SONNETS

We've touched the borderland of death and life And come back to the primroses again, And see with different eyes the slanting rain Buffet the larches in a short-lived strife; With different eyes, for we have looked on death, And know what life is for; we felt the hand Of that sad Lady of the other Land, And now, with her released, we draw our breath.

Life is for gladness, not for mulish days Between the galling shafts of commonplace. See, now, the willow tassels all ablaze Against the background of the windy blue! And in the dusk the crocus glimmers through The footsteps of Persephone we trace.

It is your thin, ungracious wine that runs Within a year of bottling, to your tongue, The noblest wine is somewhat harsh when young; Lay it aside for many moons and suns, Send it, if so you will, its "wander-year," A-battling with the ocean's storm and strife, Then open it, when ripe are wine and life, And see what mellow sunshine you have there.

Here is another year to crown that head So full of years and honour, dear old friend, Whose wisdom makes a constant, quiet balm For tricks and trials of life, whose age doth blend Young-heartedness with philosophic calm, And sunshine on this generation shed.

There is a gleam of sunshine on the earth After so many weary days of rain, A break of yellowing clouds, which offers plain The sun's veiled disc (a very shadow-birth, But still the sun, with sun's November worth); The sky is of a Turner lived again, Such colours through the misty greyness gain They almost seem to touch with spring the earth.

How should we not be glad, when this one day Out of the saddest of all months, appears Suddenly beautiful? A single ray Of sunlight strikes through cloud, and clears The whole drear countryside of grey; So may one word dispel a cloud of tears.

In Paradise there is no sweeter song Than that thin music that the robin makes On short December afternoons, and takes The winter woods, with utterance frail, yet strong; Till all the barren fields, and ruined brakes, The flowerless gardens, and the hedges bare Dream of the spring, and all the rainy air Seems soft and mellow as the summer lakes.

More precious than the treasures of the East, (Guarded by silver-footed antelope,) Or all the nightingales that haunt the grove Of Persian gardens; silver pipe of hope! That Nature gives us when her gifts are least, Sing to our hearts, oh, little voice of love.

How strangely shone the crescent of the moon In the grey twilight dawning o'er the sea; A star, that seemed of stars a memory, (As faint as lilies on a sultry noon) Ebbed in the chilly waxing of the morn; The sea was rest in motion; hardly stirred Its waves upon the beach; there was no bird To break its undersong of silence born.

The misty shadows lay upon the trees, Whose colour was but echo of the tone That earth and sky were wrapped in, harmonies Of wedded hue were visible alone, —And over all a breath of memory blown, Of other dawnings upon other seas.

Can there be aught to touch the sleeping dead To consciousness; can love still call to love Across that dark abyss; can feeling move Dead heart and brain, that once with blood were fed, To stir and quicken in their narrow bed, For that which yet is living? We believe Such force has love, that it may still retrieve Its heart's Eurydice among the dead.

I shall awake, then, shall awake my soul— Not when full summer beautifies the earth, But with the first sweet stirring of the sap, Ere yet the fields are green or leaves unroll: I shall but sleep awhile in Nature's lap, To be reborn with February's rebirth.

'Tis not alone the loveliness of spring That makes spring lovely; there's a sense behind Of wonders, deeper than the eye can find In daffodils, or swallows on the wing; A subtler pleasure than the sense can bind When on the dusty roads the rain-drops sing As March turns April, and the hours bring Songs to deaf ears, and beauty to the blind.

April is secret nature's treasure room, Which she unlocks to us who love her well In magic moments; then indeed we see The wonder of all spring-times, from the gloom Of world-beginnings, long ere Adam fell— And all the beauty of all springs to be.

There will be other days as fair as these Which I shall never see; for other eyes The lyric loveliness of cherry trees Shall bloom milk-white against the windy skies And I not praise them; where upon the stream The faëry tracery of willows lies I shall not see the sunlight's flying gleam, Nor watch the swallows sudden dip and rise.

