The Husband's Petition

And deem not that a shadow

Hath fallen across my love:
No, sweet, my love is shadowless,
As yonder heaven above.
These little taper fingers-

Ah! Jane, how white they be!-
Can well supply the cruel want
That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me
My first and fond request;
I pray thee, by the memory
Of all we cherish best-
By all the dear remembrance
Of those delicious days,

When, hand in hand, we wandered
Along the summer braes:

By all we felt, unspoken,

When 'neath the early moon,

We sat beside the rivulet,

In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper,

That fell upon my ear,

More sweet than angel-music,

When first I woo'd thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee
Forever to my side,

And by the ring that made thee
My darling and my bride!
Thou wilt not fail nor falter,

But bend thee to the task

A BOILED SHEEP'S HEAD ON SUNDAY
Is all the boon I ask.

455

William E. Aytoun.

LINES WRITTEN AFTER A BATTLE

BY AN ASSISTANT SURGEON OF THE NINETEENTH NANKEENS

STIFF are the warrior's muscles,
Congeal'd, alas! his chyle;
No more in hostile tussles

Will he excite his bile.
Dry is the epidermis,

A vein no longer bleeds-
And the communis vermis
Upon the warrior feeds.

Compress'd, alas! the thorax,
That throbbed with joy or pain;

Not e'en a dose of borax

Could make it throb again.
Dried up the warrior's throat is,

All shatter'd too, his head:

Still is the epiglottis

The warrior is dead.

Unknown.

LINES

** **** *****

ADDRESSED TO

ON THE 29TH OF SEPTEMBER,

WHEN WE PARTED FOR THE LAST TIME

I HAVE watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms,
As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day;
And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms,
And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.

But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread,
Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever,
And I look to the moment of parting with dread,
For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever.

The Imaginative Crisis

Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart!

457

Thou know'st all its secrets-each joy and each grief; And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impart

To its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.

The last of a long and affectionate race,

As thy days are declining I love thee the more, For I feel that thy loss I can never replace

That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.

Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years,

I cannot-I will not-forget what thou wert! While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears, In fancy will wash thee once more-MY LAST SHIRT.

Unknown.

THE IMAGINATIVE CRISIS

Он, solitude! thou wonder-working fay,
Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms,
Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay,
Come, call around, a world of country charms.
Let all this room, these walls dissolve away,
And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place:
This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play;
Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face;
My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream;
My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream.
The spell is wrought: imagination swells
My sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells!
I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder,
And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke the winder!

Unknown.

IX
PARODY

THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL

ONE, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is; Surely, this is not that; but that is assuredly this.

What, and wherefore, and whence: for under is over and under;

If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.

Doubt is faith in the main; but faith, on the whole, is doubt;

We cannot believe by proof; but could we believe without?

Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover;

Neither are straight lines curves; yet over is under and

over.

One and two are not one; but one and nothing is two; Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.

Parallels all things are; yet many of these are askew;
You are certainly I; but certainly I am not you.

One, whom we see not, is; and one, who is not, we see; Fiddle, we know, is diddle; and diddle, we take it, is dee. Algernon Charles Swinburne.

Nephelidia

NEPHELIDIA

4.59

FROM the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine,

Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float,

Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine,

These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken

and threaten with throbs through the throat? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation,

Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past;

Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation,

Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through

the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror,

Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death; Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error,

Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by

beatitude's breath.

Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses

Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh;

Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses,

"Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die."

Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be,

While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby,