V.

And ever when the moon was low,

And the shrill winds were up In the white curtain, to and fro,

and

She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low,

away,

And wild winds bound within their cell,

The shadow of the poplar fell

Upon her bed, across her brow.

She only said, "The night is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said;

She said, "I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!"

VI.

All day within the dreamy house,

The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; The blue fly sung i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,

Or from the crevice peer'd about.

Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,

Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices call'd her from without.

She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!"

VII.

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,

The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound

Her sense; but most she loath'd the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,

He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,

Oh God, that I were dead!"

ΤΟ

CLEAR-HEADED friend, whose joyful scorn, Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain The knots that tangle human creeds, The wounding cords that bind and strain The heart until it bleeds,

Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn

Roof not a glance so keen as thine :

If aught of prophecy be mine,

Thou wilt not live in vain.

Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit;

Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow:

Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now

With shrilling shafts of subtle wit.

Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords Can do away that ancient lie;

A gentler death shall Falsehood die, Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words.

Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch,

Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, Thy kingly intellect shall feed,

Until she be an athlete bold,

And weary with a finger's touch

Those writhed limbs of lightning speed; Like that strange angel which of old, Until the breaking of the light, Wrestled with wandering Israel,

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, And heaven's mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Penuel.

MADELINE.

THOU art not steep'd in golden languors,

No tranced summer calm is thine,

Ever varying Madeline.

Thro' light and shadow thou dost range,
Sudden glances, sweet and strange,

Delicious spites, and darling angers,

And airy forms of flitting change.

Smiling, frowning, evermore,

Thou art perfect in love-lore.

Revealings deep and clear are thine

Of wealthy smiles: but who may know

Whether smile or frown be fleeter ?

Whether smile or frown be sweeter,

VOL. 1.

Who may know ?

C