Most mutable the forms of beauty are, Yet Beauty most eternal and unchanged, Perfect for us, and for posterity Still perfect; yearly is the pageant ranged. And dare we wish that our poor dust should mar The wonder of such immortality?

If that most noble soul, which, here on earth, Was known as Manin, yet have consciousness Of what is, and what is not, being not less Than here he was, in courage and in worth, Seeing the world whereon we sweat and strive; Shall he not know his Italy, and bless, And in his own heart praise the steadfastness That held him to his purpose when alive?

Shall he not have reward for all his pain, Who, dying with his incompleted aim, Saw failure only, and the bitter toll Of loved ones lost, and lost, it seemed, in vain? Must not that heart still keep his country's name, Though o'er him all death's waters heave and roll?

Think on your birthright, England! On that voice Which sounded first the ringing clarion note Of freedom, and the ears of mankind smote With that brave speech, whose hearing does rejoice The angels (in his starry sphere remote Each sitting). Think upon your past, my land; The heart to wish, the will to dare, the hand To do the right, though round the senses float The Protean shapes of evil. We have struck To free the slave, against a world in doubt; Have raised the grovelling from their muddy ruck And made them men; our foes once put to rout We give them justice; we have scorned to truck In gold for blood, and fatten on such spoil— To others be the gain, to us the toil. Oh, once more, England, let that voice ring out!

Alas! thou now dost hide thy Titan self In a drab's clothing, lies; whilst, false and shrill, Thy people squabble for the dirty pelf Of office, at the hustings; while they fill Our streets with lies, that, from the naked walls, Mouth blatantly upon us, open shame; While throughout Europe goes thy honoured name, Grimacing in a mask of Party brawls.

Bethink you, Leaders! How will history place Your name beside her others, if you fight With such-like weapons? Oh, be bold to face The conflict, tell the truth, as in your sight It does appear, with nothing false or base, —The nation's heart will know to choose aright— Be brave! Be true these days! Will you forget You are our Leaders, we, a people yet?

"Is there a pain to match my pain In all this world of woe; When to and fro on a barren earth My weary footsteps go? When no day's sun shall give me mirth And no stars blessed be; Because my heart goes hungry and lone For one who turns from me?"

Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith From out the ages dim: "As melt the snows your passion goes, And as dew it vanisheth. Take up, take up your burden of woe, Unblenching on your journey go, For man was born to reap and sow That earth might fruitful be."

"Is there a pain to match my pain, Who watch the small dead face, With the folded lips, and the folded lids And the cheek the dimples grace; Where they will come no more, no more?— Oh, small soft hands that hold So quietly, in rosy palms, My heart that's dead and cold."

Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith: "Though still the little feet, Though the hands are chill, and the sweet form chill, And gone the childish breath; Take up, take up your burden of woe, For you were born to sorrow so, To bear in anguish, and lose in pain, That earth might be fulfilled."

"Is there a pain to match my pain Who loved all men on earth, Who saw the Godhead, through the shell That burdened them at birth; Who strove for right, who strove for good, Since love must win at last? —This hour they lead me out to die, With cords they make me fast."

Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith: "They lead you out to die; For the love you gave they will dig your grave, And their thanks to you is death. Take up, take up your burden of woe, And proudly to your scaffold go, For men were born to suffer so, That mankind might be great."

God the omnipotent wearied of space, And the void of endless blue, And the light of eternity in His face, And eternity's emptiness round the place That the presence of Godhead knew.

So He wove Him a piece of tapestry O'er all infinity drawn, And out of His brain and its subtlety Were the suns that stand, and the comets that flee, And the paths of the planets born.

No plan too great, no design too small, For the fingers of God the Lord, The joy of invention lived through all, From the orbit curve of the earthly ball To the shell where sound is stored.

And all continued as they were made, Clean cast from Perfection's brain, Not a beam of light from its circle strayed, But the whole the heavenly laws obeyed, —God looked, and wearied again.

So He wove Him a piece of tapestry With fingers thrice refined, And He mingled the threads with subtlety, The threads of our human destiny, And the light with the dark He twined.

