The path, ah! who has shown it, and which is the faithful guide?

The haven, ah! who has known it? for steep is the mountain side,

Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted breath

Of the praying multitude rises, whose answer is only death.

Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the fruit of an ancient name,

Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and women who died in flame;

They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits who guard our race: Ever I watch and worship; they sit with a marble face.

And the myriad idols around me, and the legion of muttering priests,

The revels and rites unholy, the dark unspeakable feasts!

What have they wrung from the Silence?
Hath even a whisper come
Of the secret, Whence and Whither?
Alas! for the gods are dumb.

Shall I list to the word of English, who come from the uttermost sea? "The Secret, hath it been told you, and what is your message to me?"

Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and where shall the dreamer awake? Is the world seen like shadows on water, and what if the mirror break?

Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is gathered and gone From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning are level and lone?

Is there nought in the heaven above, whence the hail and the levin are hurl'd,

But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the rolling world?

The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence and sleep With the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, and voices of women who weep.

Let this, too, soothe our widow'd minds; Silenced are the opprobrious winds

Whene'er the sun goes down ; And free henceforth from noonday noise, He at a tranquil height enjoys

The starlight of renown.

Thus hence we something more may take
Than sterile grief, than formless ache,
Or vainly utter'd vow;

Death hath bestow'd what life withheld
And he round whom detraction swell'd
Hath peace with honor now.

The open jeer, the covert taunt,
The falsehood coin'd in factious haunt,
These loving gifts reprove.
They never were but thwarted sound
Of ebbing waves that bluster round
A rock that will not move.

And now the idle roar rolls off,
Hush'd is the gibe and sham'd the scoff,
Repress'd the envious gird;
Since death, the looking-glass of life,
Clear'd of the misty breath of strife,
Reflects his face unblurr'd.

From callow youth to mellow age,
Men turn the leaf and scan the page,
And note, with smart of loss,
How wit to wisdom did mature,
How duty burn'd ambition pure,

And purged away the dross.

Youth is self-love; our manhood lends
Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends,
So that when age steals nigh,
How few find any worthier aim
Than to protract a flickering flame,
Whose oil hath long run dry!

But he, unwitting youth once flown,
With England's greatness link'd his own,
And, steadfast to that part,
Held praise and blame but fitful sound,
And in the love of country found
Full solace for his heart.

Vainly the beechen boughs have made A fresh green canopy of shade,

Vainly the peacocks stray; While Carlo, with despondent gait, Wonders how long affairs of State Will keep his lord away.

Here most we miss the guide, the friend; Back to the churchyard let me wend,

And, by the posied mound, Lingering where late stood worthier feet, Wish that some voice, more strong, more sweet,

A loftier dirge would sound.

At least I bring not tardy flowers :
Votive to him life's budding powers,
Such as they were, I gave
He not rejecting, so I may
Perhaps these poor faint spices lay,
Unchidden, on his grave!

SONGS FROM "PRINCE LU

CIFER"

GRAVE-DIGGER'S SONG

THE crab, the bullace, and the sloe,

. They burgeon in the Spring; And, when the west wind melts the snow, The redstarts build and sing.

But Death's at work in rind and root,
And loves the green buds best;
And when the pairing music 's mute,
He spares the empty nest.
Death! Death!

Death is master of lord and clown.
Close the coffin, and hammer it down.

When nuts are brown and sere without,
And white and plump within,
And juicy gourds are pass'd about,
And trickle down the chin;

Cling to me closer,

Closer and closer,
Till the pain that is purer

Hath banish'd the grosser.
Drain, drain at the stream, love,
Thy hunger is freeing,
That was born in a dream, love,
Along with thy being!

Little fingers that feel

For their home on my breast, Little lips that appeal

For their nurture, their rest! Why, why dost thou weep, dear? Nay, stifle thy cries,

Till the dew of thy sleep, dear,
Lies soft on thine eyes.

AGATHA

SHE wanders in the April woods,
That glisten with the fallen shower;
She leans her face against the buds,

She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower.

She feels the ferment of the hour: She broodeth when the ringdove broods; The sun and flying clouds have power Upon her cheek and changing moods. She cannot think she is alone,

As o'er her senses warmly steal Floods of unrest she fears to own, And almost dreads to feel.

