Do ye sit there still in slumber, In gigantic Alpine rows? The black poppies out of number Nodding, dripping from your brows And so kept alive and fine? Pan, Pan is dead. Or lie crushed your stagnant corses Stung to life by centric forces Thrown like rays out from the sun?- "Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas," Said the old Hellenic tongue! Poets' songs the sweetest sung! Can ye speak not yea or nay Since Pan is dead? INCLUSIONS. Oh, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine? Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own? Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?— HUGH STUART BOYD: LEGACIES. Three gifts the Dying left me: Æschylus, Of stars, whose motion is melodious. The books were those I used to read from, thus And thou, clock, striking the hour's pulses on, Chime in the day which ends these parting days! THE POET AND THE BIRD: A FABLE. Said a people to a poet-"Go out from among us straightway! The poet went out weeping-the nightingale ceased chanting; The poet went out weeping-and died abroad, bereft there— The bird flew to his grave and died, amid a thousand wails :And, when I last came by the place, I swear the mu ic left there Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's. lony or bounded to my foots glee For plants it from горе mythe hee the pale do any more. It only may how hade on two fale cheets, it mark of tars Taught droging from to head that hangs aside Through sonow's trick. I honort & primeval dears would take this purit - but love is pistified. Take it then printing pare from all tose year The tip my mother oft hee alen she died 7 MS. of Sonnet XIX. from "Sonnets from the Portuguese" (Reproduced by permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co.) FROM "SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE." I thought once how Theocritus had sung ... "Guess now who holds thee?"-"Death!" I said. But, there, The silver answer rang, .. "Not Death, but Love." THE SLEEP. "He giveth His beloved sleep."-PSALM CXXVII. 2. Of all the thoughts of God that are For gift or grace, surpassing this- What would we give to our beloved?— The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, The monarch's crown, to light the brows. "He giveth His beloved, sleep." What do we give to our beloved?— A little faith, all undisproved, A little dust, to overweep, And bitter memories, to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. "He giveth His beloved, sleep." "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep: But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber, when O earth, so full of dreary noises! O men, with wailing in your voices ! |