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O PENSIVE, tender maid, downcast and

shy, Who turnest pale e'en at the name of

love, And with flushed face must pass the

elm-tree by, Ashamed to hear the passionate gray

dove Moan to his mate, thee too the god

shall move, Thee too the maidens shall ungird one

day, And with thy girdle put thy shame

away.

What, then, and shall white winter

ne'er be done Because the glittering frosty morn is

fair? Because against the early-setting sun Bright show the gilded boughs, though

waste and bare ? Because the robin singeth free from

care ? Ah! these are memories of a better day When on earth's face the lips of sum

mer lay.

JUNE O JUNE, O June, that we desired so. Wilt thou not make us happy on this

day ? Across the river thy soft breezes bear Sweet with the scent of beanfielus is

away, Above our heads rustle the aspens star, Calm is the sky with harmless che.

beset. No thought of storm the morning rese

yet. See, we have left our hopes and fears

hind To give our very hearts up unto thed: What better place than this then

we find By this sweet stream that knows Duta

the sea, That guesses not the city's misery, This little stream whose hamlets scans

have names, This far-off, lonely mother of

Thames? Here then, ( June, thy kindness ma

we take ; And if indeed but pensive men wes! What should we do? thou wouldst 1.'

have us wake From out the arms of this rare hairs

dream And wish to leave the murmur of the

stream, The rustling boughs, the twitter oft'.

birds, And all thy thousand peaceful hot

words.

Come, then, beloved one, for such as

thee Love loveth, and their hearts he know

eth well, Who hoard their moments of felicity, As misers hoard the medals that they

tell, Lest on the earth but paupers they

should dwell: “We hide our love to bless another day ; The world is hard, youth passes quick,"

they say. Ah, little ones, but if ye could forget Amidst your outpoured love that you must die,

[querors yet, Then ye, my servants, were death's con

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'ROSS the gap made by our English

hinds, nidst the Roman's handiwork, behold r off the long-roofed church; the

shepherd binds le withy round the hurdles of his fold, own in the foss the river fed of old, lat through long lapse of time has

grown to be le little grassy valley that you see.

Shall we weep for a dead day,
Or set Sorrow in our way?
Hidden by my golden hair,
Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear ?

love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death?

Kiss me,

ILLE

*st here awhile, not yet the eve is

still, ne bees are wandering yet, and you

may hear ne barley mowers on the trenchéd hill, he sheep-bells, and the restless chang

ing weir, Il little sounds made musical and clear eneath the sky that burning August

gives, Vhile yet the thought of glorious Sum

mer lives.

ih, love ! such happy days, such days

as these, sust we still waste them, craving for

the best, Like lovers o'er the painted images f those who once their yearning hearts

have blessed ? lave we been happy on our day of

rest? Chine eyes say “yes,”—but if it came

again, Perchance its ending would not seem so vain.

1868.

Weep, O Love, the days that flit,

Now, while I can feel thy breath; Then may I remember it

Sad and old, and near my death. Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death ? 1868. SONG FROM THE STORY OF ACON

TIUS AND CYDIPPE Fair is the night and fair the day, Now April is forgot of May, Now it to June May falls away ; Fair day, fair night, O give me back The tide that all fair things did lack Except my love, except my sweet ! Blow back, 0 wind! thou art not kind, Though thou art sweet; thou hast no

mind Her hair about my sweet to wind; O flowery sward, though thou art bright, I praise thee not for thy delight, Thou hast not kissed her silver feet. Thou know'st her not, O rustling tree, What dost thou then to shadow me, Whose shade her breast did never see? O flowers, in vain ye bow adown! Ye have not felt her odorous gown Brush past your heads my lips to meet. Flow on, great river-thou mayst deem That far away, a summer stream, Thou sawest her limbs amidst thee gleam And kissed her foot, and kissed her knee, Yet get thee swift unto the sea ! With nought of true thou wilt me greet. And thou that men call by my name, O helpless one, bast thou no shame That thou must even look the same, As while agone, as while agone, When thou and she were left alone, And hands, and lips, and tears did meet ?

SONG FROM OGIER THE DANE

НАЕС

In the white-flowered hawthorn brake,
Love, be merry for my sa ke;
Twine the blossoms in my hair,
Kiss me where I am most fair-
Kiss me, love! for who knoweth
What thing cometh after death?

ILLE

Nay, the garlanded gold hair
Hides thee where thou art most fair ;
Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow-
Ah, sweet love, I have thee now!
Kiss me, love! for who knoweth
What thing cometh after death?

Grow weak and pine, lie down to die,
O body in thy misery,
Because short time and sweet goes by ;

o foolish heart, how weak thou art ! Break, break, because thou needs must

part From thine own love, from thine own sweet!

1870.

