BRAHMA'S ANSWER.

ONCE, when the days were ages,
And the old Earth was young,
The high gods and the sages
From Nature's golden pages
Her open secrets wrung.

Each question'd each to know

Whence came the Heavens above, and whence the Earth

below.

Indra, the endless giver

Of every gracious thing
The gods to him deliver,
Whose bounty is the river

Of which they are the spring,—
Indra, with anxious heart,

Ventures with Vivochunu where Brahma is apart.

"Brahma! Supremest Being!

By whom the worlds are made,—
Where we are blind, all-seeing,—
Stable, where we are fleeing,

Of Life and Death afraid,

Instruct us, for mankind,

What is the body, Brahma! O Brahma! what the mind!"

Hearing as though he heard not,

So perfect was his rest,

So vast the Soul that err'd not,
So wise the lips that stirr'd not,—

His hand upon his breast

He laid, whereat his face

Was mirror'd in the river that girt that holy Place!

They question'd each the other

What Brahma's answer meant.

Said Vivochunu-" Brother!
Through Brahma the great Mother

Hath spoken her intent:

Man ends as he began—

The shadow on the water is all there is of Man!"

"The Earth with woe is cumber'd,

And no man understands;
They see their days are number'd
By one that never slumber'd

Nor stay'd his dreadful hands.

I see with Brahma's eyes,

The body is the shadow that on the water lies."

Thus Indra, looking deeper,
With Brahma's self possess'd.
So dry thine eyes, thou weeper!
And rise again, thou sleeper!

The hand on Brahma's breast
Is his divine assent,

Covering the soul that dies not. This is what Brahma

Never lived a man

They have not betray'd.
None shall 'scape my mirth
But old Mother Earth.

Safely housed with her,
With no company
But my brother Worm,
Who will feed on me,
I shall slumber sound
Deep down under ground.

THE DYING LOVER.

THE grass that is under me now
Will soon be over me: Sweet!
When you walk this way again
I shall not hear your feet.

You may walk this way again
And shed your tears like dew:
They will be no more to me then
Than mine are now to you.

UNDER THE ROSE.

SHE wears a rose in her hair,

At the twilight's dreamy close:
Her face is fair, how fair
Under the rose !

I steal like a shadow there,
As she sits in rapt repose,
And whisper my loving prayer
Under the rose.

She takes the rose from her hair,
And her colour comes and goes,
-a lover will dare
Under the rose.

And I,

ELIZABETH DREW BARSTOW STODDARD.

Born at Mattapoisett, Mass: 1823.

A SUMMER NIGHT.

I FEEL the breath of the Summer Night,
Aromatic fire:

The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir
With tender desire.

The white moths flutter about the lamp,
Enamour'd with light;

And a thousand creatures softly sing
A song to the Night.

But I am alone, and how can I sing
Praises to thee?

Come, Night! unveil the beautiful soul
That waiteth for me.

MERCEDES.

UNDER a sultry, yellow sky,
On the yellow sand I lie;

The crinkled vapours smite my brain,
I smoulder in a fiery pain.

Above the crags the condor flies,-
He knows where the red gold lies;
He knows where the diamonds shine:
If I knew, would she be mine?

Mercedes in her hammock swings,-
In her court a palm tree flings
Its slender shadow on the ground,
The fountain falls with silver sound.

ELIZABETH DREW BARSTOW STODDARD.

Her lips are like this cactus cup,—
With my hand I crush it up,

I tear its flaming leaves apart:
Would that I could tear her heart!

Last night a man was at her gate:
In the hedge I lay in wait:
I saw Mercedes meet him there,
By the fire-flies in her hair.

I waited till the break of day,
Then I rose and stole away;
But left my dagger in her gate;—
Now she knows her lover's fate.

ON THE CAMPAGNA.

STOP on the Appian Way,
In the Roman Campagna,-
Stop at my tomb,

The tomb of Cecilia Metella!
To-day as you see it

Alaric saw it, ages ago,
When he, with his pale-visaged Goths,
Sat at the gates of Rome,
Reading his Runic shield.
Odin! thy curse remains.

Beneath these battlements

My bones were stirr'd with Roman pride,
Though centuries before my Romans died:
Now my bones are dust; the Goths are dust.
The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king;
My tomb remains.

When Rome commanded the earth

Great were the Metelli:

I was Metullus' wife;

I loved him, and I died.

Then with slow patience built he this memorial :
Each century marks his love.

S

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