Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall Upon his tongue.

But still the music of his song Rises o'er all, elate and strong; Its master-chords

Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood, Its discords but an interlude

Between the words.

And then to die so young and leave
Unfinished what he might achieve !
Yet better sure

Is this, than wandering up and down,
An old man in a country town,
Infirm and poor.

For now he haunts his native land
As an immortal youth; his hand
Guides every plough ;

He sits beside each ingle-nook,
His voice is in each rushing brook,
Each rustling bough.

His presence haunts this room to-night, A form of mingled mist and light

From that far coast.

Welcome beneath this roof of mine!
Welcome! this vacant chair is thine,
Dear guest and ghost!

HELEN OF TYRE

WHAT phantom is this that appears
Through the purple mists of the years,
Itself but a mist like these?
A woman of cloud and of fire;
It is she; it is Helen of Tyre,

The town in the midst of the seas.

O Tyre! in thy crowded streets
The phantom appears and retreats,
And the Israelites that sell
Thy lilies and lions of brass,
Look up as they see her pass,
And murmur "Jezebel !"

Then another phantom is seen
At her side, in a gray gabardine,

With beard that floats to his waist;

It is Simon Magus, the Seer;
He speaks, and she pauses to hear
The words he utters in haste.

He says: "From this evil fame, From this life of sorrow and shame,

I will lift thee and make thee mine;
Thou hast been Queen Candace,
And Helen of Troy, and shalt be
The Intelligence Divine !"

Oh, sweet as the breath of morn,
To the fallen and forlorn

Are whispered words of praise;
For the famished heart believes
The falsehood that tempts and deceives,
And the promise that betrays.

So she follows from land to land
The wizard's beckoning hand,

As a leaf is blown by the gust,
Till she vanishes into night.
O reader, stoop down and write
With thy finger in the dust.

O town in the midst of the seas,
With thy rafts of cedar trees,

Thy merchandise and thy ships,
Thou, too, art become as naught,
A phantom, a shadow, a thought,
A name upon men's lips.

ELEGIAC

DARK is the morning with mist; in the narrow mouth of the harbor

Motionless lies the sea, under its curtain of cloud;

Dreamily glimmer the sails of ships on the distant horizon,

Like to the towers of a town, built on the verge of the sea.

Slowly and stately and still, they sail forth into the ocean;

With them sail my thoughts over the limitless deep,

Farther and farther away, borne on by unsatisfied longings,

Unto Hesperian isles, unto Ausonian shores.

Now they have vanished away, have disappeared in the ocean;

Sunk are the towers of the town into the depths of the sea!

WHAT an image of peace and rest

Is this little church among its graves!
All is so quiet; the troubled breast,
The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed,
Here may find the repose it craves.

See, how the ivy climbs and expands
Over this humble hermitage,
And seems to caress with its little hands
The rough, gray stones, as a child that
stands

Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age!

You cross the threshold; and dim and small Is the space that serves for the Shepherd's Fold;

The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall,
The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall,
Whisper and say: "Alas! we are old."

Herbert's chapel at Bemerton

Hardly more spacious is than this; But poet and pastor, blent in one, Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun, That lowly and holy edifice.

It is not the wall of stone without

That makes the building small or great, But the soul's light shining round about, And the faith that overcometh doubt,

And the love that stronger is than hate.

FOLK-SONGS

THE SIFTING OF PETER

IN St. Luke's Gospel we are told
How Peter in the days of old
Was sifted;

And now, though ages intervene,
Sin is the same, while time and scene
Are shifted.

Satan desires us, great and small,
As wheat to sift us, and we all
Are tempted;

Not one, however rich or great,
Is by his station or estate
Exempted.

No house so safely guarded is
But he, by some device of his,
Can enter;

No heart hath armor so complete
But he can pierce with arrows fleet
Its centre.

For all at last the cock will crow,
Who hear the warning voice, but go
Unheeding,

Till thrice and more they have denied
The Man of Sorrows, crucified
And bleeding.

One look of that pale, suffering face Will make us feel the deep disgrace Of weakness;

We shall be sifted till the strength Of self-conceit be changed at length To meekness.

Ah, that is the ship from over the sea, That is bringing my lover back to me, Bringing my lover so fond and true,

O pretty Maiden, so fine and fair, With your dreamy eyes and your golden hair,

When you and your lover meet to-day You will thank me for looking some other way.

THE WINDMILL

BEHOLD! a giant am I !

Aloft here in my tower,

With my granite jaws I devour The maize, and the wheat, and the rye, And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;
In the fields of grain I see
The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
For I know it is all for me.

I hear the sound of flails

Far off, from the threshing-floors In barns, with their open doors, And the wind, the wind in my sails, Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place,

With my foot on the rock below, And whichever way it may blow, I meet it face to face

As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive,
My master, the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sundays I take my rest; Church-going bells begin

Their low, melodious din; I cross my arms on my breast, And all is peace within.

you.

WEATHERCOCK.

If I change with all the winds that blow,
It is only because they made me so,
And people would think it wondrous strange,
If I, a Weathercock, should not change.

FALLS

THE tide rises, the tide falls,

The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveller hastens toward the town, And the tide rises, the tide falls.