For shadow and shine were mingled there, And white was matched with red, And the thread of the silver gleamed more fair For the gloom that, surrounding, made it rare; And God in His wisdom said:

"Of my handiwork but the human soul Can suffer the laws of change, That only errs from my set control, And takes in pleasure, and pays in toll, The whole of its passion's range.

"But who shall judge or who condemn This work that my hands have made, For the thread that here appears a gem, —So have I mingled and twisted them— Is there the gleam of a blade?

"Nor evil nor good exists for me, As I mingle strand with strand; The past is the visible tapestry, The present I weave, and the destiny Of the future is in my hand.

"And the past and the future both are met In the present's history; For the thread I hold is unbroken yet, And the thing I weave is unguessed at yet, In this human tapestry."

In the depths of the forest Merlin dreamed; The shuttle of noon wove light and shade Over the moss and around the trees, And a network among the branches made.

He sat with his back against a tree, Grey as himself, and gnarled, and old; The lichen was grey as the ragged beard Over his friezen mantle's fold.

Still he sat, like an ancient stone That time has forgotten to wear away— While streamed the forest's green and gold, Like banners on a windy day.

And Merlin watched, as watches a tree, A sombre oak of antiquity, The myriad life that seethes and hums, Around its immobility.

Around himself, himself had made A monstrous and a mystic spell, Weblike, wherein he sat and dreamed; —So in its mesh may spider dwell!

His silence heard the things that grow In underwood of tangled green; His vision penetrated deep, Beneath the common surface screen;

The roots of things were plain to him, He saw the crowded under-earth, Where every life fought ceaselessly, To bring a future life to birth;

For him the stirring of the leaves Beneath a listless passing breeze, Spoke with a manifolded tongue From all the thickly growing trees;

For him the beetles and the mice Made magic of desires and fears, The bumble bee's slow rhythmic hum Seemed like the passing of the years.

And where a curving bramble-branch Lay half in shade and half in light, The universe's giant curves Were all discovered to his sight;

All things were all things' complement, For what the oak left unexpressed In line and hue, the silver birch Continued, in completion's quest.

There was no moss, nor stone, nor leaf, Nor lingering small drop of dew, But he resolved to harmony, And in the mystic mind-web drew.

So sat he, abstract as a god, The greatest wisdom of the world, While on his head the sunshine played, And round his robe the shadows curled.

Till, through the forest's green and gold, And through the magic afternoon, —Strange, as moonlit waters are, Sweet, as cowslip-fields in June:—

Oh, summer-footed Vivien came! And through the web of dreaming broke; And on her silver clarion note Of laughter, the great Sage awoke.

She sat her down beneath the tree, —Oh! fair her youth his age beside!— She plucked the boughs to make her shade. She pulled the flowers far and wide,

To deck her hair; and while the glades Re-echoed to her laughter gay, She leaned to Merlin, kissing him, And stroked his beard, unkempt and grey.

And he forgot the voice of trees, And of the silent undergrowth, To hear her merry lilting song, And watch, reposed in summer sloth,

Vivien dance upon the sward, As children dance, alone, at ease; Till breathlessly she cast her down And laid her head upon his knees.

And with his hand among her hair The magic of his mind was rent, And captive to her shadowed eyes, Behold! the Master-Thinker went.

The crescent's single line of white Above the pointed cypress tree, Was all there was of any light Upon the earth and on the sea; (Black was the bay of Naples.)

"And ah," she said, "why have you come Unbidden on my balcony, This midnight hour, close and dumb; What is it you would have of me, Here by the bay of Naples?"

"Now having knit, untie the knot," Said he; "you drew me from afar, Or having willed or willed it not, Your face shone on me like a star Above the bay of Naples.

"Oh, know you not, fair star of love, The thought of you is like new wine, Or strong sweet air on heights above, For mortal senses too divine——" (Black was the bay of Naples.)

