II.

MIRTH is wisdom; sorrow's folly;
Say sad sighers what they will :
Here we mock dull melancholy;
Laughter here is never still;

Here, no wearing cares come nigh us;
Sadness here no sighs can bring ;

Ask you here why ill thoughts fly us?
Here we ever, ever sing.

III.

SING; in circling eddies, come,
Pour the floods of song around us;
As though dreamless slumber bound us,
Care and sorrow shall be dumb:

Every thought of ill shall fly us;

All sweet thoughts sweet sounds shall bring; Love and mirth alone be nigh us;

Sing, I pray you—prithee, sing.

IV.

SING on; sing on; around me bringing
Thoughts and feelings absent long;
To the witchery of your singing,
Round me once again they throng.
Places old of childhood's knowing,
While you sing, I tread again;
Words that bitter tears set flowing,
Wander back without their pain;
Griefs, again I look upon,
Welcome come; sing on; sing on.

THE REPLY.

OH, look not in thy mirror, sweet,
For if thou, love, but see

The glory of thy beauty, love,
Wilt thou not turn from me?

Wilt thou not proudly spurn me off
And keep those charms of thine
—a prouder birth,
A lordlier name than mine?

For a wealthier state

I'll look into my mirror, love,
I'll look in hope to see
A face as sweet-a form as fair
As may be worthy thee;
I'll woo my shining mirror, love,
To show me charms are mine
That shall not be scorned acceptance
By that true, true heart of thine.

A DIRGE.

HENCE afar, fond mirth, mad folly;

Here dwells only melancholy;

Hence are banished smiles and gladness;

Here we sit us down with sadness;

Here we converse hold of death,
Pale decay and parting breath;
Here will each to each recall
Mouldering graves, the end of all,
Shrouds and knells, the common doom,
Worms, the coffin and the tomb;
Hence afar, fond mirth, mad folly;
Here dwells ever melancholy.

SONG.

SOFT eyes of blue! sweet eyes of blue! They haunt me morn and night; Whate'er I do, they thrill me through ; They're ever in my sight;

It was not so a May ago;
Uncaged my fancy flew,

Ah, quiet thought! by love uncaught,
And those sweet eyes of blue.

Adieu-adieu-my books, on you
I never now may pore;

From every page those fair eyes gaze;
I read-I read no more;
No-sweetest tongue hath never sung
Aught I may now dream through;
My thought they trance with haunting glance
Those gentle eyes of blue.

O love! O change! how cold and strange
To all old thoughts I've grown!
Hope's learned to prize those soft fair eyes,
Those mild sweet eyes alone;
"Tis so- -'tis so;-all-all, they go,

The hopes I used to woo;

My haunted thought can harbour nought
Save those fair eyes of blue.

WON AND LOST.

A GLIMPSE OF FEUDALISM.

IN his bannered hall sits Sir Guy de Ford,
Bearded and grim, at the festal board,

With baron and lady gay;

And his health he gives, who with lance and sword,
The lands and the hand of Maud, his ward,
Has won in the lists to-day.

In his lonely tent, deep-gashed and pale,
Gory his helm and cleft his mail,

And glazing his knightly eyes,

Lies he who, couching his lance for the love
Of her who is shrieking his wounds above,
Lost life and the tourney's prize.

SONG.

PASS, falling rose!

Not now the glory of the spring is round thee;
Not now the air of summer round thee blows;
Pallid and chill, the autumn's mists have found thee;
Pass, falling rose !

Pass, falling rose!

Where are the songs that wooed thy glad unfolding?
Only the south the wood-dove's soft wail knows;
Far southern eaves the swallow's nest are holding;
Pass, falling rose !

Pass, falling rose!

Linger the blooms, to birth thy glory wooing?
Linger the hues that lured thee to unclose?

Long, long, their leaves the dark earth have been strewing;
Pass, falling rose !

LILIAN'S EPITAPH.

THOU hast been and thou hast fled,
Rose, sweet rose ;

Budded, flushed, and, ah! art dead,

Rose, sweet rose;

Yet oblivion may not kill

Dreams of thee, our thoughts that fill,
And for us thou'rt blooming still,

Rose, sweet rose.

Breathing rose, nor might'st thou stay,

Rose, sweet rose;

Thou too, woe! hast passed away,

Rose, sweet rose;

Yet though death had heart to sever
Life and thee, thou'rt from us never;
No, in thought thou'rt with us ever,
Rose, sweet rose.

SONG.

NoT with the empty homage of an eye,

Not with a flattering tongue's low-breathed deceit, Not with a false fair smile, O love, do I

The sumless bounty of thy passion meet;

The winged life of every moment sees

Falsehood come masked like truth in shows like these.

But with a love that all it inly feels,

Even from the hidden questioning of thine eye, Prisoned within its secret heart conceals,

Where none but trusting faith its truth can spy, Or if a sudden sigh its tale hath told,

'Twas what the passionate heart no more could hold.

Then ask not, lady, that in vaunting show

My passion's truth should live before thine eye; Let it content thee that thou well dost know

How cored within my heart thy love doth lie; An acted love let others, lady, boast,

The love that's wordless, trust me, speaks the most.

SONG.

COME sing; come sing;
For what is the thing
That gladdens the heart like song?
Leave sighs and sorrow

And tears for the morrow,

And may they be strangers long!

True, some may say,

Wine makes us as gay,

But, trust me, friends, they're wrong;

To nothing has Earth,

I swear, given birth

That gladdens the heart like song.