The shadow of a poet's dream—himself
  As thou, his soul as thine, long dead,
  But not like thine outlasted by its shade.
  His dreams alone survive eternity
  As pictures in the unsubstantial void.
  Excepting thee and me (and we because
  The poet wove us in his thought) remains
  Of nature and the universe no part
  Or vestige but the poet's dreams. This dread,
  Unspeakable land about thy feet, with all
  Its desolation and its terrors—lo!
  'T is but a phantom world. So long ago
  That God and all the angels since have died
  That poet lived—yourself long dead—his mind
  Filled with the light of a prophetic fire,
  And standing by the Western sea, above
  The youngest, fairest city in the world,
  Named in another tongue than his for one
  Ensainted, saw its populous domain
  Plague-smitten with a nameless shame. For there
  Red-handed murder rioted; and there
  The people gathered gold, nor cared to loose
  The assassin's fingers from the victim's throat,
  But said, each in his vile pursuit engrossed:
  'Am I my brother's keeper? Let the Law
  Look to the matter.' But the Law did not.
  And there, O pitiful! the babe was slain
  Within its mother's breast and the same grave
  Held babe and mother; and the people smiled,
  Still gathering gold, and said: 'The Law, the Law,'
  Then the great poet, touched upon the lips
  With a live coal from Truth's high altar, raised
  His arms to heaven and sang a song of doom—
  Sang of the time to be, when God should lean
  Indignant from the Throne and lift his hand,
  And that foul city be no more!—a tale,
  A dream, a desolation and a curse!
  No vestige of its glory should survive
  In fact or memory: its people dead,
  Its site forgotten, and its very name
  Disputed."

  "Was the prophecy fulfilled?"
  The sullen disc of the declining sun
  Was crimson with a curse and a portent,
  And scarce his angry ray lit up the land
  That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared
  Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up
  From dim tarns hateful with a horrid ban,
  Took shapes forbidden and without a name.
  Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds
  With cries discordant, startled all the air,
  And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom.
  But not to me came any voice again;
  And, covering my face with thin, dead hands,
  I wept, and woke, and cried aloud to God!

POLITICS.

  That land full surely hastens to its end
  Where public sycophants in homage bend
  The populace to flatter, and repeat
  The doubled echoes of its loud conceit.
  Lowly their attitude but high their aim,
  They creep to eminence through paths of shame,
  Till fixed securely in the seats of pow'r,
  The dupes they flattered they at last devour.

POESY.

  Successive bards pursue Ambition's fire
  That shines, Oblivion, above thy mire.
  The latest mounts his predecessor's trunk,
  And sinks his brother ere himself is sunk.
  So die ingloriously Fame's élite,
  But dams of dunces keep the line complete.

IN DEFENSE.

  You may say, if you please, Johnny Bull, that our girls
  Are crazy to marry your dukes and your earls;
  But I've heard that the maids of your own little isle
  Greet bachelor lords with a favoring smile.

  Nay, titles, 'tis said in defense of our fair,
  Are popular here because popular there;
  And for them our ladies persistently go
  Because 'tis exceedingly English, you know.

  Whatever the motive, you'll have to confess
  The effort's attended with easy success;
  And—pardon the freedom—'tis thought, over here,
  'Tis mortification you mask with a sneer.

  It's all very well, sir, your scorn to parade
  Of the high nasal twang of the Yankee maid,
  But, ah, to my lord when he dares to propose
  No sound is so sweet as that "Yes" from the nose.

  Our ladies, we grant, walk alone in the street
  (Observe, by-the-by, on what delicate feet!)
  'Tis a habit they got here at home, where they say
  The men from politeness go seldom astray.

  Ah, well, if the dukes and the earls and that lot
  Can stand it (God succor them if they cannot!)
  Your commoners ought to assent, I am sure,
  And what they 're not called on to suffer, endure.

  "'Tis nothing but money?" "Your nobles are bought?"
  As to that, I submit, it is commonly thought
  That England's a country not specially free
  Of Croesi and (if you'll allow it) Croesae.

  You've many a widow and many a girl
  With money to purchase a duke or an earl.
  'Tis a very remarkable thing, you'll agree,
  When goods import buyers from over the sea.

  Alas for the woman of Albion's isle!
  She may simper; as well as she can she may smile;
  She may wear pantalettes and an air of repose—
  But my lord of the future will talk through his nose.

AN INVOCATION.

  [Read at the Celebration of Independence Day in San
  Francisco, in 1888.]

  Goddess of Liberty! O thou
    Whose tearless eyes behold the chain,
    And look unmoved upon the slain,
  Eternal peace upon thy brow,—

  Before thy shrine the races press,
    Thy perfect favor to implore—
    The proudest tyrant asks no more,
  The ironed anarchist no less.

  Thine altar-coals that touch the lips
    Of prophets kindle, too, the brand
    By Discord flung with wanton hand
  Among the houses and the ships.

  Upon thy tranquil front the star
    Burns bleak and passionless and white,
    Its cold inclemency of light
  More dreadful than the shadows are.

  Thy name we do not here invoke
    Our civic rites to sanctify:
    Enthroned in thy remoter sky,
  Thou heedest not our broken yoke.

  Thou carest not for such as we:
    Our millions die to serve the still
    And secret purpose of thy will.
  They perish—what is that to thee?

  The light that fills the patriot's tomb
    Is not of thee. The shining crown
    Compassionately offered down
  To those who falter in the gloom,

  And fall, and call upon thy name,
    And die desiring—'tis the sign
    Of a diviner love than thine,
  Rewarding with a richer fame.

  To him alone let freemen cry
    Who hears alike the victor's shout,
    The song of faith, the moan of doubt,
  And bends him from his nearer sky.

  God of my country and my race!
    So greater than the gods of old—
    So fairer