^^^.^-"^'^-^':<- ';«' £* Bl LIES AND HOSES C< Ji> v« H* English and Latin POEMS tjH Jerome J. Licari «^ o^ K> K* New York. 1906 M ^ iILIESano SOSES ei y^ kM ^ English and Latin POEMS Jerome J. Licari ^ H^ H^ New York, 1906 PS35 7.^ LIBRARY of CONGRESS Two OoDles Received FEB 1 1906 ^Cooyriffht Entry CUSS fl/^)6lc. No. copy B. 5? TO PROF. WILLIAM A. NEIL SEN OF COLUiMBIA UNIVERSITY THE PRESENT VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, CONTENTS Beauty and Poetic Beauty PAGE I ' XIII Prologue At the Window The Lost Voice A Soliloquy The Dance To my Father The Clubman's Toast Seventh Heaven The Difference , Leopardi A Slip of the Pen A Woman's Tale Omar Khayham The Spell One More Unfortunate Palingenesis To Her Any Olivia Primrose Folly . The Sphynx . Secret . Semel in Anno . lyove's Impossibilities With Full Utterance A Sigh lyove and Death Latin Poems BEAUTY AND POETIC BEAUTY The Artist does not, and cannot harrow Beauty. He must create it. He can indeed inspire himself to Nature and find Her at most times a rich ore from which pure gold can be extracted, according to the spirit in which he digs for the magic find, and to his skill in the process of extraction; and when occasionally the ore is not auriferous he can, by some process of alchemic metamorphosis , un- known even to himself, transform into gold even the baser metals. However^ Natural Beauty does not by itself make Artistic Beauty. When any aspect of Nature is represented in Art it remains no more Nature than a fair face retains its physiognomical traits in the stream's mirrored image; which im- age is more or less clear and faithful as the stream's bed is clean, its course smooth, its waters trans- parent. And even when the mirrored image is clear, it is at best a cold reflection, a lifeless pho- tograph, and unless the Master endows it with his oivn life, by a miracle akin to the original ani- mation of the clay by the divine breath, the Gala- tea will not smile and cause to smile, weep and cause to weep. Poetic Beauty is the sovereign composite ex- cellence possessed by such a rhythmic word-repre- sentation of Nature or word-embodiment of some ideal conception as by appealing to the imagina- tion will, without apparent effort, make plain the poet's interpretation of the subject, and instantly awaken a consonance of sympathetic feeling. When- ever the poet succeeds in driving home some truth, from his point of view; whenever he makes perceptible unsuspected relations, as seen by him; whenever he breathes into his work so much of his enthusiasm, and of his passion, and of his life that it will throb and palpitate with a life of its own - he has created rsal Living Beauty; the only kind of Poetic Beauty, for Death has no place in the eternal sanctuary of Song. But how can the auriferous ore, or even the iron and lead of Nature be turned into poetic gold? It has been said of Living human Beauty that, to be perfect, it must possess four essential character- istics in their highest degree: Form, or a unifying symmetry of parts; Color, or a healthy agreable- ness of hues; Expression, or the mirror-like pliabi- lity of countenance that faithfully reflects the passions within; Grace, or the unconscious pleas- ingness of motion and ease of rest that sets off the other two to their best advantage. These four characteristicsof Living Beauty are unchange- able , Unity and Pleasingness being at their foundation. They are its elemental components, whether in Nature or in Art; either of which, II without any one of tlieni, cannot possess perfect Beauty. As far it lends itself to analysis, we shall consider Poetry in these its four essential charac- teristics, and make an inquiry into the laws gov- erning them. FORM is not at all the sensible part, Or verbal representation of P(ietry, but rather the shaping of thought: not the decanter but the liquid within, which may possess exactly the same cylindrical and spherical properties of shape, but still is something distinct and separate from it. Form is the Unity of thought from its infinite side; it is the poet's spirit, which, like a sunbeam from on high, fills the decanter with light and in-forms it, shapes it, instead cf taking its shape from it. By showing its eternal relations and eternal side (and there is one eternal side to everything^ if we only view it from the right place) Poetry