THOU look'dst on me all yesternight.
Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright
As when we murmured our troth-plight
Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline!
Thy hair was braided on thy head,
As on the day we two were wed,
Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert
dead,

But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline !

The death-watch ticked behind the wall,
The blackness rustled like a pall,
The moaning wind did rise and fall
Among the bleak pines, Rosaline !
My heart beat thickly in mine ears:
The lids may shut out fleshly fears,
But still the spirit sees and hears,
Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline!

A wildness rushing suddenly,
A knowing some ill shape is nigh,
A wish for death, a fear to die,
Is not this vengeance, Rosaline?
A loneliness that is not lone,
A love quite withered up and gone,
A strong soul trampled from its throne,
What wouldst thou further, Rosaline?

'Tis drear such moonless nightsas these,
Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,
And the leaves shiver in the trees,
And then thou comest, Rosaline!
I seem to hear the mourners go,
With long black garments trailing slow,
And plumes anodding to and fro,
As once I heard them, Rosaline !

Thy shroud is all of snowy white,
And, in the middle of the night,
Thou standest moveless and upright,

I did not know when thou wast dead;
A blackbird whistling overhead
Thrilled through my brain; I would
have fled,

But dared not leave thee, Rosaline !
The sun rolled down, and very soon,
Like a great fire, the awful moon
Rose, stained with blood, and then a

swoon

Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline !

The stars came out; and, one by one,
Each angel from his silver throne
Looked down and saw what I had done:
I dared not hide me, Rosaline !
I crouched; Ifeared thy corpse would cry
Against me to God's quiet sky,
I thought I saw the blue lips try
To utter something, Rosaline!

I waited with a maddened grin
To hear that voice all icy thin
Slide forth and tell my deadly sin
To hell and heaven, Rosaline !
But no voice came, and then it seemed,
That, if the very corpse had screamed,
The sound like sunshine glad had
streamed

Through that dark stillness, Rosaline !

THERE came a youth upon the earth,
Some thousand years ago,
Whose slender hands were nothing
worth,

Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-shell

He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had
Pure taste by right divine,
Decreed his singing not too bad
To hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well pleased with being soothed
Into a sweet half-sleep,
Three times his kingly beard he
smoothed,

And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough,
And yet he used them so,
That what in other mouths was rough
In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth,
In whom no good they saw;
And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all,

For idly, hour by hour,

He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things
Did teach him all their use,

Lips must fade and roses wither,
All sweet times be o'er,
They only smile, and, murmuring
"Thither!"

Stay with us no more:
And yet ofttimes a look or smile,
Forgotten in a kiss's while,

Years after from the dark will start,
And flash across the trembling heart.

Thou hast given me many roses,
But never one, like this,
O'erfloods both sense and spirit

With such a deep, wild bliss;
We must have instincts that glean up
Sparse drops of this life in the cup,
Whose taste shall give us all that we
Can prove of immortality.

Earth's stablest things are shadows,
And, in the life to come

use

A wisdom and a meaning which may speak

Of spiritual secrets to the ear

Of spirit; so, in whatsoe'er the heart Hath fashioned for a solace to itself, To make its inspirations suit its creed, And from the niggard hands of falsehood wring

Its needful food of truth, there ever is A sympathy with Nature, which reveals,

Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light

And earnest parables of inward lore. Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,

As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still

As the immortal freshness of that grace Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.

A youth named Rhocus, wandering in the wood,

Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall,

And, feeling pity of so fair a tree, He propped its gray trunk with admiring care,

And with a thoughtless footstep loitered

on.

But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind

That murmured "Rhocus!" "T was as if the leaves,