Her lamp beside the window set The woman, and the light shone out A yellow glimmer in the jet Of darkness, that lay all about The outstretched bay of Naples.

But "Nay" she said, and laughed with scorn. And also with a little pride; "My lover comes before the morn, And, if he find you, woe betide Beside the bay of Naples.

"Now get you gone in very deed, While time is yet for you to go, Behold, I beg you at my need; How black the chilly waters flow Around the bay of Naples!"

"Ah, do you think I am afraid," Said he, "of man that sees the light? If God himself command had laid To leave you, I should stay to-night." (Black was the bay of Naples).

The trouble grew within her eyes, She seemed to feel, as in a dream, The ruling force in love that lies; She veiled the lamplight's yellow gleam From the black bay of Naples.

"Ah me," she said, "you tarry yet, And late and chilly grows the night, To-morrow shall my lamp be set To guide you hither with its light," Across the bay of Naples.

"To-morrow then, to-morrow's years. I will be yours, but go to-night." And dimly through the mist of tears She saw the crescent's line of white, High o'er the bay of Naples.

"To-morrow for to-morrow be! To-night is all I ask and need, I cannot loose love's core," said he, "Once to my hand it has been freed" (Black was the bay of Naples).

"Nay, death may follow love! 'Tis fit That life being empty, should be cast Carelessly into darkness' pit, Be one with all the life that's past" (Black was the bay of Naples).

"Only compress the joy of years, Summers and seasons, nights and noons, To these short hours, where there appears, As of a mighty god that swoons, The sea's black arm round Naples.

"Oh, black beneath us are the trees, And black the weary line of hills, With all life's joy, and light, and ease, This room your radiant presence fills" (Black was the bay of Naples).

"And ah," said he, "I'll give my soul To lie beneath your foot in hell, That you may walk unscorched and whole— Can other lovers love so well?" (Black was the bay of Naples).

She took his hand and drew him in. She quenched the lamplight's yellow gleam; The moon was like a sabre thin, The one white thing in all that dream Of black that lay on Naples.

What if the rose should bloom, And the sunset deepen and fade, If we are penned in the gloom By close-barred shutters made?

What of the birds and the sun, And the moon-rise behind the trees, To the eyes and ears of one Who neither hears nor sees?

What of the world of love, Its fragrance, and light, and bloom, To the soul that cannot move Out of a loveless room?

Were it better the rose were dead In a black December frost, That no more skies were red, That lovers' ways were lost?

Ah no! The wood must shrink, Bar closely as you may, And between the shutters' chink Slips in the sunlight's ray.

So that the prisoner knows It is June in the world outside, And his heart is glad for the rose, Though to him it is denied.

For the love of lovely things Must quench all bitterness, And whilst the robin sings No heart is comfortless.

Where the water meets the sands All alone sat she, Wrung her hair with chilly hands That glimmered mistily.

Phosphorescent were the drips From her hair she wrung, And like moonlight on her lips Were the words she sung.

White she was, as white as foam 'Neath a moonlit sky, And the treasures of her home On her brow did lie.

There he found her, he, a man, Wandering by the sea, And desire through him ran— Misty-white was she.

There he wooed her, wooed her long, Till, within her eyes, Where were erst moonshine and song, Dawned in slow surprise

Mortal pain and mortal doubt, Shades of misery, And she turned her round about, Facing from the sea.

In his hand her hand she laid, As to land they turned, And her hand of sea-foam made 'Neath his fingers burned.

On they went then, he and she, Walking toward the East; And her sisters of the sea Their bewailing ceased

As it paled towards the dawn, From the light they fled; But she laughed with joy new-born. "Is this life?" she said.

There was labour of the day, Dust upon her feet, Scorching of the shadeless way, Clamour of the street;

All a human want and pain, Laughter fraught with tears, Toil, when toil we know is vain, Hope, when hopes are fears;

Till this creature of the sea At the last became Human, in her misery, Joy, and pride, and shame.

With a word he left her then "Woman that you are, Mystery attracts us men Draws us from afar.

