II.

Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear;
All the place is holy ground;
Hollow smile and frozen sneer
Come not here.

Holy water will I pour

Into every spicy flower

Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer.

In your eye there is death,
There is frost in your breath
Which would blight the plants.

Where you stand you cannot hear
From the groves within

The wild-bird's din.

In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants.

It would fall to the ground if you came in.

In the middle leaps a fountain
Like sheet lightning,

Ever brightening
With a low melodious thunder;
All day and all night it is ever drawn
From the brain of the purple moun-
tain

Which stands in the distance yonder: It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above,

And it sings a song of undying love; And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full,

You never would hear it; your ears are so dull;

So keep where you are: you are foul with sin;

It would shrink to the earth if you came in.

Whispering to each other half in fear, Shrill music reach'd them on the middle

sea.

Whither away, whither away, whither

away? fly no more.

Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore? Day and night to the billow the fountain calls :

Down shower the gambolling waterfalls From wandering over the lea:

Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells

High over the full-toned sea:

O hither, come hither and furl your sails,

Come hither to me and to me :
Hither, come hither and frolic and play;
Here it is only the mew that wails;
We will sing to you all the day:
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails,
For here are the blissful downs and dales,
And merrily, merrily carol the gales,
And the spangle dances in bight and
bay,

And the rainbow forms and flies on the land

Over the islands free;

And the rainbow lives in the curve of the

THE DESERTED HOUSE.

1.

LIFE and Thought have gone away
Side by side,

Leaving door and windows wide: Careless tenants they!

II.

All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.

III.

Close the door, the shutters close,
Or thro' the windows we shall see
The nakedness and vacancy
Of the dark deserted house.

IV.

Come away: no more of mirth

Is here or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground.

V.

Come away for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell;

But in a city glorious

A great and distant city—have bought A mansion incorruptible.

Would they could have stayed with us!

THE DYING SWAN.

I.

THE plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere

An under-roof of doleful gray.
With an inner voice the river ran,
Adown it floated a dying swan,

And loudly did lament.
It was the middle of the day.
Ever the weary wind went on,

And took the reed-tops as it went.

II.

Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky,

Shone out their crowning snows.

One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Above in the wind was the swallow,

Chasing itself at its own wild will, And far thro' the marish green and still

The tangled water-courses slept, Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow.

III.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy

Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear
The warble was low, and full and clear;
And floating about the under-sky,
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach
stole

Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear
But anon her awful jubilant voice,
With a music strange and manifold,
Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold
As when a mighty people rejoice
With shawms, and with cymbals, and
harps of gold,

And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd
Thro' the open gates of the city afar,
To the shepherd who watcheth the even-
ing star.

And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds,

And the willow-branches hoar and dank, And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds,

And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank,

And the silvery marish-flowers that

throng

The desolate creeks and pools among, Were flooded over with eddying song.

A DIRGE.

I.

Now is done thy long day's work;
Fold thy palms across thy breast,
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest.
Let them rave.

Shadows of the silver birk

Sweep the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes; When, turning round a cassia, full in view, Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, And talking to himself, first met his sight:

'You must begone,' said Death, 'these walks are mine.'

Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight;

Yet ere he parted said, 'This hour is thine:

Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree

Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath,

So in the light of great eternity

Life eminent creates the shade of death; The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall,

But I shall reign for ever over all.’

с