makes even a commonplace beautiful. For nothing can be said to die. Things may perish but Meanings and Relations perish not. In this sense the Universe is an eternal Garden of Hesperides, teeming with eternal golden Meaning-flowers. These flowers, viewless to vulgar eye, the poet revels in. plucks^ illumines with his genius, and presents to the world alongside of the frail, perishable object to rejoice in their perfume. Thus Poetic Form is the paral- lelism between the sensible and the un-sensible, the finite and the infinite, the visible and the invi- sible — the thing and its meaning, its place in life. We all know that men are to die; we have all III been taught that the soul does not die and hope that it may be so. Let us see how Alfred Ten- nyson shapes this thought, which is commonplace knowledge to all men, into poetic form: *' Our little systems have their day, They have their day and cease to he; They are hut hrolen lights of Thee, And ThoUy o Lord^ art more than they,'' In the first two lines the repetition of the same idea (I do not mean the tvords '* have their day^') endows the thought with a touch of timid delicacy; and the idea of End that follows, comes more abruptly after the repetition. But after the end of the visible, emerging like the chrysalis from its shell, comes the invisible: ** They are but broken lights of Thee; they seem to die, but die not because thine eternal light shines in their spirits, and Thou Who art more than they in power, and in goodness, couldst not have created them to die.'' Thus, soaring beyond the mortal, the yearning hope of the poet reads the meaning of Man, ard beautifies even the thought of Death. Again; " Thns runs my dream, hut tvhat am I ? And infant crying in the night, An infant crying for the light, And tvith no language hut a cry,^' And again: '' Her eyes are homes of silent prayer P iv in both of which instances there is a perfect parallelism between the known dark and helpless (infant in the night) and the unknown luminous and hippy (crying for the light) ; the Seen as nature (eyes) and the Seen as a visible symbol of Faith - the trustful hope in a glory beyond human helplessness. Then, whenever Poetry, pushing aside the mysterious curtain, points to a conti- nuation '' beyond the veil" it can never fail to be beautiful in its form: and it is beautiful only when it does that. The peculiar quality of Beauty, which in the human form results from such a harmony of colors as to create pleasingness, and indicate blooming healthfulness and vitality, is in Poetry called Style. STYLE is not in the thought; nor in the words; nor in the form; nor in the finish of a poem. It is in the Poet himself. And, like the Deity, the Poet creates in his own likeness. He cannot help it if hs says what he meaus, and means what he feels. Then his voice is clear and loud, because it has the ring of truth and passion; and he will be heard because his appeal touches all men; and he will be original because he transfuses his likeness, a part of his life into his poem; and he will be con- sistent because it is he, always he; he in the be- ginning, in the middle, and in the end; he all through that speaks. His diction may be poor, his rhymes occasionally imperfect; his rhythm oc- casionally defective or redundant; and the poem may therefore lack Grace; but it will move the very stones because it is meant, every word of it, and flows from the sacred Pierian well. ** Be near me ivlien my light is Imv^ When the Mood creeps and the nerves pricli And tingle; and the heart is side And all the wheels of Being sloiv; ** Be near me when the sensuous frame Is racled with pangs that conquer trust; And Time a maniac scattering dust^ And Life a Fnry slinging iiame. '' Be near me when mg faith is dry And men the flies of latter spring, That lay their eggs and sting and sing And weave their petty cells and die. '' Be near me ivhen 1 fade away To point the term' of human strife; And on the low, darlc verge of life The twilight of Eternal day,"^^ What is it that makes the style of these stan- zas so beautiful; what is it that gives them this peculiar color of sad beauty? We do not parti- cularly know. It is not the diction, becaruse others might use a diction as varied and precise without by far obtaining the same effect; it is not the thought, because it may be put in these few words