His faith was righteous, and his ending blest;

And now his soul enjoys eternal rest.

THE WILD HUNTSMEN

"WILD huntsmen ?"-'I was a flight of

swans,

But so invisibly they flew, That in his mind the pallid hind Could hear a bugle horn. Faintly sounds the airy note,

And the deepest bay from the staghound's throat

Like the yelp of a cur on the air doth float;
And hardly heard is the wild halloo
On the straggling night-breeze borne !

They fly on the blast of the forest
That whistles round the wither'd tree,
But where they go we may not know,
Nor see them as they fly.

With hound and horn they ride away
In the dreary twilight cold and gray,
That hovers near the dying day;

And the peasant hears but cannot see
Those huntsmen pass him by.

Hark! 't is the goblin of the wood,
Rushing down the dark hill-side;
With steeds that neigh and hounds that
bay,

All viewless sweeps the throng.
And heavily where the fallow-deer feeds
Clatter the hoofs of their hunting steeds,
Like the mountain gale on the valley's
meads;

Till far away the spectres ride,
In distant lands along.

THE SECRET OF THE NIGHT-
INGALE

THE ground I walk'd on felt like air,
Air buoyant with the year's young mirth;
Far, filmy, undulating fair,

The down lay, a long wave of earth;
And a still green foam of woods rose high
Over the hill-line into the sky.

In meadowy pasture browse the kine,
Thin wheat-blades color a brown plough
line;

Fresh rapture of the year's young joy
Was in the unfolded luminous leaf.
And birds that shower as they toy
Melodious rain that knows not grief,
A song-maze where my heart in bliss
Lay folded, like a chrysalis.

They allur'd my feet far into the wood, Down a winding glade with leaflets wall'd, With an odorous dewy dark imbued; Rose, and maple, and hazel call'd Me into the shadowy solitude; Wild blue germander eyes enthrall'd Made me free of the balmy bowers, Where a wonderful garden-party of flow

ers,

Laughing sisterhood under the trees,
Dancing merrily, play'd with the bees;
Anemone, starwort, bands in white,
Like girls for a first communion dight,
And pale yellow primrose ere her flight,
Usher'd me onward wondering

To a scene more fair than the court of a

king.

Ah! they were very fair themselves,
Sweet maids of honor, woodland elves!
Frail flowers that arrive with the cuckoo,
Pale lilac, hyacinth purple of hue,
And the little pink geranium,

All smil'd and nodded to see me come; All gave me welcome; "No noise," said,

they

"For we will show you the bridal bed,
Where Philomel, our queen, was wed;
Hush! move with a tender, reverent foot,
Like a shy light over bole and root; "
And they blew in the delicate air for flute.

Into the heart of the verdure stole
My feet, and a music enwound my soul;
Zephyr flew over a cool bare brow
I am near, very near to the secret now!
For the rose-covers, all alive with song,
Flash with it, plain now low and long;
Sprinkle a holy water of notes;
On clear air melody leans and floats;
The blithe-wing'd minstrel merrily moves,
Dim bushes burn with mystical loves!

Lo! I arrive! immers'd in green, Where the wood divides, though barely

seen,

A nest in one of the blue leaf-rifts!
There over the border a bird uplifts
Her downy head, bill'd, luminous-ey'd ;
Behold the chosen one, the bride!
And the singer, he singeth by her side.
Leap, heart! be aflame with them! loud,
not dumb,

Give a voice to their epithalamium!
Whose raptures wax not pale nor dim
Beside the fires of seraphim.

These are glorious, glowing stairs,
In gradual ascent to theirs ;
With human loves acclaim and hail
The holy lore of the nightingale!

SEA SLUMBER-SONG
SEA-BIRDS are asleep,

The world forgets to weep,

Sea murmurs her soft slumber-song
On the shadowy sand
Of this elfin land;

"I, the Mother mild,
Hush thee, O my child,
Forget the voices wild!
Isles in elfin light
Dream, the rocks and caves,
Lull'd by whispering waves,
Veil their marbles bright,
Foam glimmers faintly white
Upon the shelly sand
Of this elfin land;
Sea-sound, like violins,

To slumber woos and wins,
I murmur my soft slumber-song,
Leave woes, and wails, and sins,
Ocean's shadowy might
Breathes good-night,
Good-night!"

DYING

THEY are waiting on the shore
For the bark to take them home;
They will toil and grieve no more;
The hour for release hath come.

