Full of passion and sorrow is he,
Dreaming where the Belovèd may be.
And when the warm South-Winds arise,
He breathes his longing in fervid sighs,
Quickening odours, kisses of balm,
That drop in the lap of his chosen Palm.

The sun may flame and the sands may stir,
But the breath of his passion reaches her.

O Tree of Love! by that love of thine,
Teach me how I shall soften mine!

Give me the secret of the Sun,
Whereby the woo'd is ever won!

If I were a king, O stately Tree!
A likeness, glorious as might be,

In the court of my palace I'd build for thee:
With a shaft of silver burnish'd bright,
And leaves of beryl and malachite,

With spikes of golden bloom ablaze,
And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase.

And there the poets in thy praise
Should night and morning frame new lays,-
New measures sung to tunes divine:
But none, O Palm! should equal mine.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

1825

BRAHMA'S ANSWER.
Once, when the days were ages,

And the old Earth was young,
The high Gods and the sages
From Nature's golden pages

Her open secrets wrung.

They see their days are number'd
By One that never slumber'd

Nor stay'd his dreadful hands.
I see with Brahma's eyes :

The body is the shadow that on the water lies."

Thus Indra, looking deeper,

With Brahma's self possessed.
So dry thine eyes, thou weeper!
And rise again, thou sleeper!

The hand on Brahma's breast
Is his divine assent

Covering the soul that dies not.

This is what Brahma meant.

A FAR OF WINE.

Day and night my thoughts incline
To the blandishments of wine :
Jars were made to drain, I think;
Wine, I know, was made to drink.

When I die (the day be far !)
Should the potters make a jar
Out of this poor clay of mine,
Let the jar be fill'd with wine!

UNDER The rose.

She wears a rose in her hair,

At the twilight's dreamy close:
Her face is fair,-how fair

Under the rose !

I steal like a shadow there,

As she sits in rapt repose,
And whisper my loving prayer
Under the rose.

MERCEDES.

Under a sultry yellow sky

On the yellow sand I lie :

The crinkled vapours smite my brain,
I smoulder in a fiery pain.

Above the crags the condor flies,-
He knows where the red gold lies,
He knows where the diamonds shine :
If I knew, would she be mine?

Mercedes in her hammock swings,-
In her court a palm tree flings
Its slender shadow on the ground,
The fountain falls with silver sound.

Her lips are like this cactus-cup,—
With my
hand I crush it up,

I tear its flaming leaves apart :
Would that I could tear her heart!

Last night a man was at her gate :
In the hedge I lay in wait:

I saw Mercedes meet him there,
By the fire-flies in her hair.

I waited till the break of day,
Then I rose and stole away;
But left my dagger in her gate :
Now she knows her lover's fate.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

1825-1864.

A WOMAN'S QUESTIONING.
Before I trust my fate to thee,
Or place my hand in thine,
Before I let thy Future give
Colour and form to mine,
Before I peril all for thee,
Question thy soul to-night for me!

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel
A shadow of regret :

Is there one link within the Past
That holds thy spirit yet?

Or is thy faith as clear and free

As that which I can pledge to thee?

Does there within thy dimmest dreams
A possible future shine

Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouch'd, unshared by mine?

If so, at any pain or cost,

O tell me, before all is lost!

Look deeper still! If thou canst feel

Within thy inmost soul

That thou hast kept a portion back,

While I have staked the whole,

Let no false pity spare the blow,
But in true mercy tell me so!

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine can not fulfil,
One cord that any other hand
Could better wake, or still?
Speak now, lest at some future day
My whole life wither and decay!