which by far do not sound like the immortal stanzas of Tennyson: ** When I am dejected and doubting, when my sorrow is so intense that 1 feel it almost us a physical pain; when I am dis- gusted with the smalhiess of human lot; whe In die, be near me." The wish itself is absurd. The dead could not remember us and be interested in our human joys and sorrows without being in vSome measure affected by them, and therefore de- prived of their serene, tranquil happiness. Al- most at the threshold of the Nether World the Ancients wisely placed the Lethe, the river whose slow, dead waters blotted out all memory of the living. Tennyson knew all this, and still he wrote the stanzas, beautifying the thought by his yearn- ing after the Unknown; beautif^nig also the Style by his tender,. fluttering earnestness. Again: *' Ring out the false ^ ring in the true. ** Bing out the grief that saps the mind For those that here tee see no more, Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all manlcind. *' Ring out the ivant^ the care, the «i/i...." ** How broad he is in his sympathies, how goodj well-meaning, well-wishing to allmankindP' 1 his is the cry that those stanzas naturall3^ wring from us. We do not think of the stanzas as of a poem at all, but are lost in admiration for the Poet, because the poet has verily breathed into them so much of his passion that they reproduce in us the same vague but earnest desire that VII things were better, men purer, human destiny nobler. EXPRESSION lends itself more to examination. It may to an immense degree be enlarged and im- proved by study; it is a matter of long, careful discipline. Although by itself, Expression does not and cannot create Beauty, if is one of its most important factors. Indeed mere cleverness of representation, mere precision, mere imitation of Nature never make a poem beautiful when paral- lelism between th^ mortal and the immortal does not shine through it: still Expression must be pre- cise, imitative and suggestive with a beauty of its own; because it is through its transparency that we can discern the poet's conception — like a landscape through a windowg-lass. In other words the mechanism or technique of Poetic Art must be such as to mirror the whole thought; no more and no less. " Lo^ as a dove when up she ^springs To hear through Heaven a tale of woe; Some dolorous message knit belotv The wild pulsation of her wings; ' ' Like her I go . , . , , . ^' j±n saying Gomes he thus my friend? Is this the end of all my caref And circle moaning everywhere: Is this the end^ is this the end? ^- In the first stanza instead of saying: '' To vm bear through Heaven a tale of woe'* Tennyson might have substituted: " Bearing a letter of dire woe/* But the participle would have been a poor substitute for the infinitive because it would have not brought out definitely the idea of finality or purpose as the latter does; and again " letter '' would not have been half as suggestive as the graphic ** tale '*, because '/-tale *' can refer to the poet himself as well ss to the dove; lastly the adjective '* dire " thrown in to fill the metre, would have been a discordant pleonasm and spoiled the line. In th-^ last line of the same stanza he might have said: The '' rapid motion'^ of her wings; but how much effect would have been lost by the chang- ing of those two words ! The two substituted words might do as far as the dove is concerned; but the poet is comparing the dove to himself; and the point of contact, the double suggestiveness of '' tvild pulsation /' which may be also applied to the flight of the poet's rhythmic thought and the fluttering of his heart would have been lost. In the last stanza, which is a masterpiece cf tone-color, notice that he exclusively uses mono- syllables in repeating his words, or sobs; and in the third line, by the suggestiveness of the ** long O*' sound in " moaning^ " by using the *' R " in *' circle *' ('which is the verb or central idea of the clause) and repeating it twice in "everywhere/' he manages beautifully, to make us almost hear his disconsolate wailings reiterated again and IX again by the mid-ocean waves in liquid reso- nance, as the calls of dying Orpheus '' resonabant toto niimine'' along the shores of Tanarus. And by the by it may in passing be remarked that there is as much beauty of tone-color in the Virgilian line