All their long life lies behind,
Like a dimly blending dream;
There is nothing left to bind
To the realms that only seem.

They are waiting for the boat,
There is nothing left to do;
What was near them grows remote,
Happy silence falls like dew;
Now the shadowy bark is come,
And the weary may go home.

By still water they would rest,
In the shadow of the tree;
After battle sleep is best,
After noise tranquillity.

THE MERRY-GO-ROUND

THE merry-go-round, the merry-go-round, the merry-go-round at Fowey! They whirl around, they gallop around, man, woman, and girl, and boy;

They circle on wooden horses, white, black, brown, and bay,

To a loud monotonous tune that hath a trumpet bray.

All is dark where the circus stands on the

narrow quay,

Save for its own yellow lamps, that illumine it brilliantly:

Painted purple and red, it pours a broad strong glow

Over an old-world house, with a pillar'd place below;

For the floor of the building rests on bandy columns small,

And the bulging pile may, tottering, suddenly bury all.

But there upon wooden benches, hunch'd in the summer night,

Sit wrinkled sires of the village arow, whose hair is white;

They sit like the mummies of men, with a glare upon them cast

From a rushing flame of the living, like their own mad past;

They are watching the merry-make, and their face is very grave;

Over all are the silent stars! beyond, the cold gray wave.

And while I gaze on the galloping horses circling round,

The men caracoling up and down to a weird, monotonous sound,

I pass into a bewilderment, and marvel why

they go;

It seems the earth revolving, with our vain to and fro !

For the young may be glad and eager, but some ride listlessly,

And the old look on with a weary, dull,

and lifeless eye;

I know that in an hour the fair will all be

The merry-go-round, the merry-go-round, the merry-go-round at Fowey! They whirl around, they gallop around, man, woman, and girl, and boy,

LAMENT

I AM lying in the tomb, love,
Lying in the tomb,

Tho' I move within the gloom, love.
Breathe within the gloom!

Men deem life not fled, dear,
Deem my life not fled,

Tho' I with thee am dead, dear,
I with thee am dead,
O my little child!

What is the gray world, darling,
What is the gray world,

Where the worm lies curl'd, darling,
The deathworm lies curl'd?
They tell me of the spring, dear!
Do I want the spring?

Will she waft upon her wing, dear,
The joy-pulse of her wing,
Thy songs, thy blossoming,
O my little child!

For the hallowing of thy smile, love,
The rainbow of thy smile,
Gleaming for a while, love,
Gleaming to beguile,
Replunged me in the cold, dear,
Leaves me in the cold.
And I feel so very old, dear,
Very, very old!

Would they put me out of pain, dear,
Out of all my pain,

Since I may not live again, dear,
Never live again!

I am lying in the grave, love,
In thy little grave,

Yet I hear the wind rave, love,
And the wild wave!

I would lie asleep, darling,
With thee lie asleep,

Unhearing the world weep, darling,
Little children weep!

O my little child!

THE TOY CROSS

My little boy at Christmas-tide
Made me a toy cross;

Two sticks he did, in boyish pride,
With brazen nail emboss.

Ah me! how soon, on either side
His dying bed's true cross,
She and I were crucified,
Bemoaning our life-loss !

But He, whose arms in death spread wide
Upon the holy tree,

Were clasp'd about him when he died
Clasp'd for eternity!

"THAT THEY ALL MAY BE ONE"

WHENE'ER there comes a little child,
My darling comes with him;
Whene'er I hear a birdie wild
Who sings his merry whim,

Mine sings with him :

If a low strain of music sails
Among melodious hills and dales,
When a white lamb or kitten leaps,
Or star, or vernal flower peeps,
When rainbow dews are pulsing joy,
Or sunny waves, or leaflets toy,
Then he who sleeps

Softly wakes within my heart;
With a kiss from him I start;
He lays his head upon my breast,
Tho' I may not see my guest,
Dear bosom-guest!

In all that 's pure and fair and good,
I feel the spring-time of thy blood,
Hear thy whisper'd accents flow
To lighten woe,

Feel them blend,

Although I fail to comprehend.
And if one woundeth with harsh word,
Or deed, a child, or beast, or bird,
It seems to strike weak Innocence
Through him, who hath for his defence
Thunder of the All-loving Sire,
And mine, to whom He gave the fire.