sweet songs, —
Soul-nightingales, in pensive twilight born,
To press their throbbing breasts against the thorn
Of sharp regret! till love so blends with pain,

We met — he was a stranger,
His foot was free to roam;
I was a simple maiden,
Who had never left my home.

He was a noble scion
Of the green Highland pine,
To a strange soil transplanted,
Far from his native clime.

And well his bearing pleased me,
For I had never seen
Keener eye, or smile more sunlit,
Or more dignity of mien.

His brow was fair and lofty,
Bright was his clustering hair;
I marvelled that to other eyes
He seemed not half so fair.

His it was to plead with men,