Among the summer woodlands wide
Anew she roams, no more alone;
The joy she fear'd is at her side,

Spring's blushing secret now is known. The primrose and its mates have flown, The thrush's ringing note hath died;

But glancing eye and glowing tone
Fall on her from her god, her guide.
She knows not, asks not, what the goal,
She only feels she moves towards
bliss,

And yields her pure unquestioning soul
To touch and fondling kiss.

And still she haunts those woodland ways,
Though all fond fancy finds there now
To mind of spring or summer days,

Are sodden trunk and songless bough. The past sits widow'd on her brow, Homeward she wends with wintry gaze,

To walls that house a hollow vow,

To hearth where love hath ceas'd to blaze: Watches the clammy twilight wane,

With grief too fix'd for woe or tear; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year.

THE HAYMAKERS' SONG
HERE's to him that grows it,
Drink, lads, drink!

That lays it in and mows it,
Clink, jugs, clink!
To him that mows and makes it,
That scatters it and shakes it,
That turns, and teds, and rakes it,
Clink, jugs, clink!

Now here's to him that stacks it,
Drink, lads, drink!

That thrashes and that tacks it,
Clink, jugs, clink!

That cuts it out for eating,

When March-dropp'd lambs are bleating, And the slate-blue clouds are sleeting, Drink, lads, drink!

My days are full of pleasant memories
Of all those women sweet,

Whom I have known! How tenderly their eyes

Flash thro' the days too fleet ! Which long ago went by with sun and rain, Flowers, or the winter snow;

And still thro' memory's palace-halls are fain

In rustling robes to go!

Or wed, or widow'd, or with milkless breasts, Around those women stand,

Like mists that linger on the mountain

crests

Rear'd in a phantom land ;

And love is in their mien and in their look, And from their lips a stream

Of tender words flows, smooth as any brook, And softer than a dream:

And, one by one, holding my hands, they say
Things of the years agone;

And each head will a little turn away,
And each one still sigh on ;

Because they think such meagre joy we had;

For love was little bold,

And youth had store, and chances to be

glad,

And squander'd so his gold.

Blue eyes, and gray, and blacker than the

sloe,

And dusk and golden hair,

And lips that broke in kisses long ago,
Like sun-kiss'd flowers, are there;
And warm fire-side, and sunny orchard wall,
And river-brink and bower,

And wood and hill, and morning and dayfall,

And every place and hour!

And each on each a white unclouded brow Still as a sister bends,

As they would say, "love makes us kindred

now,

Who sometime were his friends."

BY THE SALPÉTRIÈRE

I SAW a poor old woman on the bench
That you may find by the Salpétrière.
The yellow leaves were falling, and the
wind

Gave hint of bitter days to come ere long.
And yet the sun was bright: and as I knew
A little sun, with the Parisiennes,
Means light of heart, I could not but de-
mand

"Why, now, so near to weeping, citizen?" She look'd up at me with vague surprise, And said, You see I'm old; I'm very

old :

The sparrows gather'd from the Squares, Upon the branches green;

The pigeons flock'd from Palace-Yard,
Afresh their wings to preen;

And children down St. Martin's Lane,
And out of Westminster,

Came trooping, many a thousand strong,
With a bewilder'd air.

They hugg'd each other round the neck And titter'd for delight,

To see the yellow daffodils,

And see the daisies white;
They roll'd upon the grassy slopes,
And drank the water clear,
While 'busses the Embankment took,
Asham'd to pass anear;

And sandwich-men stood still aghast,
And costermongers smil'd;
And the policeman on his beat
Pass'd, weeping like a child.

POETA NASCITUR

THE flame-wing'd seraph spake a word To one of Galilee :

"Be not afraid: know, of the Lord Is that is born of thee."

And by the poet's bliss and woe

Learn we the will of Heaven : He is God's instrument; and so

Swords in his heart are seven.

He is God's oracle and slave,

As once the priestesses; His griefs in keeping we should have, To heal, or make them less.

ODE TO MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKEN

(ON SEEING A STORM-PETREL IN A CAGE ON A COTTAGE WALL AND RELEASING IT)

GAZE not at me, my poor unhappy bird; That sorrow is more than human in thine eye;

Too deep already is my spirit stirr'd

To see thee here, child of the sea and sky,

Coop'd in a cage with food thou canst not eat, Thy "snow-flake" soil'd, and soil'd those conquering feet

That walk'd the billows, while thy "sweetsweet-sweet"

Proclaim'd the tempest nigh.

Bird whom I welcom'd while the sailors curs'd,

Friend whom I bless'd wherever keels may roam,