Triumphs, indeed! Why, after all,
My life has but a leaden hue :

My heart grows like the heart of Saul,
For hatred, and for madness too.

Why sits that smirking minstrel there?
I hate him and the songs he sings :
They only bring the fond despair
Of inaccessible sweet things.

I will avoid him once for all,

Or slay him in my righteous ire ;-
Alas! my javelin hits the wall,

And spares the minstrel and his lyre.

Yea! and the crown upon my head,
The crown of wealth for which I strove,
Shall fall away ere I be dead

To yon slight boy who sings of love.

Why are we captive, such as I,
Mature in age and strong in will,
To one who harps so plaintively?
I struck at him: why lives he still ?

Why lives he still? Because the ruth
Of those pure days may never die.

He lives because his name is Youth,
Because his harp is Memory.

MARY ANERLEY.

Little Mary Anerley, sitting on the stile!

Why do you blush so red, and why so strangely smile?
Somebody has been with you: somebody, I know,
Left that sunset on your cheek, left you smiling so.

Gentle Mary Anerley, waiting by the wall,

Waiting in the chestnut walk where the snowy blossoms fall!

Somebody is coming there: somebody, I'm sure,

Knows your eyes are full of love, knows your heart is pure.

Happy Mary Anerley, looking O so fair!

There's a ring upon your hand, and there's myrtle in your hair. Somebody is with you now: somebody, I see,

Looks into your trusting face very tenderly.

Quiet Mary Forester, sitting by the shore,
Rosy faces at your knee, roses round the door!
Somebody is coming home: somebody, I know,
Made you sorry when he sailed. Are you sorry now?

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

1828-1882.

THE CARD-DEALER.

Could you not drink her gaze like wine?
Yet, though its splendour swoon

Into the silence languidly

As a tune into a tune,

Those eyes unravel the coil'd night

And know the stars at noon.

The gold that's heap'd beside her hand

In truth rich prize it were ;

And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows

With magic stillness there;

And he were rich who would unwind

That woven golden hair.

Around her, where she sits, the dance

Now breathes its eager heat;
And not more lightly or more true

Fall there the dancers' feet

Than fall her cards on the bright board,
As 'twere a heart that beat.

Her fingers let them softly through,
Smooth polish'd silent things;

And each one as it falls reflects

In swift light-shadowings,

Blood-red and purple, green and blue,

The great eyes of her rings.

Whom plays she with? With thee who lovest

Those gems upon her hand;

With me, who search her secret brows;

With all men, bless'd or bann'd.

We play together, she and we,

Within a vain strange land.

A land without any order,

Day even as night (one saith),—
Where who lieth down ariseth not
Nor the sleeper awakeneth ;

A land of darkness as darkness itself
And of the shadow of death.

Even these :

What be her cards? you ask.
The heart, that doth but crave
More, having fed; the diamond,
Skill'd to make base seem brave;
The club, for smiting in the dark ;
The spade, to dig a grave.

And do you ask what game she plays?
With me 'tis lost or won;

With thee it is playing still; with him
It is not well begun :

But 'tis a game she plays with all
Beneath the sway o' the sun.

Thou seest the card that falls ;-she knows
The card that followeth :

Her game in thy tongue is call'd Life,

As ecos thy daily breath:

When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her tongue,

And know she calls it Death.

FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED.
Peace in her chamber! whereso'er
It be, a holy place:

The thought still brings my soul such grace
As morning meadows wear.

Whether it still be small and light,
A maid's, who dreams alone,
As from her orchard gate the moon
Its ceiling show'd at night:

Or whether, in a shadow dense,
As nuptial hymns invoke,
Innocent maidenhood awoke

To married innocence:

There still the thanks unheard await

The unconscious gift bequeath'd,—
For there my soul this hour has breathed
An air inviolate.

LILITH

Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told

(The witch beloved before the gift of Eve)

That, ere the Snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive,

And her enchanted hair was the first gold.

And still she sits, young while the earth is old,

And, subtly of herself contemplative,

Draws men to watch the bright net she can weave,

Till heart and body and life are in its hold.

The rose and poppy are her flowers: for where
Is he not found, O Lilith! whom shed scent

And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare?
Lo! as that youth's eyes burn'd at thine, so went
Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent,
And round his heart one strangling golden hair.

TRUE WOMAN.

To be a sweetness more desired than Spring;

A bodily beauty more acceptable

Than the wild rose-tree's arch that crowns the fell;
To be an essence more environing

Than wine's drain'd juice; a music ravishing
More than the passionate pulse of Philomel ;-
To be all this 'neath one soft bosom's swell
That is the flower of life :-how strange a thing!
How strange a thing to be what man can know
But as a sacred secret! Heaven's own screen
Hides her soul's purest depth and loveliest glow,—
Closely withheld as all things most unseen :

The wave-bower'd pearl,-the heart-shape seal of green
That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow.

LOST DAYS.

The lost days of my life until to-day,

What were they, could I see them on the street
Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat
Sown once for food but trodden into clay?
Or golden coins squander'd and still to pay ?
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet?
Or such spill'd water as in dreams must cheat
The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway?
I do not see them here; but after death
God knows I know the faces I shall see,-

Each one a murder'd self, with low last breath :
"I am thyself,—what hast thou done to me?"
"And I—and I-thyself" (lo! each one saith)—
"And thou thyself to all eternity."