Regions where never fancy's foot had trod Till then; yet all the strangeness seemed not strange, At which I wondered, reasoning in my dream With two-fold sense, well knowing that I slept. At last I came to this our cloud-hung earth, And somewhere by the seashore was a grave, A woman's grave, new-made, and heaped with flowers; And near it stood an ancient holy man That fain would comfort me, who sorrowed not For this unknown dead woman at my feet. But I, because his sacred office held My reverence, listened; and 't was thus he spake: "When next thou comest thou shalt find her still In all the rare perfection that she was. If this befalls our poor unworthy flesh, While yet he spoke, seashore and grave and priest Vanished, and faintly from a neighboring spire Fell five slow solemn strokes upon my ear. Then I awoke with a keen pain at heart, A sense of swift unutterable loss, And through the darkness reached my hand to touch Her cheek, soft pillowed on one restful palın To be quite sure! Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time; Others, beholding how thy turrets climb "Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all thy days; But most beware of those who come to praise. O Wondersmith, O worker in sublime And heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all; Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame, Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given: Then, if at last the airy structure fall, Dissolve, and vanish-take thyself no shame. They fail, and they alone, who have not striven. REMINISCENCE THOUGH I am native to this frozen zone That half the twelvemonth torpid lies, or dead; Though the cold azure arching overhead I do remember. . . it was just at dusk, Came to the water-tank to fill her urn, OUTWARD BOUND I LEAVE behind me the elm-shadowed square And carven portals of the silent street, And wander on with listless, vagrant feet Through seaward-leading alleys, till the air Smells of the sea, and straightway then the care Slips from my heart, and life once more is sweet. At the lane's ending lie the white-winged fleet. O restless Fancy, whither wouldst thou fare? A MIDDLE-AGED LYRICAL POET IS SUPPOSED TO BE TAKING LEAVE OF THE MUSE OF COMEDY I BAY it under the rose Oh, thanks!—yes, under the laurel, We part lovers, not foes; We are not going to quarrel. We have too long been friends To spoil our kiss with reproaches. I leave you; my soul is wrung; I pause, look back from the portalAh, I no more am young, And you, child, you are immortal! III That was indeed to live- With foot upon the ramparts of the foe! No need for sorrow here, Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know. Of battle, and youth's gold about his brow; And parley hold with Fate, O soul of loyal valor and white truth, Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore, In thy undying youth! The colonel rode and the captain walked, And the colonel that leaped from his hors! and knelt To close the eyes so dim, A high remorse for God's mercy felt, And he whispered, prayer-like, under hi The name of his own young wife: For Love, that had made his friend's peace with Death, Alone could make his with life. FROM GENERATION TO INNOCENT spirits, bright, immaculate ghosts! Why throng your heavenly hosts, As eager for their birth In this sad home of death, this sorrowhaunted earth? Beware! Beware! you are, And shun this evil star, Content you where Where we who are doomed to die Have our brief being, and pass, we know not where or why. We have not to consent or to refuse ; It is not ours to choose: We come because we must, We know not by what law, if unjust or if just. The doom is on us, as it is on you, As your fate is to die, our fate is to be born. CHANGE SOMETIMES, when after spirited debate The captain fell at the horse's feet, |