Oh, Silver Stars that shine on what I love,
    Touch the soft hair and sparkle in the eyes, -
Send, from your calm serenity above,
    Sleep to whom, sleepless, here, despairing lies.

Broken, forlorn, upon the Desert sand
    That sucks these tears, and utterly abased,
Looking across the lonely, level land,
    With thoughts more desolate than any waste.

Planets that shine on what I so adore,
    Now thrown, the hour is late, in careless rest,
Protect that sleep, which I may watch no more,
    I, the cast out, dismissed and dispossessed.

Far in the hillside camp, in slumber lies
    What my worn eyes worship but never see.
Happier Stars! your myriad silver eyes
    Feast on the quiet face denied to me.

Loved with a love beyond all word...

Quando ad un giogo ed in Un tempo quivi.


    When to one yoke at once I saw the height
Of gods and men subdued by Cupid's might,
I took example from their cruel fate,
And by their sufferings eased my own hard state;
Since Phoebus and Leander felt like pain,
The one a god, the other but a man;
One snare caught Juno and the Carthage dame
(Her husband's death prepared her funeral flame--
'Twas not a cause that Virgil maketh one);
I need not grieve, that unprepared, alone,
Unarm'd, and young, I did receive a wound,
Or that my enemy no hurt hath found
By Love; or that she clothed him in my sight,
And took his wings, and marr'd his winding flight;
No angry lions send more hideous noise
From their beat breasts, nor clashing thunder's voice
Ren...

(Suggested by the lives of Napoleon and Josephine.)


I.

One night was full of rapture and delight -
    Of reunited arms and swooning kisses,
    And all the unnamed and unnumbered blisses
Which fond souls find in love of love at night.

Heart beat with heart, and each clung into each
    With twining arms that did but loose their hold
    To cling still closer; and fond glances told
These truths for which there is no uttered speech.

There was sweet laughter and endearing words,
    Made broken by the kiss that could not wait,
    And cooing sounds as of dear little birds
That in spring-time love and woo and mate.

And languid sighs that breathed of love's content
And all too soon this night of rapture went.


II.

O little feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears,
    Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside inn
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
    Am weary, thinking of your road!

O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,
    Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
    Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient, feverish heat,
    Such limitless and strong desires;
Mine that so long has glowed and burned,
With passions into ashes turned
    Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light
...

Why should we sigh o'er a summer that's dead -
    Let us think of the summer to be.
It always better to look ahead,
For the rose will come again just as red
    And just as fair to see.

Why should we weep o'er a pleasure past -
        Let us look for the pleasure to be.
New shells on the shore by new waves are cast;
Let us prize each new joy more than the last,
    And laugh if the old joy flee.

What folly to die for a love that was -
    Let us live for the one to be.
For time is passing, and will not pause;
How foolish the shore were it sad because
    One wave ebbed out to sea.

Then let us not sing of a year that is fled -
    Though dear its memory be:
For though summer and pleasure and love seem dead,
Love will be sweet, and ...

I know myself no more, my child,
Since thou art come to me,
Pity so tender and so wild
Hath wrapped my thoughts of thee.

These thoughts, a fiery gentle rain,
Are from the Mother shed,
Where many a broken heart hath lain
And many a weeping head.

Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see?
His trembling love unfolded hear?
And mark the while th' impassion'd tear,
Th' impassion'd tear of agony?

Adown his anxious features steal,
Nor then one burst of pity feel?
But, as bereav'd of ev'ry sense,
Look on with cold indifference.
Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms,
Go bless some gayer, happier, arms;
Go, rest secure, thy fear give o'er,
These eyes shall follow thee no more;
And never shall these lips impart
One thought of all that rends my heart.

Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh,
And since the tear will ever fall,
From thee and from the world I'll fly;
Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all.

They heard the South wind sighing
    A murmur of the rain;
And they knew that Earth was longing
    To see them all again.

While the snow-drops still were sleeping
    Beneath the silent sod;
They felt their new life pulsing
    Within the dark, cold clod.

Not a daffodil nor daisy
    Had dared to raise its head;
Not a fairhaired dandelion
    Peeped timid from its bed;


Though a tremor of the winter
    Did shivering through them run;
Yet they lifted up their foreheads
    To greet the vernal sun.

And the sunbeams gave them welcome.
    As did the morning air
And scattered o'er their simple robes
    Rich tints of beauty rare.

Soon a host of lovely flowers
    From vales and woodland burst;
But...

When that eye of light shall in darkness fall,
And thy bosom be shrouded in death's cold pall,
When the bloom of that rich red lip shall fade,
And thy head on its pillow of dust be laid;

Oh! then thy spirit shall see how true
Are the holy vows I have breathed to you;
My form shall moulder thy grave beside,
And in the blue heavens I'll seek my bride.

Then we'll tell, as we tread yon azure sphere,
Of the woes we have known while lingering here;
And our spirits shall joy that, their pilgrimage o'er,
They have met in the heavens to sever no more.

Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells,
Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go,
From the dread summit of the Queen
Of mountains, through a deep ravine,
Where, in her holy chapel, dwells
"Our Lady of the Snow."

The sky was blue, the air was mild;
Free were the streams and green the bowers;
As if, to rough assaults unknown,
The genial spot had 'ever' shown
A countenance that as sweetly smiled
The face of summer-hours.

And we were gay, our hearts at ease;
With pleasure dancing through the frame
We journeyed; all we knew of care
Our path that straggled here and there;
Of trouble, but the fluttering breeze;
Of Winter, but a name.

If foresight could have rent the veil
Of three short days, but hush, no more!
Calm is the grave, and calme...

Far from love the Heavenly Father
Leads the chosen child;
Oftener through realm of briar
Than the meadow mild,

Oftener by the claw of dragon
Than the hand of friend,
Guides the little one predestined
To the native land.

Perhaps To Vittoria Colonna.

S' alcun legato è pur.


He who is bound by some great benefit,
        As to be raised from death to life again,
        How shall he recompense that gift, or gain
        Freedom from servitude so infinite?
Yet if 'twere possible to pay the debt,
        He'd lose that kindness which we entertain
        For those who serve us well; since it is plain
        That kindness needs some boon to quicken it.
Wherefore, O lady, to maintain thy grace,
        So far above my fortune, what I bring
        Is rather thanklessness than courtesy:
For if both met as equals face to face,
        She whom I love could not be called my king;--
        There is no lordship in equality.

Strings in the earth and air
Make music sweet;
Strings by the river where
The willows meet.

There’s music along the river
For Love wanders there,
Pale flowers on his mantle,
Dark leaves on his hair.

All softly playing,
With head to the music bent,
And fingers straying
Upon an instrument.

I. - Red.

Would that my songs might be
What roses make by day and night -
Distillments of my clod of misery
Into delight.

Soul, could'st thou bare thy breast
As yon red rose, and dare the day,
All clean, and large, and calm with velvet rest?
Say yea - say yea!

Ah, dear my Rose, good-bye;
The wind is up; so; drift away.
That songs from me as leaves from thee may fly,
I strive, I pray.


II. - White.

Soul, get thee to the heart
Of yonder tuberose: hide thee there -
There breathe the meditations of thine art
Suffused with prayer.

Of spirit grave yet light,
How fervent fragrances uprise
Pure-born from these most rich and yet most white
Virginities!

Mulched with unsavory death,
Grow, S...

I mind me in the days departed,
How often underneath the sun
With childish bounds I used to run
To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanished quite;
And wheresoe'er had struck the spade,
The greenest grasses Nature laid
To sanctify her right.

I called the place my wilderness,
For no one entered there but I;
The sheep looked in, the grass to espy,
And passed it ne'ertheless.

The trees were interwoven wild,
And spread their boughs enough about
To keep both sheep and shepherd out,
But not a happy child.

Adventurous joy it was for me!
I crept beneath the boughs, and found
A circle smooth of mossy ground
Beneath a poplar tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in,
Bedropt with roses waxen-white

To some the heavenly Father good
Has given raiment rich and fine,
And tables spread with dainty food,
And jewels rare that brightly shine.

To some He's given gold that buys
Immunity from petty care,
Freedom and leisure and the prize
Of pleasing books and pictures fair.

To some He's given wide domains
And high estate and tranquil ease,
And homes where all refinement reigns
And everything combines to please.

To some He's given minds to know
The what and how, the where and when;
To some, a genius that can throw
A light upon the hearts of men.

To some He's given fortunes free
From sorrows and replete with joys;
To some, a thousand friends; to me
He's given my two little boys.

Whether to sally and see thee, girl of my dreams,
    Or whether to stay
And see thee not! How vast the difference seems
    Of Yea from Nay
Just now. Yet this same sun will slant its beams
    At no far day
On our two mounds, and then what will the difference weigh!

Yet I will see thee, maiden dear, and make
    The most I can
Of what remains to us amid this brake Cimmerian
Through which we grope, and from whose thorns we ache,
    While still we scan
Round our frail faltering progress for some path or plan.

By briefest meeting something sure is won;
    It will have been:
Nor God nor Daemon can undo the done,
    Unsight the seen,
Make muted music be as unbegun,
    Though things terrene
Groan in their bondage till oblivion superve...

A Mother's Name.


I.

    I love the sound! The sweetest under Heaven,
    That name of mother, - and the proudest, too.
    As babes we breathe it, and with seven times seven
    Of youthful prayers, and blessings that accrue,
    We still repeat the word, with tender steven.
    Dearest of friends! dear mother! what we do
    This side the grave, in purity of aim,
    Is glorified at last by thy good name.


II.

    But how forlorn the word, how full of woe,
    When she who bears it lies beneath the clod.
    In vain the orphan ch...