Inherit towards the children all the pride And scorn his mother had towards our mother:

Wherefore he suffers in our just rebuke.

PHRAXANOR TO JOSEPH

Phrax. Oh! ignorant boy, it is the secret hour,

The sun of love doth shine most goodly fair.

Contemptible darkness never yet did dull
The splendor of love's palpitating light.
At love's slight curtains, that are made of
sighs,

Though e'er so dark, silence is seen to stand
Like to a flower closed in the night;
Or, like a lovely image drooping down
With its fair head aslant and finger rais'd,
And mutely on its shoulder slumbering.
Pulses do sound quick music in Love's ear,
And blended fragrance in his startled breath
Doth hang the hair with drops of magic dew.
All outward thoughts, all common circum-
stance,

Are buried in the dimple of his smile:
And the great city like a vision sails
From out the closing doors of the hush'd
mind.

His heart strikes audibly against his ribs
As a dove's wing doth freak upon a cage,
Forcing the blood athro' the cramped veins
Faster than dolphins do o'ershoot the tide
Cours'd by the yawning shark. Therefore
I say
Night-blooming Cereus, and the star-flower
sweet,

The honeysuckle, and the eglantine,
And the ring'd vinous tree that yields red
wine,

Together with all intertwining flowers, Are plants most fit to ramble o'er each other,

And form the bower of all-precious Love, Shrouding the sun with fragrant bloom and leaves

From jealous interception of Love's gaze.
This is Love's cabin in the light of day,
But oh! compare it not with the black

night;

Delay thou sun, and give me instant night -
Its soft, mysterious, and secret hours;
The whitest clouds are pillows to bright

stars,

Ah! therefore shroud thine eyes.

THE PATRIARCHAL HOME

Joseph. Still I am patient, tho' you're merciless.

Yet to speak out my mind, I do avouch
There is no city feast, nor city show,
The encampment of the king and soldiery,
Rejoicings, revelries, and victories,
Can equal the remembrance of my home
In visible imagination.

Even as he was I see my father now,
His grave and graceful head's benignity
Musing beyond the confines of this world,
His world within with all its mysteries.
What pompless majesty was in his mien,
An image of integrity creates,
Pattern of nature, in perfection.
Lo! in the morning when we issued forth,
The patriarch surrounded by his sons,
Girt round with looks of sweet obedience,
Each struggling who should honor him the
most;

While from the wrinkles deep of many

Of bays and myrtle interleav'd with herbs, Wherein was stor'd our country wine and fruit,

And bread with honey sweeten'd, and dried figs,

And pressed curds, and choicest rarities, Stores of the cheerless season of the year; While at our sides the women of our tribe, With pitchers on their heads, fill'd to the brim

With wine, and honey, and with smoking milk,

Made proud the black-ey'd heifers with the swell

Of the sweet anthem sung in plenty's praise. Thus would we journey to the wilderness, And fixing on some peak that did o'erlook The spacious plains that lay display'd be

neath,

The minutes flying faster than our feet
That vaulted nimbly to the pipe and voice,
Making fatigue more sweet by appetite.
There stood the graceful Reuben by my
sire,

Piping a ditty, ardent as the sun,
And, like him, stealing renovation
Into the darkest corner of the soul,

And filling it with light. There, women group'd,

My sisters and their maids, with ears subdued,

With bosoms panting from the eager dance, Against each other lean'd; as I have seen A graceful tuft of lilies of the vale Oppress'd with rain, upon each other bend, While freshness has stol'n o'er them. Some way off

My brothers pitch'd the bar, or plough'd for fame,

Each two with their two heifers harness'd fast

Unto the shaft, and labor'd till the sweat
Had crept about them like a sudden thaw.
Anon they tied an eagle to a tree,
And strove at archery; or with a bear
Struggled for strength of limb.

were no slaves

These

No villain's sons to rifle passengers.
The sports being done, the winners claim'd

the spoil:

Or hide, or feather, or renowned bow,
Or spotted cow, or fleet and pamper'd horse.
And then my father bless'd us, and we sang
Our sweet way home again. Oft I have

ach'd

In memory of these so precious hours, And wept upon those keys that were my pride,

And soak'd my pillow thro' the heavy night. Alas! God willing, I'll be patient yet.

THE TRIUMPH OF JOSEPH

In the royal path Came maidens rob'd in white, enchain'd in flowers,

Sweeping the ground with incense-scented palms :

Then came the sweetest voices of the land,

Sat Pharaoh, whose bare head was girt around

By a crown of iron; and his sable hair, Like strakey as a mane, fell where it would, And somewhat hid his glossy sun-brent neck And carcanet of precious sardonyx.

His jewell'd armlets, weighty as a sword, Clasp'd his brown naked arms - a crimson robe,

Deep edged with silver, and with golden thread,

Upon a bear-skin kirtle deeply blush'd, Whose broad resplendent braid and shieldlike clasps

Were boss'd with diamonds large, by rubies

fir'd,

Like beauty's eye in rage, or roses white
Lit by the glowing red. Beside him lay
A bunch of poppied corn ; and at his feet
A tamed lion as his footstool crouch'd.
Cas'd o'er in burnish'd plates I, hors'd, did
bear

A snow-white eagle on a silver shaft,
From whence great Pharaoh's royal banner
stream'd,

An emblem of his might and dignity;
And as the minstrelsy burst clanging forth,
With shouts that broke like thunder from

the host,

The royal bird with kindred pride of power
Flew up the measure of his silken cord,
And arch'd his cloud-like wings as he would
mount,

And babble of this glory to the sun.
Then follow'd Joseph in a silver car,
Drawn by eight horses, white as evening
clouds:

FROM "EDWIN THE FAIR"

THE WIND IN THE PINES

THE tale was this:

The wind, when first he rose and went abroad

Through the waste region, felt himself at fault,

Wanting a voice; and suddenly to earth Descended with a wafture and a swoop, Where, wandering volatile from kind to kind,

He woo'd the several trees to give him one.
First he besought the ash; the voice she lent
Fitfully with a free and lashing change
Flung here and there its sad uncertainties:
The aspen next; a flutter'd frivolous twit-
ter

Was her sole tribute: from the willow came,
So long as dainty summer dress'd her out,
A whispering sweetness, but her winter note
Was hissing, dry, and reedy: lastly the pine
Did he solicit, and from her he drew
A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep,
That there he rested, welcoming in her
A mild memorial of the ocean-cave
Where he was born.

shade,

And gently judged for evil and for good.
But whilst he mix'd not for his own behoof
In public strife, his spirit glow'd with zeal,
Not shorn of action, for the public weal,
For truth and justice as its warp and woof,
For freedom as its signature and seal.
His life, thus sacred from the world, dis-
charged

From vain ambition and inordinate care,
In virtue exercis'd, by reverence rare
Lifted, and by humility enlarged,
Became a temple and a place of prayer.
In latter years he walk'd not singly there;

What makes a hero? - An heroic mind, Express'd in action, in endurance prov'd. And if there be preeminence of right, Deriv'd through pain well suffer'd, to the height

Of rank heroic, 't is to bear unmov'd, Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind,

Not the brute fury of barbarians blind, But worse- ingratitude and poisonous darts,

Launch'd by the country he had serv'd and lov'd:

This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure, This, in the strength of silence to endure, A dignity to noble deeds imparts Beyond the gauds and trappings of re