just quoted from: *' Eiiridicen toto rcsonahant fliimine ripae'\ where all the vowels are repeated from two to five times, to give the physical impression of echoe. But let us take another example from Tennyson, who is a consummate master of Expression: ** The seasons bring the flower again And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the diislc ofthee^ the cloelc Beats out the little lives of men.'' *' Spring returns and the mystery of birth returns, but men die." Aside from the beauty of rhythm, which we pre-suppose in a real poem; aside from the delicate parallel between the eternal round of the seasons and the short day of the *' little lives of men," the stanza has physical beauty of expression. It has alliteration, that sweet resonance of English verse, in every line: (1) bring, flower — (2) bring firstling, flock — (3) the, dusk, thee, the — (4) beats, men, little, lives. And you might imagine the monosyllabic last two lines to be a host of the short-lived little creatures whose lives the clock beats out so ruth- lessly in the shade of the yew-tree. Thus by the use of monosyllables he skillfully gains a different effect than the one gained in the above example. The last quality of Poetry is Grace. Poetry can be suggestive and passionate without it but it can never be finished unless Grace smooths her brow and dimples her cheeks and chin. It may teach and it may move, but it will lack one of its most essential characteristics; it will be in homespun and calico, not in a dress fit for the world to gaze on and wonder; it will have the un- couthness of the ** buxom , blithe, debonair " country girl, who may be lovely in her way, but does not possess the ease and finish and fascination of the lovely and cultured young lady. By itself Grace is enough to make a human face liked at first sight, while its absence is always noticed and missed even in pleasing features. Speaking of Nero's face the historian Suetonius- says that it might be called handsome but it was ugly. He is right. Nero's face - in its drawing - may have been originally handsome; but his eyes could not shine with any other light than the lurid light of sensual desire; his nostrils must have opened and become almost feline, almost tigerish with long practice of cruelty; his mouth must have been hard arid drawn; and, setting off those hard features, the rounded cheeks and massive chin, which otherwise might have been indicative of strength became indicative of pampered brutality. His face could not be beatiful even if it was hand- some. It lacked Grace. But what is Grace? XI In the human countenance GRACE i? the eco- nomy cf motion and rest: in Poetry the economy of transition, or ease and smoothness. When, with- out apparent effort, ,the thought runs through the whole poem, like a stream in its natural bed so that you can discern its very bottom with every rising and falling of it, and every pebble and every grain of sand with never a boulder in the way to break its course, never a spar to blot or muddle it, you have Grace. Finish, smoothness, ease are the qualities of grace. It admits of no rough edges and broken lines; it is all glossy, all made up of curves. Forced rhymes, rhythmic imperfections, metrical irregularities, pleonasms, improprieties, all detraci from Grace. These few pathetic lines^ taken from Rossetti's ** Jennie*' are poetic in their form, style and expression but lack Grace: *'......... Nay^ Poor flower left torn since yesterday Until to morrow leave you hare; Foor handful of spring-MvsiteT Flung in the whirlpooVs shrieJcing face; Foor shdmefiil Jeanie^ full of grace, Thus with your head upon my knee . . ' ' Here '* flower,'* two syllables, is counted as one; *' water " must be pronunced '* watcire [' to rhyme with tare; **full of grace'' and '*thus" are pleonasms; and ** upon " is not proper because the poet's knees were not so very high and XII therefore Jennie was resting her head *'on*' them. Browning is sometimes ungraceful, both on account of his lack of absolute clearness and of his long or forced rhymes: *' I will speech thy speech, lovCy Thinlc thy thought; '' Meetj if thou require it^ Both demands Laying flesh and spirit In thy hands.