Poor idols, how they fade and fall
Their changeful fanes within!
And only niches in the wall
Tell that a shrine has been.

And " Ah, " you cry, " then Love is nought,
And Faith is lifeless grown! "
But is this seeming unfaith wrought
By changefulness alone?

We love not what our idols are;
We worship what they seem.
And if we worshipped from afar,
We still might love and dream.

A star perchance were not a star
If one could reach the skies;
A touch tells what our idols are —
And then devotion dies.

( A VERY LITTLE BODY .)

I F you had a little lover,
Little Kitten, —
A very little lover,
But dreadfully smitten, —
What would you say,
And what would you do,
If this little lover
Were littler than you?

To love one below you
Never is right;
How could you look up to
A man of less height?
And then a short-coming
Always is wrong.
If you loved him so little,
Could you love him long?

A lover should reach —
The reason, you see —
Just up to your heart

I

Fair Isabell , if ought but thee
I could, or would, or Like, or Love;
Of other Beauties but approve
To sweeten my Captivitie:
I might those Passions be above,
Those pow'rful Passions that combine
To make, and keepe me onely thyne.

II

Or, if for tempting Treasure I
Of, the World's God , prevailing Gold ,
Could see thy Love, and my truth sold,

To Love

I

Great Love, I thank thee, now thou hast
Paid me for all my suff'rings past,
And wounded me with Nature's Pride,
For whom more glory 'tis to die
Scorn'd and neglected, than enjoy
All Beauty in the world beside.

II

A Beauty above all pretence,
Whose very scorns are recompence,
The Regent of my heart is crown'd,
And now the sorrows and the woe,
My Youth and Folly help'd me to,

Vixi puellis

O' LIFE an' love I 'm by wi' a',
Tho' I 've had cause o' baith to brag;
Hang dirk an' chanter on the wa',
Nae mair I 'll reive or squeeze the bag.

Whaur on the left my lantren gleams
Weel gairdit by the sea-born queen,
I lay my love an' war worn leems,
Hae mony a midnicht tulzie seen.

O Venus, fae your island fair
Wi' snawless mountains, hear an' help,
Rax back your rung, an' ance — nae mair —

At farmers' faugh lairds still may laugh,
An' the tinker sing as he clouts the pan;
But what will cheer my bairnie dear
When he kens his father 's a witless man?

Bought by a ring, puir silly thing,
An' bent by the wind o' my kinsfolk's breath,
Wha would gang braw, if that were 't a'? —
O! a loveless life it is waur than death!

Will land or hoose seem good excuse
For a mither married where love was nane?
It 's hard for me, this weird to dree,
But it 's waur that I canna bear 't my lane.

O SOUL of mine, how few and short the years
Ere thou shalt go the way of all thy kind,
And here no more thy joy or sorrow find
At any fount of happiness or tears!
Yea, and how soon shall all that thee endears
To any heart that beats with love for thee
Be everywhere forgotten utterly,
With all thy loves and joys, and hopes and fears!
But, O my soul, because these things are so,
Be thou not cheated of to-day's delight.
When the night cometh, it may well be night;
Now it is day. See that no minute's glow

I WONDER not men fabled as they did,
In that old rapture of Hellenic days,
Of Venus as the daughter of the Sea,
From its white foam upspringing, full of grace.

For I have watched thy beauty hour by hour,
Lying at thy dear side all hushed and still,
Bidding thee work on me thy secret spells,
And with thy fulness all my being fill.

" Ay, sea-born beauty, but how sea-born love? "
I hear the doubter question and confess.
But who, still young, has wandered by thy side,
The old Hellenic riddle well may guess.

To W. P. P.

The dear little nest up under the eaves
Out of the wind's cold reach,
The dear little home up on the cliff
Above the pebbly beach!
The rain may beat on the window-pane,
The snow pile around the door,
But at our fireside love-lights glow,
What more has life in store?

We sit and talk in the hearth's warm light,
While dying embers glow,
And know the charm of loving hearts

The unregenerate righteous
Who only love the few,
The profligate and prodigal
Who know not what they do —

The anarchist and socialist
Who are so worldly wise,
The laborer and capitalist
Who mingle all their cries —

All circle in a giddy whirl,
Bereft and blinded by
The mote of hate, which magnifies
The beam in the other's eye.

" Lift up your heads! " The light of love
Dispelling mote and beam —
Reveals to man a brother man —
To trust, help or redeem.