What shall we do now, Mary being dead,
Or say, or write, that shall express the half?
What can we do but pillow that fair head,
And let the Spring-time write her epitaph?
As it will soon, in snow-drop, violet,
Wind-flower, and columbine, and maiden's tear :
Each letter of that pretty alphabet
That spells in flowers the pageant of the year.
She was a maiden for a man to love,
She was a woman for a husband's life,
One that had learn'd to value far above
The name of Love the sacred name of Wife.
Her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep,
Had all there is of life-except grey hairs:
Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep,
And that mysterious tie a Mother bears.
She hath fulfill'd her promise and hath pass'd.
Set her down gently at the iron door!
Eyes look on that loved image for the last :
Now cover it in earth-her earth no more!
SAINT PERAY.
When to any saint I pray,
It shall be to Saint Peray.
He alone, of all the brood,
Ever did me any good :
Many I have tried that are
Humbugs in the calendar.
On the Atlantic, faint and sick,
Once I pray'd Saint Dominick :
He was holy (sure), and wise ;-
Was't not he that did devise
Auto-da-fès and rosaries?
But for one in my condition
This good saint was no physician.
Next, in pleasant Normandie,
I made a prayer to Saint Denis,
In the great cathedral where
All the ancient kings repose;
But how I was swindled there
At the "Golden Fleece,"
In my wanderings vague and various Reaching Naples, as I lay
Watching Vesuvius from the bay,
I besought Saint Januarius.
But I was a fool to try him,-
Nought I said could liquefy him ;
And I swear he did me wrong,
Keeping me shut up so long
In that pest-house, with obscene
Jews and Greeks and things unclean :
What need had I of quarantine ?
In Sicily at least a score,
In Spain about as many more,
And in Rome almost as many
As the loves of Don Giovanni,
Did I pray to-sans reply:
Devil take the tribe! said I.
Worn with travel, tired and lame,
To Assissi's walls I came :
Sad, and full of home-sick fancies,
I address'd me to Saint Francis ;
But the beggar never did
Anything as he was bid,
Never gave me aught-but fleas :
Plenty had I at Assisse.
But in Provence, near Vaucluse,
Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint
Gifted with a wondrous juice
Potent for the worst complaint!
'Twas at Avignon that first,
In the witching time of thirst,
To my brain the knowledge came
Of this blessed Catholic's name,
Forty miles of dust that day
Made me welcome Saint Peray.
Though till then I had not heard
Aught about him, ere a third
Of a litre pass'd my lips,
All saints else were in eclipse:
For his gentle spirit glided
With such magic into mine
That methought such bliss as I did
Poet never drew from wine.
Rest he gave me, and refection, Chasten'd hopes, calm retrospection,
Softened images of sorrow,
Bright forebodings for the morrow,
Charity for what is pass'd,
Faith in something good at last.
Now, why should any almanack
The name of this good creature lack?
Or wherefore should the breviary
Omit a Saint so sage and merry ?
The Pope himself should grant a day
Especially to Saint Peray.
But, since no day hath been appointed
On purpose by the Lord's Anointed,
Let us not wait! We'll do him right.
Send round your bottles, Hal! and set your night!
TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.
Welcome, wild North-Easter!
Shame it is to see
Odes to every Zephyr,
Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black North-Easter!
O'er the German foam,
O'er the Danish moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of Summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air;
Tired of listless dreaming
Through the lazy day :
Jovial Wind of Winter!
Turn us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds!
Crisp the lazy dyke!
Hunger into madness
Every plunging pike!
Fill the lake with wild fowl!
Fill the marsh with snipe,
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe!
Through the black fir-forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snow-flakes
Off the curdled sky!
Hark! the brave North-Easter!
Breast-high lies the scent:
On, by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent!
Chime, ye dappled darlings!
Through the sleet and snow:
Who can over-ride you?
Let the horses go!
Chime, ye dappled darlings!
Down the roaring blast:
You shall see a fox die
Ere an hour be pass'd.
Go! and rest to-morrow,
Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious South-Wind
Breathe in lover's sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies' eyes!
What does he but soften
Heart alike and pen?
'Tis the hard grey weather
Breeds hard Englishmen.
What's the soft South-Wester?
'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Bringing home their true loves
Out of all the seas.
But the black North-Easter,
Through the snow-storm hurl'd, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward, round the world. Come! as came our fathers, Heralded by thee,
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