What are ye, O pallid phantoms!
But the statues without breath,
That stand on the bridge overarching
The silent river of death?

THE MEETING.

AFTER So long an absence

At last we meet again : Does the meeting give us pleasure, Or does it give us pain?

The tree of life has been shaken,

And but few of us linger now, Like the Prophet's two or three berries In the top of the uppermost bough.

We cordially greet each other

In the old, familiar tone; And we think, though we do not say it, How old and gray he is grown!

We speak of a Merry Christmas

And many a Happy New Year; But each in his heart is thinking Of those that are not here.

We speak of friends and their fortunes,
And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,

And the living alone seem dead.

And at last we hardly distinguish Between the ghosts and the guests; And a mist and shadow of sadness Steals over our merriest jests.

VOX POPULI.

WHEN Mazárvan the Magician,
Journeyed westward through Cathay,
Nothing heard he but the praises
Of Badoura on his way.

But the lessening rumor ended

When he came to Khaledan, There the folk were talking only

Of Prince Camaralzaman.

So it happens with the poets : Every province hath its own; Camaralzaman is famous

Where Badoura is unknown.

FROM the outskirts of the town,
Where of old the mile-stone stood,
Now a stranger, looking down
I behold the shadowy crown

Of the dark and haunted wood.

Is it changed, or am I changed?

Ah! the oaks are fresh and green,
But the friends with whom I ranged
Through their thickets are estranged
By the years that intervene.
Bright as ever flows the sea,

Bright as ever shines the sun,
But alas! they seem to me
Not the sun that used to be,
Not the tides that used to run.

THE CHALLENGE.

I HAVE a vague remembrance
Of a story, that is told
In some ancient Spanish legend
Or chronicle of old.

Lest the sweet delight of dying
Bring life back again to me.
For thy sure approach perceiving
In my constancy and pain
I new life should win again,
Thinking that I am not living.
So to me, unconscious lying,
All unknown thy coming be,
Lest the sweet delight of dying
Bring life back again to me.
Unto him who finds thee hateful,
Death, thou art inhuman pain;
But to me, who dying gain,
Life is but a task ungrateful.
Come, then, with my wish complying,
All unheard thy coming be,
Lest the sweet delight of dying
Bring life back again to me.

4.

Glove of black in white hand bare,
And about her forehead pale
Wound a thin, transparent veil,
That doth not conceal her hair;
Sovereign attitude and air,
Cheek and neck alike displayed,
With coquettish charms arrayed,
Laughing eyes and fugitive;
This is killing men that live,
'Tis not mourning for the dead.

AFTERMATH.

WHEN the Summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow

And gather in the aftermath.

Not the sweet, new grass with flowers Is this harvesting of ours;

Not the upland clover bloom; But the rowen mixed with weeds, Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds In the silence and the gloom.

EPIMETHEUS,

OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT. HAVE I dreamed? or was it real, What I saw as in a vision,

When to marches hymeneal

In the land of the Ideal

Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian? What are these the guests whose glances Seemed like sunshine gleaming round

me? These the wild, bewildering fancies, That with dithyrambic dances

As with magic circles bound me ? Ah how cold are their caresses!

Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms!

O my songs! whose winsome measures
Filled my heart with secret rapture!
Children of my golden leisures!
Must even your delights and pleasures
Fade and perish with the capture?

Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous,
When they came to me unbidden;
Voices single, and in chorus,
Like the wild birds singing o'er us
In the dark of branches hidden.