"Sea-nymph as you were, a thing Intangible, unknown, Like the light the sunbeams fling, Where the spray is blown,

"Sea-nymph have you ceased to be, Forfeited the whole Of that moonlight poetry, Cherished by man's soul;

"Still we seek the dim Ideal As the moth the star, How for women can we feel That our seekings bar?"

Where the water meets the sands, All alone sat she, With her head between her hands, Facing from the sea;

From her forehead pushed her hair Drooping wearily, Shivered by the water there: "Oh, soul's a curse," said she.

Oh, what a dainty negligence you show Outspreading all your petals' coquetry, As careless of restraint as poetry, Although, like poetry, you surely know That by the laws of beauty you must grow.

There is a pure and virgin fantasy In your curled petals, white as driven snow, And wayward as the unbound locks that blow Around a maiden's head, when, mad with glee, With outstretched arms she dances by the sea.

Yet in your glad abandon still you show The wildest beauty sorrow-touched must be, To give it worth; your leaves curve tenderly In subtle arches; so the heart may know Within the dancing maid the roots of woe.

Between the eyebrow and the eye Such uncounted beauties lie, Plain it is 'tis Cupid's pleasaunce only. There he makes his court and seat, There lets all his graces meet, Leaves a loveless world, bereft and lonely.

Oh, fair straight brows that brood above The eyelid, as the nesting dove Broods upon her treasured young; In rosy flesh the veins of blue Do softly, dimly glimmer through, To lose themselves the eyelashes among.

Such eyelashes! More darkly sweet Than where the serried treetops meet Above the forest's undiscovered waters; Where scarce the stars peep o'er the edge, (Fringed round about with darkling sedge, And thickly-growing reeds, fair Syrinx' daughters).

See how Pan through the forest goes, The forest of Arcadia, Giving a sidelong leer at the rose, Trampling the daisies with hairy toes, And wrinkling his ugly gnarled old nose, In the forest of Arcadia.

Evil and ugly, Pan is bored, In the forest of Arcadia; Tired of hours with honey stored, What diversion can it afford The whole green forest of which he's lord, The forest of Arcadia?

Till suddenly, the glimpse of a face In the forest of Arcadia! In the verdant depths where leaves enlace, And dapple with shadow the body's grace— And Pan, with a snort, gives the Dryad chase, In the forest of Arcadia.

She is off, on the nimblest of little feet, In the forest of Arcadia; Light as a bird where the treetops meet, For with sudden terror her pulses beat, And desire has made the old god fleet, In the forest of Arcadia.

Milk-white down the long green avenues, In the forest of Arcadia, Like a dove she flies, and he pursues, Like a hungry hawk when its prey it views— —And Zeus, on Olympus, prepares a ruse For the forest of Arcadia.

Nearer draws Pan, with outstretched hand, In the forest of Arcadia, To grasp her long hair's floating strand; —But Zeus, with Olympian wink, had planned That another form for the girl's should stand In the forest of Arcadia.

And the poor old sinner who thought to seize, In the forest of Arcadia, The daintiest thing that sense could tease, Found only a satyr if you please, As like himself as peas to peas, In the forest of Arcadia.

King Richard wiped the wine from his lips And laughed full scornfully; "Oh, I care not a bit for King Philip's wit, Nor the honour of France," quoth he;

"And I care not a straw for Austria's wrath, And little of Templars reck; If I lead not this host, by the Holy Ghost, May my head be struck from my neck."

King Richard drank, and swore in his cups —And a mighty man was he— "Let the mongrels yap, I care not a rap, I am Richard the Lion," quoth he.

The news went forth to the King of France And the Dukes of high degree, How Richard had sworn that no man born Should lead the armies but he.

The Kings were wroth at King Richard's words That were carried to them that day; "Does he make a mock of our ancient stock, This king of an hour?" quoth they.

"This bastard son of a bastard sire The standard first would plant On the city's walls when Jerusalem falls; Must we this honour grant?