^' In these lines ** require it " rhymes with *' spirit'* which necessitates either the pronuncing of the former as *' require it '' or of the latter as '*spi-rit ", a disagreable cacophony in either case. Grace, therefore, is the plane, the veneer of Art; the quality that most conceals the author's effort of creation; the skill in handling tools; the perfect technique that screens the artist entirely, and leaves in view only the Poet. Each of the four characteristcs of Poetic Beauty, Form, Styi,k, Expression and Grace, is indispen- sable to perfect artistry. That a poem be worthy of the name it must possess the four, each to some degree; and although there is no poem that does not in some way sin against someone of them, still Beauty shines forth in its glory only when the four focus together to illuminate it with their collective splendor. Then the listener or reader will at once be struck by even one line, by even one phrase, and unconsciously bear witness to the law by exclaiming, " How beautiful ! ". XIII ENGLISH POEMS Prologue Odi profanum vulgus et arceo. Horace Thp:sk simple rhymes, bediglit In the heart's speech and glowing Only with modest light Of feeling (not of knowing); I resign Not to the Sage's eye That will split hairs and pry And raise the hue and cry About a careless line; But to eyes that have smiled and have wept (as did mine. At llie Window. LOVK ICONOCI.ASM Itself unkings; It makes the temple of the heart a chasm Of howling things. The hand deicidal That from its shelf Detrones a broken yet long-cherished idol, Dethrones itself. I would go and speak For old times' sake: " The will is adamantine, the heart weak; The heart will ache; ^'^For it loves you stilly It worships you! -— Even no'w as, gazing from my window sill On the Avenue, *' I descry the dude And fair sweetheart, A sense of bitter void, of orphanhood Wrings it apart. *' Passionless my face; Yet what a task Over the yearning that would fain embrace To wear Pride's mask! 2 *' Beauty's paragon, My sweet rose-wreath, I love the very ground you tread upon, The air you breathe. *' I could kiss you now; At your feet lie To feel your hand as light upon my brow As butterfly, '^ As of old, disband Dark broods of care; There was a world of sweetness in that hand Naught can repair. '^ We will not recall What seemed deceit In you and was my blunder all in all, My self-conceit: ^' Falsehood, subterfuge And reprimandings Were all my fault, whence rose disastrous, huge Misunderstandings. *' Though my fond heart bled Yet, inexpert, In wounding your unconscious little head Knew not it hurt. ** The harsh words I've spoken With anger fraught Forbear; now listen to Love's words, the token Of nobler thought. " Kiss me passion-drunk, Entomb regret; Love will prevail and float when Spite has sunk, Love will forget. *' Give again, O give Your tender sigh That fanned my longing so; your fugitive Brown glance of eye; '' And my wrath will ce^se With this long kiss, Earnest and seal of everlasting peace And long-lived bliss/' Yet Pride casqued, the Mind, Hard conqueress, On the clay-footed deity unshrined Treads pitiless. And the Mind is right, And the Heart has lost: O Disappointment, poison, aconite, O nipping frost! Well, Heartj well-awake; There goes thy knell — She was deceitful; — break thou weakling, break^ But bid farewell! The Lost Yoke. For what has the wise more than the fool ? ICccleslastes VI, 8 Flowers asleep in yonder dewy fields Down in the valley that sweet perfnme yields; Mountains that rise in phantom, solemn still From the dark night; long, winding, whispering Ruffling thy rippled length of silvery waves; (rill Dismal enclosure glimmering with graves; Bright stars and milky moonlight; fair starshine On dreaming honeysuckle and woodbine — Herbs, waters, plants, trees, stones, Sea, Earth Tell me, O tell me, what and who am I. (and Sky A Soliloquy Features of heavy mold and forehead white; Heaps of brown hair; A pretty twitch of mouth; eyes large, keen, bright; Arched brows, so fair So fair that or unbent or knitting high In haughtiness Their pure curve falls on the beholder^s eye As a caress; Plump form erect in carriage; speech refined; A laughing glee With teeth of pearl; an unpoetic mind; All this is She. And (why deny it?) WMth the small retail Of mirth, and joke, And playful repartee and merry tale, I would provoke Often her laugh, and please her with my tongue That nothing checks From running on, especially among The wordy sex. Still somehow those great eyes, to mine