Sometimes a breath floats by me,

An odor from Dreamland sent,
That makes the ghost seem nigh me
Of a splendor that came and went,
Of a life lived somewhere, I know not
In what diviner sphere,

Of memories that stay not and go not,
Like music heard once by an ear

That cannot forget or reclaim it,
A something so shy, it would shame it
To make it a show,

A something too vague, could I name it,
For others to know,

As if I had lived it or dreamed it,
As if I had acted or schemed it,
Long ago!

AN AUTOGRAPH

O'ER the wet sands an insect crept Ages ere man on earth was known And patient Time, while Nature slept, The slender tracing turned to stone.

'T was the first autograph: and ours? Prithee, how much of prose or song, In league with the creative powers, Shall 'scape Oblivion's broom so long. 24th June, 1886.

Oh! for a storm and thunder-
For lightning and wild fierce rain!
Fling down that lute — I hate it!

Take rather his buckler and sword, And crash them and clash them together Till this sleeping world is stirred.

Hark! to my Indian beauty —

My cockatoo, creamy white,
With roses under his feathers

That flashes across the light.
Look! listen! as backward and forward
To his hoop of gold he clings,
How he trembles, with crest uplifted,

And shrieks as he madly swings!

Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony!
Cry, "Come, my love, come home!
Shriek, "Antony! Antony! Antony!"
Till he hears you even in Rome.

There leave me, and take from my chamber

That stupid little gazelle,

With its bright black eyes so meaning

less,

I will lie and dream of the past time,
Eons of thought away,
And through the jungle of memory
Loosen my fancy to play;
When, a smooth and velvety tiger,
Ribbed with yellow and black,
Supple and cushion-footed

I wandered, where never the track

Of a human creature had rustled
The silence of mighty woods,
And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom,
I knew but the law of my moods.
The elephant, trumpeting, started,
When he heard my footstep near,
And the spotted giraffes fled wildly
In a yellow cloud of fear.

I sucked in the noontide splendor,
Quivering along the glade,
Or yawning, panting, and dreaming,
Basked in the tamarisk shade,
Till I heard my wild mate roaring,
As the shadows of night came on
To brood in the trees' thick branches,
And the shadow of sleep was gone;
Then I roused, and roared in answer,
And unsheathed from my cushioned feet
My curving claws, and stretched me,

And wandered my mate to greet.
We toyed in the amber moonlight,
Upon the warm flat sand,

And struck at each other our massive

arms

How powerful he was and grand!
His yellow eyes flashed fiercely

As he crouched and gazed at me,
And his quivering tail, like a serpent,
Twitched curving nervously.
Then like a storm he seized me,

With a wild triumphant cry,
And we met, as two clouds in heaven
When the thunders before them fly.
We grappled and struggled together,

For his love like his rage was rude; And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck

At times, in our play, drew blood.

Often another suitor —

For I was flexile and fairFought for me in the moonlight, While I lay couching there,

Till his blood was drained by the desert; And, ruffled with triumph and power,

He licked me and lay beside me

To breathe him a vast half-hour.

Then down to the fountain we loitered, Where the antelopes came to drink; Like a bolt we sprang upon them,

Ere they had time to shrink.

We drank their blood and crushed them,
And tore them limb from limb,
And the hungriest lion doubted
Ere he disputed with him.

That was a life to live for!
Not this weak human life,
With its frivolous bloodless passions,
Its poor and petty strife!

Come to my arms, my hero!

The shadows of twilight grow,
And the tiger's ancient fierceness
In my veins begins to flow.
Come not cringing to sue me!
Take me with triumph and power,
As a warrior storms a fortress!
I will not shrink or cower.
Come, as you came in the desert,
Ere we were women and men,
When the tiger passions were in us,
And love as you loved me then!

IO VICTIS

I SING the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life,

The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife; Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame, But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart, Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part; Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away, From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day

With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, With Death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown,

While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,

In the shadow, with those who have fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a

prayer,

Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, They only the victory win, Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;

Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high; Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight, - if need be, to die."

Speak, History! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals, and say, Are they those whom the world called the victors - who won the success of a day?

The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans, who fell at Thermopyla's tryst,

Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges or Socrates? Pilate or Christ?

PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE

A THOUSAND silent years ago,
The twilight faint and pale
Was drawing o'er the sunset glow
Its soft and shadowy veil;

When from his work the Sculptor stayed
His hand, and, turned to one
Who stood beside him, half in shade,
Said, with a sigh, “”T is done.

"When all our hopes and fears are dead,
And both our hearts are cold,
And love is like a tune that's played,
And life a tale that's told,

"This senseless stone, so coldly fair,
That love nor life can warm,
The same enchanting look shall wear,
The same enchanting form.

"Its peace no sorrow shall destroy;
Its beauty age shall spare
The bitterness of vanished joy,
The wearing waste of care.

"And there upon that silent face
Shall unborn ages see
Perennial youth, perennial grace,
And sealed serenity.

"And strangers, when we sleep in peace, Shall say, not quite unmoved,

'So smiled upon Praxiteles

The Phryne whom he loved!'”