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A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air, The pulse of war and passion of wonder,
The heavens that murmur, the sounds that
shine, Burn out its lingering life for thy return, The stars that sing and the loves that thunder, Its last of lingering life for thy return,
The music burning at heart like wine,
All senses mixed in the spirit's cup,
These things are over, and no more mine.
FROM "THE TRIUMPH OF TIME."
These were a part of the playing I heard
Once, ere my love and my heart were at strifo;
Love that sings and hath wings as a bird,
Balm of the wound and heft of the knife.
Fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep
Than overwatching of eyes that weep, ,
Now time has done with his one sweet word,
The wine and leaven of lovely life.
I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,
Fill the days of my daily breath
With fugitive things not good to treasure,
Do as the world doth, say as it saith ; “Live”; and her tears were shed on his face
But if we had loved each other
Had you felt, lying under the palms of your feet,
To feel you tread it to dust and death
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE,
O brother, the gods were good to you.
Ah, had I not taken my life up and given
All that life gives and the years
go, Be well content as the years wear through ;
The wine and money, the balm and leaven, Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures ;
The dreams reared high and the hopes brought Give thanks for life, O brother, and death,
low, For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, Come life, come death, not a word be said ; For gifts she gave you, gracious and few,
Should I lose you living, and vex you dead ? Tears and kisses, that lady of yours.
I shall never tell you on earth ; and in heaven,
If I cry to you then, will you hear or know?
How shall I praise them, or how take rest ?
For me that know not of worst or best,
DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING.
Day, in melting purple dying ;
Blossoms, all around me sighing;
Fragrance, from the lilies straying ;
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing;
Ye but waken my distress ;
I am sick of loneliness!
Thou to whom I love to hearken,
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou 'rt true, and I 'll believe thee ;
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,
Let me think it innocent !
Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ;
And even as once I held him in my womb
Till all things were fulfilled, and he came forth,
So, O Lord, let me hold him in my grave
Till the time come, and thou, who settest when
The hinds shall calve, ordain a better birth; I would only look on thee!
And as I looked and saw my son, and wept
For joy, I look again and see my son,
COME to me, O my Mother! come to me,
Through the moist ways of the wide ocean, blown
By great invisible winds, come stately ships
To this calm bay for quiet anchorage ;
They come, they rest awhile, they go away,
The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow,
And the pine-spire is mystically fringed,
Laced with incrusted silver. Here ah me!
A leper with no power but his disease.
Why am I from thee, Mother, far from thee?
Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods Let him come back to die! Let not the fowls
Jeweled from bough to bough? O home, my O'the air defile the body of my child,
home! My own fair child, that when he was a babe,
() river in the valley of my home,
With mazy-winding motion intricate,
Twisting thy deathless music underneath
must I nevermore Fall to the stranger's lot! Shall the wild bird,
Behold thee with familiar eyes, and watch That would have pilfered of the ox, this year
Thy beauty changing with the changeful day,
THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN.
For this is no my ain life,
And I peak and pine away
Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers,
so, O Lord,
I used to wauk in the morning
As they gaed to their wark;
himself I used to wear the bit young lambs
THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.
And what to her is now the boy
Who fed her father's kine ?
What cares she that the orioles build
For other eyes than ours, That other hands with nuts are filled,
And other laps with flowers ?
AND are ye sure the news is true ?
And are ye sure he's weel ?
Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
When Colin 's at the door?
There 's nae luck at a';
When our gudeman 's awa'.
O playmate in the golden time !
Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet,
The old trees o'er it lean.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern
A sweeter memory blow;
The song of long ago.
And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop's-satin gown ; For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin 's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockins pearly blue ; It 's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.
And still the pines of Ramoth wood
Are moaning like the sea,
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
ON A PICTURE.
WHEN summer o'er her native hills
A veil of beauty spread, She sat and watched her gentle flocks
And twined her flaxen thread.
Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot ;
And Jock his Sunday coat;
Their hose as white as snaw ;
For he's been long awa'.