VII. RELICS.

(In Switzerland.)

What relic of the dear, dead yesterday
Shall my heart keep? The visionary light
Of dawn? Alas! it is a thing too bright,
God does not give such memories away.
Nor choose I one fair flower of those that sway
To the chill breathing of the waterfall

In rocky angles black with scattering spray,
Fair though no sunbeam lays its coronal

Of light on their pale brows; nor glacier-gleam
I choose, nor eve's red glamour; 'twas at noon
Resting I found this speedwell, while a stream,
That knew the immemorial inland croon,
Sang in my ears, and lulled me to a dream
Of English meadows, and one perfect June.

VIII. ON THE PIER OF BOULOGNE.

(A Reminiscence of 1870.)

A venal singer to a thrumming note

Chanted the civic war-song, that red flower
Of melody seized in a sudden hour

By frenzied winds of change, and borne afloat
A live light in the storm; and now by rote
To a cold crowd, while vague and sad the tide
Loomed after sunset and the gray gulls cried,
The verses quavered from a hireling throat.
Wherefore should English eyes their right forbear,
Or droop for smitten France? let the tossed sou,
Before they turn, be quittance for the stare.

O Lady, who, clear-voiced, with impulse true
To lift that cry “To Arms!” alone would dare,
My heart received a golden alms from you!

IX. DOVER.

(In a Field.)

A joy has met me on this English ground

I looked not for. O gladness, fields still green! Listen, the going of a murmurous sound

Along the corn; there is not to be seen

In all the land a single pilèd sheaf

Or line of grain new-fallen, and not a tree
Has felt as yet within its lightest leaf

The year's despair; nay, Summer saves for me
Her bright, late flowers. O my Summer-time
Named low as lost, I turn, and find you here-
Where else but in our blessed English clime
That lingers o'er the sweet days of the year,
Days of long dreaming under spacious skies
Ere melancholy winds of Autumn rise.

AN AUTUMN SONG.

Long Autumn rain;

White mists which choke the vale, and blot the

sides

Of the bewildered hills; in all the plain

No field agleam where the gold pageant was,

And silent o'er a tangle of drenched grass

The blackbird glides.

In the heart,-fire,

Fire and clear air and cries of water-springs,
And large, pure winds; all April's quick desire,
All June's possession; a most fearless Earth
Drinking great ardours; and the rapturous birth
Of winged things.

BURDENS.

Are sorrows hard to bear,—the ruin

Of flowers, the rotting of red fruit,

A love's decease, a life's undoing,

And summer slain, and song-birds mute,

And skies of snow and bitter air?

These things, you deem, are hard to bear.

But ah, the burden, the delight

Of dreadful joys! Noon opening wide, Golden and great; the gulfs of night,

Fair deaths, and rent veils cast aside, Strong soul to strong soul rendered up, And silence filling like a cup.