"Not so; if Christ would have Richard lead, Let Christ give grace to his arms. We will stand aside from the battle pride And the fury of war's alarms.

"Our men are sick and outnumbered sore, And words from home reveal That our country cries for our governance wise; We will look to our country's weal.

"For we came to fight for a Holy Cause, Not dance to an upstart king; The cause must wait for Richard the Great, For our weapons down we fling."

Breathless and hushed the messengers spoke As they told King Richard the news How the kings were set and the council met, And the kings to fight refuse.

Louder than ever laughed the King In the depths of his golden beard. "God rest my soul, I will reach the goal, And show if Richard's afeared;

"I will plant my flag amidst this camp As a token seen of all; Nor Austria's lance, nor the frown of France, Shall make its splendour fall."

So the sultry breezes of Ascalon Saluted the lions three, And Austria frowned from his camping ground, And cursed right bitterly.

"Shall this bastard son of a bastard sire Boast he o'erruleth me? By the Holy Cross, be it living loss, This shame shall never be."

So he planted his banner firm and fast, And it floated high and free, On the selfsame mound in the Christian ground Flew eagle and lions three.

Word they brought to Richard the King Where in his tent he lay, "Lo, Austria's hand on the lion's land Has loosed the eagle," said they.

Richard arose and strode in haste —Oh the banners floated free— "Ill eagles fare in the lion's lair, Take down your banner," quoth he.

But word for word the Archduke gave. He answered, "Eagles fly; Let the lion keep to the fields and sheep, To the eagle leave the sky."

"Do you give me words?" cried Richard the King; "Ho, now, at your words I laugh." And he tore the flag like a worthless rag, And he wrenched and splintered the staff,

And he set his foot on the silken flag, His foot on Austria's fame; With a swordless hip, yet a smiling lip, He mocked the eagle's shame.

(Oh, Richard the Lion, woe is me For the sorrow your deed shall bring, For the dungeon walls, and the gloom that falls On the heart of Richard the King;

For the long despair of the prison dark, And the traffic in lordly things, When the Austrian sold for an Emperor's gold The son of the English kings.)

But Richard laughed in the noonday sun That beats on Palestine. And Leopold turned, while in hate he burned Against Plantagenet's line;

He trusted not in his own right arm, But justice cried from France, And France spake fair, but he did not dare Withstand King Richard's glance.

Sullenly Austria turned from the Kings And back to his tents went he; And the lions of gold above Richard the bold Floated alone and free.

Word they brought to Leopold, Spake in Austria's ear; "Rejoice this day that brings your prey, Your enemy Richard is here;

"Now is revenge for an ancient grudge Given into your hand, He mocked aloud 'mid the allies' crowd And is now alone in your land."

Leopold started out of his seat; "Good be the news indeed! Now quickly bring to me hither the king, He shall sue to me in his need."

Richard the King is before the Duke, Garbed in a mean disguise, Yet kingship claim the mighty frame And the glance of the kingly eyes,

And the Jove-like head with its close-cut hair, And the flowing golden beard; No rags can hide the huge limbs' pride, In kingly cradle reared.

Gay, and kingly, and debonair The Lion-hearted stood. "Fair come to land, by this right hand, Your welcome shall be good."

"Fair thanks to you, our cousin the Duke," Said Richard, no whit beguiled; "I thought not to prove the worth of your love When I entered your land," he smiled.

"Being in haste to return to my land, I passed in this disguise, For I would not stay the rich display Your ducal bounty supplies."

Leopold snarled like an angry wolf. "How came you hither?" said he; "No choice of mine, but by rule divine," —Said Richard—"I came by sea,

"Travelling in haste from Palestine To assure me England's throne; But a storm arose, and my fears suppose That I was saved alone."

"Now bind his hands," cried Leopold, "For he comes as a spy, I see." The King's eyes blazed in wrath amazed, "A ducal greeting," quoth he.

"These bonds are unfitting, Duke Leopold, Both mine and your degree, Nor consorts my fame with a spying name, In your throat let your own words be."

