I

IN MEMORIAM, E. H.

KNEW a silver head was bright beyond compare,

I knew a queen of toil with a crown of silver hair. Garland of valour and sorrow, of beauty and renown, Life, that honours the brave, crowned her himself with the crown.

The beauties of youth are frail, but this was a jewel of

age.

Life, that delights in the brave, gave it himself for a gage. Fair was the crown to behold, and beauty its poorest

part

At once the scar of the wound and the order pinned on the heart.

The beauties of man are frail, and the silver lies in the dust.

And the queen that we call to mind sleeps with the brave and the just;

Sleeps with the weary at length; but honoured and ever fair,

Shines in the eye of the mind the crown of the silver hair.

HONOLULU.

XXXIII

TO MY WIFE

(A Fragment)

ONG must elapse ere you behold again

L

Green forest frame the entry of the lane-
The wild lane with the bramble and the briar,
The year-old cart-tracks perfect in the mire,
The wayside smoke, perchance, the dwarfish huts,
And ramblers' donkey drinking from the ruts:
Long ere you trace how deviously it leads,
Back from man's chimneys and the bleating meads
To the woodland shadow, to the silvan hush,
When but the brooklet chuckles in the brush
Back from the sun and bustle of the vale
To where the great voice of the nightingale
Fills all the forest like a single room,

And all the banks smell of the golden broom;
So wander on until the eve descends,
And back returning to your firelit friends,
You see the rosy sun, despoiled of light,
Hung, caught in thickets, like a schoolboy's kite.

Here from the sea the unfruitful sun shall rise, Bathe the bare deck and blind the unshielded eyes;

TO MY WIFE

The allotted hours aloft shall wheel in vain
And in the unpregnant ocean plunge again.
Assault of squalls that mock the watchful guard,
And pluck the husting canvas from the yard,
And senseless clamour of the calm, at night
Must mar your slumbers. By the plunging light,
In beetle-haunted, most unwomanly bower
Of the wild-swerving cabin, hour by hour...
SCHOONER EQUATOR.

XXXIV

TO THE MUSE

ESIGN the rhapsody, the dream,

Romen

АРЕМАМА.

To men of larger reach;

Be ours the quest of a plain theme,
The piety of speech.

As monkish scribes from morning break
Toiled till the close of light,
Nor thought a day too long to make
One line or letter bright:

We also with an ardent mind,
Time, wealth, and fame forgot,
Our glory in our patience find
And skim, and skim the pot:

Till last, when round the house we hear
The evensong of birds,

One corner of blue heaven appear

In our clear well of words.

Leave, leave it then, muse of my heart!

Sans finish and sans frame,

Leave unadorned by needless art
The picture as it came.

D

TO MY OLD FAMILIARS

O you remember-can we e'er forget?—
How, in the coiled perplexities of youth,

In our wild climate, in our scowling town,

We gloomed and shivered, sorrowed, sobbed and feared?
The belching winter wind, the missile rain,
The rare and welcome silence of the snows,
The laggard morn, the haggard day, the night,
The grimy spell of the nocturnal town,
Do you remember?-Ah, could one forget!

As when the fevered sick that all night long
Listed the wind intone, and hear at last
The ever-welcome voice of chanticleer
Sing in the bitter hour before the dawn,-
With sudden ardour, these desire the day:
So sang in the gloom of youth the bird of hope;
So we, exulting, hearkened and desired.

For lo! as in the palace porch of life

We huddled with chimeras, from within

How sweet to hear!- the music swelled and fell,
And through the breach of the revolving doors
What dreams of splendour blinded us and fled!