THE SPANISH GYPSY.

George Eliot (in propria persona). 'Tis the warm South, where Europe spreads her lands Like fretted leaflets, breathing on the deep : Broad-breasted Spain, leaning with equal love On the Mid Sea that moans with memories, And on the untravelled.Ocean's restless tides.

Within Bedmár Has come the time of sweet serenity When colour glows unglittering, and the soul Of visible things shows silent happiness, As that of lovers trusting though apart. The ripe-cheeked fruits, the crimson-petalled flowers; The wingèd life that pausing seems a gem Cunningly carven on the dark green leaf ; The face of man with hues supremely blent To difference fine as of a voice 'mid sounds :

Each lovely light-dipped thing seems to emerge
Flushed gravely from baptismal sacrament.
All beauteous existence rests, yet wakes,
Lies still, yet conscious, with clear open eyes
And gentle breath and mild suffusèd joy.
'Tis day, but day that falls like melody
Repeated on a string with graver tones-
Tones such as linger in a long farewell.

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And still the light is changing : high above
Float soft pink clouds ; others with deeper flush
Stretch like flamingos bending toward the south.
Comes a more solemn brilliance o'er the sky,
A meaning more intense upon the air-
The inspiration of the dying day.

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JUAN'S SONG.

Day is dying! Float, O song,

Down the westward river,
Requiem chanting to the Day-

Day, the mighty Giver.

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds,

Melted rubies sending
Through the river and the sky,

Earth and heaven blending ;

All the long-drawn earthy banks

Up to cloud-land lifting :
Slow between them drifts the swan,

'Twixt two heavens drifting.

Wings half open, like a flower

Inly deeper flushing,
Neck and breast as virgin's pure-

Virgin proudly blushing.

Day is dying! Float, O swan,

Down the ruby river ;
Follow, song, in requiem

To the mighty Giver.

Infant

awe, that unborn breathing thing, Dies with what nourished it, can never rise From the dead womb and walk and seek new pasture.

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Even images of stone
Look living with reproach on him who maims,
Profanes, defiles them.

The fond Present that, with mother-prayers And mother-fancies looks for championship Of all her loved beliefs and old-world ways From that young Time she bears within her womb.

It has been so with rulers, emperors,
Nay, sages who held secrets of great Time,
Sharing his hoary and beneficent life-
Men who sate throned among the multitudes,
They have sore sickened at the loss of one.

PABLO'S SONG.

The world is great : the birds all fly from me,
The stars are golden fruit upon a tree
All out of reach : my little sister went,

And I am lonely.

The world is great : I tried to mount the hill
Above the pines, where the light lies so still,
But it rose higher : little Lisa went,

And I am lonely.

The world is great : the wind comes rushing by, I wonder where it comes from ; sea-birds cry And hurt my heart : my little sister went,

And I am lonely.

:

The world is great : the people laugh and talk, And make loud holiday : how fast they walk ! I'm lame, they push me : little Lisa went,

And I am lonely.