Amazed were they all at Richard's taunts, But he smiled with easy pride. "Now what prevents that my fury vents Itself?" the Austrian cried.

"Now what prevents that I kill you straight And your corpse to the ravens fling? 'Twere easy to say you were ocean's prey." "But you dare not," said Richard the King.

Leopold turned to his feudal lords, Who stood in wondering; "Now prison me straight this runagate," Said he, "let us lodge this King!"

They have taken Richard the Lion-heart And fettered him fast and sure, In a narrow cell they have chained him well With chains that shall endure.

And even Richard's stout heart fails When he hears the great doors clang, And he knows at last that they have him fast, Whose fame through Europe rang.

"Oh, what prevents the crafty Duke From poison or secret knife, For no one knows that Richard goes In disguise, in fear of his life;

"My brother John will well believe That I was drowned at sea; Nay, he scarce will ask, but will take the task Of kingship gleefully;

"And my people will easily forget Their monarch so little seen, And almost my name will be lost to fame, I shall be as I ne'er had been."

Many a weary week and month Must darken prison walls; And the King's eye dims, and his mighty limbs Waste, as the leaf that falls.

And his face is blanched, and sorrow sits Carven upon his brow, And his right arm slacks for the battle-axe, The warlike field to plough.

And yet and anon comes Leopold His captive lord to see, And revenge to taste, as he sees him waste, "How fares the Lion?" cries he.

"Cousinly questioned," says the King, And kingly flashes his eye; "Let the hog beware of the lion's lair, Though the lion couchant lie."

And then gives back Duke Leopold, And his laugh has a hollow ring; Once more he goes, and the shadows close Round the head and the heart of the King.

Then word comes suddenly, flying fast, "Masters, the King is found!" And from distant lands the poet stands At last upon English ground.

"I have found him, Blondel de Nesle! As I wandered, harp in hand, Through breadth and length of Austria's strength, I saw a tower stand,

"And nearer drew, I knew not why, Till I heard a man's voice sing With something of skill, and my heart stood still— 'Twas the voice of Richard the King,

"Singing a fitte that we both had made Once in a banquet hall, When his heart was light, of a captive knight Who out upon Fate did call.

"Then I took up King Richard's words And sang the fitte again, And did descry—Oh! hope was high!—- That he of it was fain.

"So I struck my harp and sang once more Of a minstrel wandering far, Till he reached the strand of a distant land Where trusty yeomen are,

"Where hearts will swell with joy to hear Of their dear and distant King, And burn for shame of his knightly fame And the false imprisoning——

"And Richard sang from his mighty throat 'Oh Blondel, blessed be thou, Thy star of birth makes glad the earth, Thy wit shall save me now.

"'Oh tell my people that I am woe For my absence long and drear, When the land did bleed under wolfish greed And the shepherd was not near.'"

(Sullen and black was the brow of John Like an angry thunder-cloud, But the poet recked not in his respect, His message spake aloud.)

"'And tell my people Richard sends His heart in the minstrel's hand, And my eyes shall yearn until they turn On the cliffs of my loyal land.

"'And this do I add at night and morn, When I pray for the fall of Zion: To my people send a better friend, Oh God, than Richard the Lion!'"

What can death render us commensurate With what it takes away; the voice of birds On sweet spring mornings, and the face of spring; And lush long grass around the browsing herds; And shadows on the distant hills the flying rain-clouds fling?

What is there brighter in the world to come Than white-winged sea-gulls, flashing in the sun Above the blue Atlantic; what more free, Yet what more stable, than those white wings, strung All motionless, against a wind that whips the racing sea?

Yea, and if these things yet may be the soul's— The summer moon above the garden flowers Dew-drenched, and the slow song of nightingales— Yea, and if all these after death be ours, More beauty yet, and peace from strife, yet still the debt prevails.

For what can ever give us back again The dear, familiar things of every day; The loved and common language that we share; The trivial pleasures; and, when children play, Their laughter, and the touch of hands; and jests; and common care?