THE

L'AMOUR PAR TERRE

HE wind the other night blew down the Love
That in the dimmest corner of the park
So subtly used to smile, bending his arc,
And sight of whom did us so deeply move

One day! The other night's wind blew him down!
The marble dust whirls in the morning breeze.
Oh, sad to view, o'erblotted by the trees,
There on the base, the name of great renown!

Oh, sad to view the empty pedestal!

And melancholy fancies come and go
Across my dream, whereon a day of woe
Foreshadowed is-I know what will befall!

Oh, sad! And you are saddened also, Sweet,
Are not you, by this scene? although your eye
Pursues the gold and purple butterfly

That flutters o'er the wreck strewn at our feet.

THE SPELL

"Son joyeux, importun, d'un clavecin sonore.— PÉTRUS BOREL.

THE

HE keyboard, over which two slim hands float,
Shines vaguely in the twilight pink and gray,
Whilst with a sound like wings, note after note
Takes flight to form a pensive little lay
That strays, discreet and charming, faint, remote,
About the room where perfumes of Her stray.

What is this sudden quiet cradling me

To that dim ditty's dreamy rise and fall?

What do you want with me, pale melody?
What is it that you want, ghost musical,
That fades toward the window waveringly,
A little open on the garden small?

FROM BIRDS IN THE NIGHT›

SOME

OME moments, I'm the tempest-driven bark
That runs dismasted mid the hissing spray,
And seeing not Our Lady through the dark,

Makes ready to be drowned, and kneels to pray.

Some moments, I'm the sinner at his end,

That knows his doom if he unshriven go, And losing hope of any ghostly friend,

Sees hell already gape, and feels it glow.

Oh, but!-some moments, I've the spirit stout
Of early Christians in the lion's care,
That smile to Jesus witnessing, without
A nerve's revolt or turning of a hair!

GIVE ear unto the gentle lay

That's only sad that it may please;
It is discreet, and light it is:

A whiff of wind o'er buds in May.

The voice was known to you, (and dear ?)
But it is muffled latterly

As is a widow,- still, as she
It doth its sorrow proudly bear,

And through the sweeping mourning-veil
That in the gusts of Autumn blows,
Unto the heart that wonders, shows
Truth like a star now flash, now fail.

It says the voice you knew again!
That kindness, goodness, is our life;
And that of envy, hatred, strife,
When death is come, shall naught remain.

It says how glorious to be

Like children, without more delay,
The tender gladness it doth say

Of peace not bought with victory.

Accept the voice,- ah, hear the whole
Of its persistent, artless strain:

Naught so can soothe a soul's own pain,

As making glad another soul!

It pines in bonds but for a day,—
The soul that without murmur bears.
How unperplexed, how free it fares!
Oh, listen to the gentle lay!

I'VE seen again the One child, verily;

I felt the last wound open in my breast,The last, whose perfect torture doth attest That on some happy day I too shall die!

Good, icy arrow, piercing thoroughly!

Most timely came it from their dreams to wrest The sluggish scruples laid too long to rest,— And all my Christian blood hymned fervently.

I still hear, still I see! O worshiped rule
Of God! I know at last how comfortful
To hear and see! I see, I hear alway!

Lowly and mild,

O innocence, O hope!
How I shall love you, sweet hands of my child,
Whose task shall be to close our eyes one day!

THE sky-blue smiles above the roof

Its tenderest;

A green tree rears above the roof
Its waving crest.

The church-bell in the windless sky
Peaceably rings;

A skylark soaring in the sky
Endlessly sings.

My God, my God, all life is there,
Simple and sweet;

The soothing beehive murmur there
Comes from the street!

What have you done, O you that weep
In the glad sun,-

Say, with your youth, you man that weep,
What have you done?

WH

APRÈS TROIS ANS

HEN I had pushed the narrow garden-door,
Once more I stood within the green retreat;
Softly the morning sunshine lighted it,

And every flower a humid spangle wore.

Nothing is changed. I see it all once more:
The vine-clad arbor with its rustic seat;
The water-jet still plashes silver sweet,
The ancient aspen rustles as of yore.

The roses throb as in a bygone day,

As they were wont; the tall proud lilies sway.
Each bird that lights and twitters is a friend.

I even found the Flora standing yet,

Whose plaster crumbles at the alley's end-
Slim, 'mid the foolish scent of mignonette.

MON RÊVE FAMILIER

FT do I dream this strange and penetrating dream:

An unknown woman, whom I love, who loves me well, Who does not every time quite change, nor yet quite dwell

The same, and loves me well, and knows me as I am.

For she knows me! My heart, clear as a crystal beam
To her alone, ceases to be inscrutable

To her alone, and she alone knows to dispel

My grief, cooling my brow with her tears' gentle stream.

Is she of favor dark or fair?-I do not know.
Her name? All I remember is that it doth flow

Softly, as do the names of them we loved and lost.

Her eyes are like the statues',—mild, grave, and wide;
And for her voice she has as if it were the ghost
Of other voices,- well-loved voices that have died.

L'

LE ROSSIGNOL

IKE to a swarm of birds, with jarring cries

Descend on me my swarming memories;

Light 'mid the yellow leaves, that shake and sigh,

Of the bowed alder- that is even I!—

Brooding its shadow in the violet

Unprofitable river of Regret,

They settle screaming. Then the evil sound,

By the moist wind's impatient hushing drowned,
Dies by degrees, till nothing more is heard

Save the long singing of a single bird,

Save the clear voice-O singer, sweetly done!-
Warbling the praises of the Absent One.
And in the silence of a summer night
Sultry and splendid, by a late moon's light
That sad and sallow peers above the hill,
The humid hushing wind that ranges still
Rocks to a whispered sleep-song languidly
The bird lamenting and the shivering tree.

INSPIRATION

H, INSPIRATION, splendid, dominant,
Egeria with the lightsome eyes profound,
Sudden Erato, Genius quick to grant,

Old picture Angel of the gilt background!

Muse,―ay, whose voice is powerful indeed,
Since in the first-come brain it makes to grow
Thick as some dusty yellow roadside weed,
A gardenful of poems none did sow!-

Dove, Holy Ghost, Delirium, Sacred Fire,
Transporting Passion,-seasonable queen!-
Gabriel and lute, Latona's son and lyre,-
Ay, Inspiration, summoned at sixteen!

What we have need of, we, the poets true,
That not believe in gods, and yet revere,

That have no halo, hold no golden clue,

For whom no Beatrix leaves her radiant sphere,