of place, should stoop her sun-bathed wing,

Low as the poor hum of the grasshopper.

I scorn thee not, old man; no haunting ghost

Born of the darkness of thy perjury

Crosses the white tent of my dreaming now

But for myself, that I should so have loved!—

The sweet folds of that blessed charity,

Pure as the cold veins of Pentelicus,

Were all too narrow now to hide away

One burning spot of shame—the wretched price

Of proving traitor to the wondrous star

That with a cloud of splendor wraps my way.

And yet, from the bright wine-cup of my life,

The rosy vintage, bubbling to the brim,

Thou With a passionate lip didst drain away

And to God's sweet gift—human sympathy—

Making my bosom dumb as the dark grave,

Didst leave me drifting on the waste of life,

A fruitless pillar of the desert dust;

For, from the ashes of a ruined hope

There springs no life but an unwearied woe

That feeding upon sunken lip and cheek

Pushes its victims from mortality.

Vainly the light rain of the summer time

Waters the dead limbs of the blasted oak.

Love is the worker of all miracles;

And if within some cold and sunless cave

Thou hadst lain lost and dying, prompted not

My feet had struck that pathway, and I could,

With the neglected sunshine of my hair,

Have clasped thee from the hungry jaws of Death,

And on my heart, as on a wave of light

Have lulled thee to the beauty of soft dreams.

Weak, weak imagination! be dissolved

Like a chance snowflake in a sea of fire.

Let the poor-spirited children of Despair

Hang on the sepulchre of buried Hope

The fadeless garlands of undying song.

Though such gift turned on its pearly hinge

Sweet Mercy's gate, I would not so debase me.

Shut out from heaven, I, by the arch-fiend's wing,

As by a star, would move, and radiantly

Go down to sleep in Fame's bright arms the while

Hard by, her handmaids, the still centuries

Lilies and sunshine braided for my brow.

Angel of Darkness, give, O give me hate

For the blind weakness of my passionate love!

And if thou knowest sweet pity, stretch thy wing,

Spotted with sin and seamed with veins of fire,

Between the gate of heaven and my life's prayer.

For loving, thou didst leave me; and, for that

The lowly straw-roof of a peasant's shed

Sheltered my cradle slumbers, and that Morn,

Clasping about my neck her dewy arms,

Drew to the mountains my unfashioned youth,

Where sunbeams built bright arches, and the wind

Winnowed the roses down about my feet

And as their drift of leaves my bosom was,

Till the cursed hour, when pride was pillowed there,

Crimsoned its beauty with the fires of hell.

God hide from me the time when first I knew

Thy shame to call a low-born maiden, Bride!

Methinks I could have lifted my pale hands

Though bandaged back with grave-clothes, in that hour

To cover my hot forehead from thy kiss.

For the heart strengthens when its food is truth,

And o'er the passion-shaken bosom, trail

And burn the lightnings of its love-lit fires

Like a bright banner streaming on the storm.

The day was almost over; on the hills

The parting light was flitting like a ghost,

And like a trembling lover eve's sweet star,

In the dim leafy reach of the thick woods,

Stood gazing in the blue eyes of the night.

But not the beauty of the place nor hour

Moved my wild heart with tempests of such bliss

As shake the bosom of a god, new-winged,

When first in his blue pathway up the skies

He feels the embrace of immortality.

A little moment, and the world was changed—

Truth, like a planet striking through the dark,

Shone cold and clear, and I was what I am,

Listening along the wilderness of life

For faint echoes of lost melody.

The moonlight gather'd itself back from me

And slanted its pale pinions to the dust.

The drowsy gust, bedded in luscious blooms,

Startled, as 'twere at the death-throes of peace,

Down through the darkness moaningly fled off.

O mournful Past! how thou dost cling and cling—

Like a forsaken maiden to false hope—

To the tired bosom of the living hour,

Which, from thy weak embrace, the future time

Jocundly beckons with a roseate hand.

And, round about me honeyed memories drift

From the fair eminences of young hope,

Like flowers blown down the hills of Paradise,

By some soft wave of golden harmony,

Until the glorious smile of summers gone

Lights the dull offing of the sea of Death.

And though no friend nor brother ever made

My soul the burden of one prayer to Heaven,

I dread to go alone into the grave,

And fold my cold arms emptily away

From the bright shadow of such loveliness.

Can the dull mist where swart October hides

His wrinkled front and tawny cheek, wind-shorn,

Be sprinkled with the orange fire that binds

Away from her soft lap o'erbrimmed with flowers,

The dew-wet tresses of the virgin May?

Or can the heart just sunken from the day

Feed on the beauty of the noontide smile?—

O it is well life's fair things fade so soon,

Else we could never take our clinging hands

From Beauty's nestling bosom—never put

The red wine of love's kisses sternly back,

And feel the dull dust sitting on our lips

Until the very grass grew over us.

O it is well! else for this beautiful life

Our overtempted hearts would sell away

The shining coronals of Paradise.