L'ENVOI

ER EARTHLY PARADISE

last ime face to

lee speed + place

im's

And

That land's name, say'st thou? and the

road thereto? Nay, Book, thou mockest, saying the

know'st it not ; Surely no book of verse I ever knew But ever was the heart within him To gain the Land of Matters Unforge: --There, now we both laugh-as 11

whole world may, At us poor singers of an empty day. Nay, let it pass, and harken! Hs-i

thou heard That therein I believe I have a frieni Of whom for love I may not be afinal: It is to him indeed I bid thee wend: Yea, he perchance may meet thek eta

thou end, Sving so far off from the hedge of lear,

jou idle singer of an empty day! Well, think of him, I bid thee, on th:

road,
"hap that midst of thy def-at.

beneath thy follies' learyka aster, GEOFFREY CHALCER, the

do meet, on shalt thou win a space of rest fu.

sweet ; Then be thou bold, and speak the words

I say, The idle singer of an empty day! • Master, ( thou great of heart and

tongue, Thou well mayst ask me why I wander

here, In raiment rent of stories oft besung! But of thy gentleness draw thou antar. And then the heart of one who heli ibe

dear Mayst thou behold! So near as that Ilar Unto the singer of an empty day. . For this he ever said, who sent it

forth To seek a place amid thy company: That howsoever little was my worth, Yet was he worth e'en just so much as

I; He said that rhyme hath little skill to Nor feigned to cast his worser part awar In idle singing for an empty day. “I have beheld him tremble oft enough At things he could not choose but trus

to me, Although he knew the world was wise

and rough;

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dove Moan to ,

shall ni Thee too the u.

day, And with thy giru

away. What, then, and shall

ne'er be done Because the glittering fra fair ?

Ampty day. Because against the ea Bright show the gildast time must it be

waste and barid thy peace and I Because the rol."

care? Poble I begin to see Ah! these arthin, thy limbs and heart When on seak,

meme land thou goest forth to

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the way,

Come, {h what harm if thou die upon
Love idle singer of an empty day?
But though this land desired thou never

reach, Yet folk who know it mayst thou meet,

or death; Therefore a word unto thee would I teach To answer these, who, noting thy weak

breath, Thy wandering eyes, thy heart of little

faith, May make thy fond desire a sport and

play Mocking the singer of an empty day.

lie;

And never did he fail to let me see
His love,-his folly and faithlessness,

may be ; And still in turn I gave him voice to pray Such prayers as cling about an empty

day. * Thou, keen-eyed, reading me, mayst

read him through, For surely little is there left behind ; No power great deeds unnameable to do ; No knowledge for which words he may

not find, No love of things as vague as autumn

wind-Earth of the earth lies hidden by my

clay, The idle singer of an empty day!

Fearest thou, Book, what answer thou

mayst gain Lest he should scorn thee, and thereof

thou die ? Nay, it shall not be.—Thou mayst toil

in vain, And never draw the House of Fame

anigh ; Yet he and his shall know whereof we

crv, Shall call it not ill done to strive to lay The ghosts that crowd about life's

empty day.

&6

“Children we twain are, saith he, late

made wise In love, but in all else most childish

still, And seeking still the pleasure of our eyes, And what our ears with sweetest sounds

Then let the others go! and if indeed
In some old garden thou and I have

wrought, And made fresh flowers spring up from

hoarded seed, And fragrance of old days and deeds

have brought Back to folk weary ; all

was not for nought. -No little part it was for me to playThe idle singer of an empty day. 1870.

may fill ;

THE SEASONS

Spring. Spring am I, too soft of heart
Much to speak ere I depart:
Ask the Summer-tide to prove
The abundance of my love.

Not fearing Love, lest these things he

should kill; Howe'er his pain by pleasure doth he lay, Making a strange tale of an empty day. “Death have we hated, knowing not

what it meant ; Life have we loved, through green leaf

and through sere, Though still the less we knew of its in

tent; The Earth and Heaven through countless

year on year, Slow changing, were to us but curtains

fair, Hung round about a little room, where

play Weeping and laughter of man's empty

day. "O Master, if thine heart could love us

yet, Spite of things left undone, and wrongly

done, Some place in loving hearts then should

we get, For thou, sweet-souled, didst never

stand alone, But knew'st the joy and woe of many an -By lovers dead, who live through thee,

we pray, Help thou us singers of an empty day!"

Summer. Summer looked for long am I;
Much shall change or e'er I die
Prithee take it not amiss
Though I weary thee with bliss.
Autumn. Laden Autumu here I stand
Worn of heart, and weak of hand:
Nought but rest seems good to me,
Speak the word that sets me free.
Winter. I am Winter, that do keep
Longing safe amidst of sleep :
Who shall say if I were dead
What should be remembered ? 1871.

ERROR AND LOSS 1

UPON an eve I sat me down and wept, Because the world to me seemed nowise

good ; Still autumn was it, and the meadows

slept, The misty hills dreamed, and the silent wood

(mood : Seemed listening to the sorrow of my

1 Originally with the title The Dark Wood.

one

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