If proud Pygmalion quit his cumbrous frame,
Funereal pomp the scanty tear supplies;
Whilst heralds loud, with venal voice, proclaim,
Lo! here the brave and the puissant lies.

When humbler Alcon leaves his drooping friends,
Pageant nor plume distinguish Alcon's bier;
The faithful Muse with votive song attends,
And blots the mournful numbers with a tear.

He little knew the sly penurious art;
That odious art which Fortune's favourites know;
Form'd to bestow, he felt the warmest heart,
But envious Fate forbade him to bestow.

Your eyes, Asclepias, have the pride
Of waves in summer weather,
Alluring all men to your side
To sail Love's sea together.

Now the white violets bloom, and now
The bluebells drink the rain,
And straying o'er the mountain's brow
The lilies flower again.
Spring perfumes sweet men's hearts enthral,
But Zeno's sweeter far than all.

In vain ye smile, O meadows gay!
The allurement of the rose
Outshines the blossoms ye display,
Her beauty warmer glows.
Lovers must choose my Zeno fair,
The rose of love beyond compare.

Wise words Persuasion's help desire,
The Muses love the sounding lyre,
And Love does ever shine more fair
When Heniochus is there.

By thee I swore I'd keep away
And from my love two nights would stay;
Dear Venus, when I made the vow
Right merry was your laugh, I trow.

You knew full well I could not bear
More than one night without my dear,
And now that night is left behind
I cast my promise to the wind.

'Twere better, sure, my vow to break
Since it will be for Love's dear sake;
Rather than keep my oath to thee
And die of my own piety.

O artist dreaming thus thy life away,
There is a higher life than thou canst guess.
Art thou a poet? sweet love answers, “nay.”
Was Christ a poet? woman answers, “yes.”

The highest poethood is ever this:
To love as Christ loved, and to save the race.
Not to spend wild years, seeking kiss on kiss,
But to draw forth the soul in woman's face.

To aid the weary, and to lift the low:
To show God's pity in the human sphere:
Besought by sorrow, never to say “no”
To lend the helpless heart a ready ear:

Thine English eyes are sweeter than the day,
More beautiful than light at early morn,
Tenderet than stars, or than the tender grey
Of even when the moon's slow car is borne
Upward by grey far propping waves forlorn:
Not Beatrice, in Italy the queenly,
Flashed love, or mirth, or summer-lightning scorn,
So sweetly, or so roselike and serenely.

The English breezes crowned thy young fair head,
And kissed thy lips, and made them roses red:
The English meadow-sweet purloined thy breath,
Blossomed immortal then, and laughed at death:

Are we forgotten, when our spirits pass
The silent doors of all-absorbing death?
Yea, do we mingle with the flowers and grass,
And draw no more sweet loving human breath?
Lovers have trodden love's mystic path before us,
And other fair-souled lovers will succeed —
Will mark the same blue skies that once shone o'er us,
Or haply with the same deep sorrows bleed.

Oh, is there any resting place, a haven
For love's wings sent forth like the pilot raven
To pierce the shadows, pioneer the tomb?
Hath patient endless labour any worth,

I.

" Far out where waves are breaking,
Where never song-bird sings,
My soul would fly, forsaking
All flowers and inland things
I am weary of the bowers
Where summer's heart is won;
I am weary of the flowers;
I am weary of the sun:
Where only star-rays sunder
The darkness, I would be;
At rest, while wild waves thunder
The anthems of the sea. "

II.

Youth's meadows all were bountiful with gold;
The sweet seas all were laughing in their glee,
Responsive on the beach the breakers rolled.
Assiduous sang the birds in every tree
Chanting the wedding, love, of you and me;
For through the realms of nature was it told,
Yea, signalized through earth eternally
And through the azure heavens wide and free,
And o'er the yellow furze-crowned breezy wold
Where hand in hand we wandered, love, of old,
Brushing the heather-sprays that reached the knee
Luxuriant. The clouds parted, fold on fold,