the wide embrace
Of their round proffered arms, that tempt the virgin boy;
Conquered the trickling of their babbling tongues; the coy
Back glances, and the mobile breasts of subtle grace;

Conquered the Woman Beautiful, the fatal charm
Of her hot breast, the music of her babbling tongue;
Conquered the gate of Hell, into the gate the young
Man passes, with the heavy trophy at his arm,

The holy Javelin that pierced the Heart of God.
He heals the dying king, he sits upon the throne,
King, and high priest of that great gift, the living Blood.

In robe of gold the youth adores the glorious Sign
Of the green goblet, worships the mysterious Wine.
And oh! the chime of children's voices in the dome.

A CRUCIFIX

TO ERNEST DOWSON

A gothic church. At one end of an aisle,
Against a wall where mystic sunbeams smile
Through painted windows, orange, blue, and gold,
The Christ's unutterable charm behold.
Upon the cross, adorned with gold and green,
Long fluted golden tongues of sombre sheen,
Like four flames joined in one, around the head
And by the outstretched arms, their glory spread.
The statue is of wood; of natural size
Tinted; one almost sees before one's eyes
The last convulsion of the lingering breath.
"Behold the man!" Robust and frail. Beneath
That breast indeed might throb the Sacred Heart.
And from the lips, so holily dispart,
The dying murmur breathes "Forgive! Forgive!"
O wide-stretched arms! "I perish, let them live."
Under the torture of the thorny crown,
The loving pallor of the brow looks down
On human blindness, on the toiler's woes;
The while, to overturn Despair's repose,
And urge to Hope and Love, as Faith demands,
Bleed, bleed the feet, the broken side, the hands.
A poet, painter, Christian,—it was a friend
Of mine—his attributes most fitly blend—
Who saw this marvel, made an exquisite
Copy; and, knowing how I worshipped it,
Forgot it, in my room, by accident.
I write these verses in acknowledgment.

LE CHEVALIER MALHEUR

Grim visor'd cavalier!
        Rides silently MISCHANCE.
Stabbed is my dying heart
        of his unpitying lance.
My poor hearts blood leaps forth,
        a single crimson jet.
The hot sun licks it up
        where petals pale are wet.
Deep shadow seals my sight,
        one shriek my lips has fed.
With a wrung, sullen shudder
        my poor heart is dead.
The cavalier dismounts;
        and, kneeling on the ground,
His finger iron-mailed
        he thrusts into the wound.
Suddenly, at the freezing touch,
        the iron smart,
At once within me bursts
        a new, a noble heart.
Suddenly, as the steel
        into the wound is pressed,
A heart all beautiful
        and young throbs in my breast.
Trembling, incredulous
        I sat; but ill at ease,
As one who, in a holy trance,
        strange visions sees.
While the good cavalier,
        remounted on his horse,
Left me a parting nod
        as he retook his course,
And shouted to me
        (still I hear his cries):
"Once only can the miracle
        avail.—Be wise!"

SPLEEN

The roses every one were red,
And all the ivy leaves were black.

Sweet, do not even stir your head,
Or all of my despairs come back.

The sky is too blue, too delicate:
Too soft the air, too green the sea.

I fear—-how long had I to wait!—
That you will tear yourself from me.

The shining box-leaves weary me,
The