annoy^, Stagger my thought; My jest dies, pshaw! I blush as a schoolboy In mischief caught* 6 The fluent glibness dwindles into weak Words: pleasantry And shallow platitudes that ill bespeak My hidden plea. What can she think me? Empty-minded drone, Slow-tongued and cool Formalist; doltish prig best let alone; Pedantic fool? Suppose she read this nonsense. Would she laugh In merriment And say she has long written the epitaph Of sentiment; Or would she lend a flattered eye and ear To every word And utter what the heart most longs to hear — Pish, how absurd! Confound it all; oh I deserve the cane! I caterwaul Morbidly again; I must be in love again, Confound it all! 7 The clance Her step is music and ber life is song. Bailey Hark it begins! The violins Are starting stealingly — Here we go 'round Skipping the ground In measured steps. Dearest, entwine Your arms around me, While the tune, wound In thin meanders Labyrinthine; And the swift circling Dance; and perhaps Your soft, warm breast Beating on mine So close, so pressed; Your sheen of hair^ And forehead fair; Cheeks lily-red, And neck imperial, And smile etherial Go to my head Like wine, like wine. The festooned wall The teeming hall, All, all is vanishing! I know that pacing, Spinning and racing, Blazing on blazing Eye fixed, we go; That near, that here Are you, the fleetest- Footed and sweetest Of all the rest; That I am blest; That somehow, swinging To and fro. We soar together On the light feather Of dreaming love To a blessed sphere Above, above That small, mean world.... But what? Confound it; The music stops! Flushed, breathless, reeling (So swift we whirled) To me you've bowed And sat: — astounded At dames and fops I gaze, ah fallen from a golden cloud! To my Father FoRGiVK my smiling! Filial piety, Bones of my father, never lost its pith; Ye were the kindest of all kin and kith E'er left his friend on Life's benighted quay. I smiled, I could! among the heart's debris Wherein thy Memory, cherished mcnolith, Alone remains of all the noble myth Thou wert! — Forgive my blind aberrancy. I smiled again lost in the laughing crowd, Bejeweled ladies, maidens volatile And gentlemen who jested, smirked and bowed. I smiled as if thou liv'dst; and now m}^ brain After a night of thought is haunted still For thou art dead yet; I could smile again. 10 The Clubman's Toast. Drown in the goblet All ache and pain, Quaff the convivial Mantling champagne; Toast to the blissful Surcease of cark; Hey-day, be cheerful Symposia rch ! Worrying anxieties About us fly, Things are three-legged And stand awry; Morn, noon and evening We vainly strive Stoutly to quiet The heart's bee-hive; Mirth may be tinkling. Ding-ding, its ring, And we may simper — But the bees sting. We blather leering The well-bred leer, Listen to blathering We would not hear; 11 When Disappointment Fills us with spite We souce in spitefulness Regret, and bite, Thinking acidity To others may Our own dispepsia Somewhat allay; — Two-faced as Jano We wear the cheery Face on the surface, Deep-down the weary. But when conies vine- crowned Bacchus to fescue The yellow goblets — There is our rescue I Let's not like gentlemen Bite one another, But bearing manfully Relieve each brother Who from the clashing Of things askew Likewise was mangled And suffers too. Come, fill the goblets^ Throw away all cark; Hey-day, be cheerful Symposiarch! 12 Wine will all trouble Soon liquefy: Goodness deceived us, Love was a lie; Ruthless Experience With heavy maul Bruised and disfigured And dwarfed us all; But this all-solving Bright alcahest In lulled oblivion Will give us rest. 13 Seventh Heaven And I will kiss thee into rest. Byron Wk sat apart: beneath us the green dale Was hushed, for in the morning Nature slept; And grass and furze and peeping daisies wept Gems; and afar at sea there hove a sail. We sat at distance; she stern, trembling, pale; I brimful of my long-pent love that lept For utterance to my lips; yet something kept My lips as spellbound. Human heart, how frail! But as I looked up suddenly, mine eye Met hers; and then she turned a rosy-red A mellowest, loveliest, evanescent hue. And up she rose, and with quick step came by Dreamily; and seized and J^issed my burning head And breathed: " Yes, I... I... am fond of you. '' 14 The Difference Quoth the poor: '* Weak or strong, sad or gay. Every dog has his day. Make, ye rich, worldly-rash. Ducks and drakes of your cash; Enjoy; yet Nature's debt Needs be paid by each and all ! " Quoth the poor: " Through Death's door Pass no jewels, only a pall. Pomp, rags, Purity and Shame In the dust are all the same. " Quoth the rich: *VStrong or weak, sad or gay, Every dog has his day. Envy, O Indigent, bear Hardships, hunger, despair! Yet, Poor, yet Nature's debt Needs be paid by each and all ! " Quoth the rich: '* In a ditch I the great and you the small! But then I have had my fling And you've died of suffering." 