THE SPANISH GYPSY. George Eliot (in propria persona). 'Tis the warm South, where Europe spreads her lands Within Bedmár Has come the time of sweet serenity When colour glows unglittering, and the soul As that of lovers trusting though apart. The ripe-cheeked fruits, the crimson-petalled flowers; Each lovely light-dipped thing seems to emerge And still the light is changing: high above 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- Day is dying! Float, O swan, Down the ruby river; Infant awe, that unborn breathing thing, Dies with what nourished it, can never rise From the dead womb and walk and seek new pasture. -0 Even images of stone Look living with reproach on him who maims, 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, Men who sate throned among the multitudes— PABLO'S SONG. THE world is great : the birds all fly from me, All out of reach: my little sister went, The world is great: I tried to mount the hill : And I am lonely. The world is great : the wind comes rushing by, 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. |