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Shall meet thee in the shade

And pray thee for the doom thou wilt not wreak.

Yet shalt thou help the frail

From the phantoms that assail,—

Yea! the strong man in his anger shalt thou dare; Thy voice shall be a song

Against Wickedness and Wrong,

But the wicked and the wronger thou wilt spare. And, while thou lead'st the van,

The ungrateful hand of man

Shall smite thee down and slay thee unaware.

With an agonized cry

Thou shalt shiver down, and die,

With stained shirt of mail and broken brand;
And the voice of men shall call-

"He has fallen like us all,

Though the weapon of the Lord was in his hand : And thine epitaph shall be

"He was wretched even as we; ""

And thy tomb may be unhonour'd in the land.

But the basest of the base

Shall bless thy pale dead face,;

And the thief shall steal a bloody lock of hair :
And over thee asleep

The adulteress shall weep

Such tears as she can never shed elsewhere,
Shall bless the broken brand

In thy chill and nerveless hand,

Shall kiss thy stained vesture, with a prayer.

Then, while in that chill place
Stand the basest of the base

Gather'd round thee in the silence of the dark,

A white Face shall look down

On the silence of the town

And see thee lying dead, with those to mark;
And a Voice shall fill the air-

"Bear my Warrior lying there

To his sleep upon my Breast!" and they shall hark.

Lo! then those fallen things
Shall perceive a rush of wings
Growing nearer down the azure gulf untrod;
And around them in the night

There shall grow a wondrous light,

While they hide affrighted faces on the sod:
But ere again 'tis dark

They shall raise their eyes, and mark
White arms that waft the Warrior up to God.

ROBERT BRIDGES.

1844

THE SEA-POPPY.

A Poppy grows upon the shore
Bursts her twin cup in summer late :
Her leaves are glaucous green and hoar,
Her petals yellow, delicate.

Oft to her cousins turns her thought,
In wonder if they care that she
Is fed with spray for dew, and caught
By every gale that sweeps the sea.

She has no lovers like the Red
That dances with the noble Corn:
Her blossoms on the waves are shed,
Where she sits shivering and forlorn.

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.

1849

THE SUPPLIANT.

Beneath the poplars o'er the sacred pool
The halcyons dart like rays of azure light :
Fair presage! By the columns white and cool
I'll watch to-night.

Perchance the Goddess, at the twilight's breath,
Will come with silver feet and braidless hair
And, all too startled to decree my death,
Will hearken to my prayer.

So when at moon-rise by the farm I go,
The lovely girl who near the fig-tree stands
May turn no more on scornful feet and slow,
But hold out both her hands.

THEOPHILE MARZIALS.

1850

RONDEL.

To-day what is there in the air

That makes December seem sweet May?
There are no swallows anywhere,
Nor crocuses to crown your hair
And hail you down my garden way.
Last night the full moon's frozen stare
Struck me, perhaps ; or did you say
Really-you'd come, sweet Friend and fair!
To-day?

To-day is here: come! crown to-day
With Spring's delight or Spring's despair!
Love can not bide old Time's delay :-
Down my glad gardens light winds play,
And my whole soul shall bloom and bear

To-day.

PAKENHAM THOMAS BEATTY.

1855

IN MY DREAMS.

Come to me in my dreams, and say
Sweet words I never hear by day,
And murmur lovingly and low,
And take my hand and kiss my brow!

And I will whisper all night through
What I can only say to you:

My hopes I had, my life I plann'd,
That only you can understand.

Rest with me, Love! until the day;
Then kiss me once, and pass away!
And let me waken, Dear! to weep,
You can but kiss me in my sleep.

ANDREW LANG.

1844

IN ITHACA.

'Tis thought Odysseus, when the strife was o'er With all the waves and wars, a weary while, Grew restless in his disenchanted isle,

And still would watch the sunset, from the shore,
Go down the waves of gold; and evermore
His sad heart follow'd after, mile on mile,
Back to the Goddess of the magic wile-
Calypso, and the love that was of yore.
Thou too, thy haven gain'd, must turn thee yet
To look across the sad and stormy space,
Years of a youth as bitter as the sea,
Ah! with a heavy heart and eyelids wet:
Because within a fair forsaken place

The life that might have been is lost to thee.

WILLIAM DAVIES.

1829

DOING AND BEING.

Think not alone to do right and fulfil
Life's due perfection by the simple worth
Of lawful actions call'd by justice forth,
And thus condone a world confused with ill!
But fix the high condition of thy will

To be right, that its good's spontaneous birth
May spread like flowers springing from the earth
On which the natural dews of heaven distil!
For these require no honours, take no care
For gratitude from men,-but more are bless'd
In the sweet ignorance that they are fair;
And through their proper functions live and rest,
Breathing their fragrance on the joyous air,
Content with praise of bettering what is best.

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