16 Leopardi E I'infinita vanita del tutto. I^eopardi Soother of lonely hearts, bright Star of Eve, And Thou that from yon silver minaret Liftest thy pallid brow. Chaste Lunar Orb, and Thou Tranquil, blue sky which human jar and fret Does not grieve; Million eternal lamps that have beheld And soothed the multifarious agony Of sorrowing Solitude That caught and understood The hallowed whisperings of Immensitj^, Unexcelled; I grieve to-night; my heart i.i heavy, weary. My soul is burning slow; the foggy sense Precludes my clouded sight From all that's light and bright; And in mine anguish^ through Grief's darkening It all looks dreary. (lens, And palpitating like a troubled sea My being heaves with harmony of song; And the brain beats in tune With rhythm opportune; And mournfully the ready verse, heart-sprung. Gushes free. 16 Ah Stars, ye frowned upon my natal day, And but for knowledge of my inner strength That all the shafts of Fate Breaks or spurns, and the innate Reliance to vanquish Difficulty at length -— I'd give way. I should give way 'neath the burthen of cares That weigh me down unmerciful — • in sooth Wasting my Youth that goes As a neglected rose, And in my ken distorting even Truth Unawares For all we live and suffer and enjoy Does to Conviction and Belief give birth; And void Philosophy Echoes the heart; and the wee Mind shapes in theories its mere Woe or Mirth Or Annoy. As a poor sapling grown beneath a high Mountain out of the sun in the damp gloom, Far from the smiling green Of plains and the serene Exhilaration of the fields in bloom — So was I. 17 Poor sapling in the land of life, I grew In shade and dampness. Stars, ah not one flower To cheer the waste around: Not one look, not one sound; And on the sear heart withering hour b}^ hour^ No fresh dew. And all the storms have shaken from the root Oft my existence; all the winds have raged Over my head and strown Hope's blossoms, Love half-blown, Leaving me, when the fond heart least presaged, Destitute. Yet I have borne with strength and I have won Alway: the North-wind passed, the storm appeased, I did stand firm again, Glad to have conquered when the thundering In the sun. (ceased. They say that, as the athlete's sinews niay Harden and grow but in contested strife More every wrestle, so Does our endurance grow More and more in the hard arena of Life With each fray. 18 To Her ..... And now my Kate To thee whose smallest ringlet's fate Conveys more interest to my soul That all the Powers from pole to pole. Tlios. Moore Number thine hair of bold Resplendent ebon; then Make it one-million-fold And treble it again — Sweetest, you'll not half-equal All I would win for you: name, place and gold. Count the leaves of the vine, The sand-banks grain by grain, The beams in the starshine, pThe drops of sun- pearled rain — Sweetest you'll not half- equal The joys you shed in this glad life of mine. Count the trees in the grove, Count the birds in the air, , Then mark me when my hair Is touched but by your glove - Birds and trees will not equal The tremblings and the flutterings of my love. 27. Any OliTia Primrose sunt lacrymae refum.- Virgil Come sister, lay thy head upon this knee, Clasp thus about my burning frame thy wee Arms innocent and fresh, Thus! let me feel that some still care for me. Tve brought our name to irreparable woe, Sister, a name that was as virgin snow; I knew not, sister, knew not! Yet Sin will find us out, whatso, whoso The deed be or the doer! inculpable All who did wrong perhaps through blindness fell; Yet Nature's scales are true And each wrong deed brings an avenging hell. I dreamt a dream of horror yesternight; I floated in the dark; with gall and spite Spoke an ill whisper nigh: ** This is thy life's dark waste; seek not for light/' Then from a distant, roaring, swelling tide L