Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath,

The sky and sea bend on thee,—which can draw,
By sea or sky or woman, to one law,

The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath.

This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise

Thy voice and hand shake still,-long known to thee By flying hair and fluttering hem, the beat Following her daily of thy heart and feet,

How passionately and irretrievably,

In what fond flight, how many ways and days!

VENUS VERTICORDIA.

(For a Picture.)

SHE hath the apple in her hand for thee,
Yet almost in her heart would hold it back;
She muses, with her eyes upon the track
Of that which in thy spirit they can see.

6

Haply, Behold, he is at peace,' saith she;

Alas! the apple for his lips,-the dart

That follows its brief sweetness to his heart,The wandering of his feet perpetually !'

A little space her glance is still and coy;

But if she give the fruit that works her spell,

Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy. Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe foretell,

And her far seas moan as a single shell,

And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy.

CASSANDRA.

(For a Drawing.*)

I.

REND, rend thine hair, Cassandra: he will go.
Yea, rend thy garments, wring thine hands, and cry
From Troy still towered to the unreddened sky.
See, all but she that bore thee mock thy woe :—
He most whom that fair woman arms, with show
Of wrath on her bent brows; for in this place
This hour thou bad'st all men in Helen's face
The ravished ravishing prize of Death to know.
What eyes, what ears hath sweet Andromache,
Save for her Hector's form and step; as tear
On tear make salt the warm last kiss he gave?
He goes. Cassandra's words beat heavily
Like crows above his crest, and at his ear
Ring hollow in the shield that shall not save.

II.

‘O Hector, gone, gone, gone! O Hector, thee
Two chariots wait, in Troy long bless'd and curs'd;
And Grecian spear and Phrygian sand athirst
Crave from thy veins the blood of victory.
Lo! long upon our hearth the brand had we,
Lit for the roof-tree's ruin and to-day

The ground-stone quits the wall,-the wind hath
way,-

And higher and higher the wings of fire are free.

O Paris, Paris! O thou burning brand,

Thou beacon of the sea whence Venus rose, Lighting thy race to shipwreck ! Even that hand Wherewith she took thine apple let her close Within thy curls at last, and while Troy glows Lift thee her trophy to the sea and land.'

*The subject shows Cassandra prophesying among her kindred, as Hector leaves them for his last battle. They are on the plat form of a fortress, from which the Trojan troops are marching out. Helen is arming Paris; Priam soothes Hecuba; and Andromache holds the child to her bosom.

PANDORA.

(For a Picture.)

WHAT of the end, Pandora? Was it thine,
The deed that set these fiery pinions free?
Ah! wherefore did the Olympian consistory
In its own likeness make thee half divine?
Was it that Juno's brow might stand a sign
For ever? and the mien of Pallas be

A deadly thing? and that all men might see
In Venus' eyes the gaze of Proserpine?

What of the end? These beat their wings at will,
The ill-born things, the good things turned to ill,-
Powers of the impassioned hours prohibited.
Aye, clench the casket now! Whither they go
Thou mayst not dare to think: nor canst thou know
If Hope still pent there be alive or dead.

ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN NATIONS.

Nor that the earth is changing, O my God!
Nor that the seasons totter in their walk,—
Not that the virulent ill of act and talk
Seethes ever as a winepress ever trod,-
Not therefore are we certain that the rod
Weighs in thine hand to smite thy world; though

now

Beneath thine hand so many nations bow,

So many kings:-not therefore, O my God!—

But because Man is parcelled out in men
To-day; because, for any wrongful blow,
No man not stricken asks, I would be told
Why thou dost thus:' but his heart whispers then,
'He is he, I am I.' By this we know

That the earth falls asunder, being old.

ON THE 'VITA NUOVA' OF DANTE.

As he that loves oft looks on the dear form

And guesses how it grew to womanhood,
And gladly would have watched the beauties bud
And the mild fire of precious life wax warm :-
So I, long bound within the threefold charm
Of Dante's love sublimed to heavenly mood,
Had marvelled, touching his Beatitude,

How grew such presence from man's shameful swarm.
At length within this book I found portrayed
Newborn that Paradisal Love of his,

And simple like a child; with whose clear aid
I understood. To such a child as this,
Christ, charging well his chosen ones, forbade
Offence: for lo! of such my kingdom is.'

DANTIS TENEBRÆ.

(In Memory of my Father.)

AND did'st thou know indeed, when at the font
Together with thy name thou gav'st me his,
That also on thy son must Beatrice
Decline her eyes according to her wont,
Accepting me to be of those that haunt
The vale of magical dark mysteries

Where to the hills her poet's foot-track lies
And wisdom's living fountain to his chaunt
Trembles in music? This is that steep land

Where he that holds his journey stands at gaze Tow'rd sunset, when the clouds like a new height Seem piled to climb. These things I understand: For here, where day still soothes my lifted face,

On thy bowed head, my father, fell the night.

BEAUTY AND THE BIRD.

SHE fluted with her mouth as when one sips,
And gently waved her golden head, inclin'd
Outside his cage close to the window-blind;
Till her fond bird, with little turns and dips,
Piped low to her of sweet companionships.
And when he made an end, some seed took she
And fed him from her tongue, which rosily
Peeped as a piercing bud between her lips.
And like the child in Chaucer, on whose tongue
The Blessed Mary laid, when he was dead,

A grain, who straightway praised her name in song:
Even so, when she, a little lightly red,

Now turned on me and laughed, I heard the throng Of inner voices praise her golden head.

A MATCH WITH THE MOON.

WEARY already, weary miles to-night

I walked for bed and so, to get some ease,
I dogged the flying moon with similes.
And like a wisp she doubled on my sight
In ponds; and caught in tree-tops like a kite;
And in a globe of film all vaporish

Swam full-faced like a silly silver fish ;-
Last like a bubble shot the welkin's height
Where my road turned, and got behind me, and sent
My wizened shadow craning round at me,
And jeered, 'So, step the measure,—one
three!'-

And if I faced on her, looked innocent.

But just at parting, halfway down a dell,

two

She kissed me for good-night. So you'll not tell.

AUTUMN IDLENESS.

THIS Sunlight shames November where he grieves In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun The day, though bough with bough be over-run. But with a blessing every glade receives