Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman. I will rise and go

Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth

Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says

A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know

That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day,

All earth and air seem only burning fire."

THE SISTERS.

We were two daughters of one race: She was the fairest in the face:

The wind is blowing in turret and

tree.

They were together, and she fell:
Therefore revenge became me well.

O the Earl was fair to see!

She died: she went to burning flame: She mix'd her ancient blood with shame.

The wind is howling in turret and tree.

Whole weeks and months, and early and late,

To win his love I lay in wait:

O the Earl was fair to see!

I made a feast: I bade him come;

1 won his love, I brought him home. The wind is roaring in turret and

tree.

And after supper, on a bed,
Upon my lap he laid his head:

O the Earl was fair to see!

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest:
His ruddy cheek upon my breast.

The wind is raging in turret and

tree.

I hated him with the hate of hell,
But I loved his beauty passing well.
O the Earl was fair to see!

I rose up in the silent night:
I made my dagger sharp and bright.
The wind is raving in turre, and
tree.

As half-asleep his breath he drew, Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'.

O the Earl was fair to sec!

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head.
He look'd so grand when he was dead.
The wind is blowing in turret and
tree.

1 wrapt his body in the sheet,
And laid him at his mother's fect.
O the Earl was fair to see!

ΤΟ

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.

I SEND you here a sort of allegory, (For you will understand it) of a soul,

A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, A spacious garden full of lowering weeds,

A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain,

That did love Beauty only, (Beauty

seen

In all varieties of mould and mind And Knowledge for its beauty; or if Good,

Good only for its beauty, seeing not That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters

That doat upon each other, friends to man,

Living together under the same roof, And never can be sunder'd without tears.

And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be

Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie

Howling in outer darkness. Not for this

Was common clay ta'en from the common earth,

Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears

Of angels to the perfect shape of man.

THE PALACE OF ART.

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasurehouse,

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

I said, "O Soul, make merry and ca

rouse,

Dear soul, for all is well."

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass,

I chose. The ranged ramparts bright From level meadow-bates of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light.

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf

The rock rose clear, or winding stair. My soul would live alone unto herself In her high palace there.

And "while the world runs round and round," I said,

"Reign thou apart, a quiet king. Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast shade

Sleeps on his luminous ring."

To which my soul made answer readily:

"Trust me, in bliss I shall abide In this great mansion, that is built for

me.

So royal-rich and wide."

Four courts I made, East, West and South and North,

In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth

A flood of fountain foam.

And round the cool green courts there

ran a row

Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,

Echoing all night to that sonorous flow

Of spouted fountain-floods.

And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands,

Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky

Dipt down to sea and sands. From those four jets four currents in one swell

Across the mountain stream’d below In misty folds, that floating as they fell

Lit up a torrent-bow.

And high on every peak a statue seem'd To hang on tiptoe, tossing up

A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd From out a golden cup.

So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon

My palace with unblinded eyes, While this great bow will waver in the sun,

And that sweet incense rise?"

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,

And, while day sank or mounted higher,

The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, Burnt like a fringe of fire.

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,

Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires

From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,

And tipt with frost-like spires.

One show'd an iron coast and angry

waves.

You seem'd to hear them climb and fall

And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,

Beneath the windy wall.

And one, a full-fed river winding slow
By herds upon an endless plain,
The ragged rims of thunder brooding
low,

With shadow-streaks of rain.

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.

In front they bound the sheaves. Behind

Were realms of upland, prodigal in oik And hoary to the wind.

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags,

Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,

And highest, snow and fire.

And one, an English home-gray twilight pour'd

On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep-all things in order stored,

A haunt of ancient Peace.

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair

As fit for every mood of mind,

Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there

Not less than truth design'd.

That said, We wait for thee. Or mythic ther's deeply-wounded son In some fair space of sloping greens Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,

And watch'd by weeping queens. Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To list a foot-fall, ere he saw The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear

Of wisdom and of law.

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, And many a tract of palm and rice, The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd

A summer fann'd with spice.

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd,

From off her shoulder backward borne:

From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd

The mild bull's golden horn.

Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh

Half-buried in the Eagle's down, Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky Above the pillar'd town.

Nor these alone: but every legend fair Which the supreme Caucasian mind Carved out of Nature for itself, was there,

Not less than life, design'd.

Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,

Moved of themselves, with silver sound:

And with choice paintings of wise men I hung

The royal dais round.

For there was Milton like a seraph strong,

Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild;

And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,

And somewhat grimly smiled. And there the Ionian father of the rest; A million wrinkles carved his skin, A hundred winters snow'd upon his

breast

From cheek and throat and chin. Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set Many an arch high up did lift, And angels rising and descending met With interchange of gift.

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd With cycles of the human tale

Of this wide world, the times of every land

So wrought, they will not fail.

The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings;

Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro The heads and crowns of kings;

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind

All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man declined,

And trusted any cure.

But over these she trod and those great bells

Began to chime. She took her throne: She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, To sing her songs alone.

And thro' the topmost Oriels' colored flame

No nightingale delighteth to prolong
Her low preamble all alone,
More than my soul to hear her echo'd
song

Throb thro' the ribbed stone;

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,

Joying to feel herself alive,

Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth,

Lord of the senses five;

Communing with herself: "All these are mine,

And let the world have peace or wars, "T is one to me." She-when young night divine

Crown'd dying day with stars, Making sweet close of his delicious toils

Lit light in wreaths and anadems, And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollow'd moons of gems,

To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried,

"I marvel if my still delight In this great house so royal-rich, and wide,

Be flatter'd to the height.

"O all things fair to sate my various eyes!

O shapes and hues that please me well!

O silent faces of the Great and Wise, My Gods, with whom I dwell! "O God-like isolation which art mino, I can but count thee perfect gain, What time I watch the darkening droves of swine

That range on yonder plain.

In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin,

They graze and wallow, breed and sleep:

And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep."

Then of the moral instinct would she

The kingdom of her thought.

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude

Fell on her, from which mood was born

Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood

Laughter at her self-scorn. "What! is not this my place of

strength?" she said.

66 My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid

Since my first memory?"

But in dark corners of her palace stood
Uncertain shapes and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping
tears of blood,

And horrible nightmares.

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,

And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,

That stood against the wall.

A spot of dull stagnation, without light

Or power of movement, seem'd my soul,

Mid onward-sloping motions infinite Making for one sure goal.

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand;

Left on the shore; that hears all

night

The plunging seas draw backward from the land

Their moon-led waters white.

A star that with the choral starry dance Join'd not, but stood, and standing

saw

The hollow orb of moving ('ircumstance Roll'd round by one fix'd law.

Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd.

"No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall,

"No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world:

One deep, deep silence all!"

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod,

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame. Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name;

And death and life she hated equally, And nothing saw, for her despair, But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, No comfort anywhere.

Remaining utterly confused with fears, And ever worse with growing time, And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, And all alone in crime :

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round

With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound

Of human footsteps fall.

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,

In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea;

And knows not if it be thunder or a sound

Of rocks thrown down, or one deep

cry

Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found

A new land, but I die."

She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?"

So when four years were wholly finished,

She threw her royal robes away. "Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,

"Where I may mourn and pray." "Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are

So lightly, beautifully built : Perchance I may return with others there

When I have purged my guilt."

Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head.

Not thrice your branching limes have blown

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. O, your sweet eyes, your low replies: A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door:

You changed a wholesome heart to gall.

You held your course without remorse. To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent, The gardener Adam and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere,

You pine among your halls and

towers:

The languid light of your proud eyes

Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth,

But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart,' And let the foolish yeoman go.

THE MAY QUEEN.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as inine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline:

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May.

1 sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break:

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the May,

mother, I'm to be Queen o`the May.

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see,

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?

He thought of that sharp look, mother,
I gave him yesterday,—
But I'm to be Queen o' the May,

mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,

And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,

For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be:

They say his heart is breaking, mother, -what is that to me?

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me

any summer day,

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother I'm to be Queen o' the May.