"Nay-yet it chafes me that I could not bend

One will; nor tame and tutor with mine eye

That duli cold-blooded Cæsar. Prythee, friend,

Where is Mark Antony?

"The man, my lover, with whom I rodo sublime

On fortune's neck; we sat as God by God:

The Nilus would have risen before his time

And flooded at our nod.

"We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit

Lamps which outburn'd Canopus.
O my life

In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit,
The flattery and the strife,

And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms,

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leapt into my a.ms, Contented there to die!

And there he died: and when I heard my name

Sigh' forth with life I would not brook my fear

Of the other with a worm I balk'd his fame.

What else was left? lock here!"

(With that she tore her robe apart, and half

The polish'd argent of her breast to sight

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh,

Showing the aspick's bite.)

"I died a Queen. The Roman soldier

found

Me lying dead, my crown about my brows,

A name for ever!-lying robed and crown'd,

Worthy a Roman spouse."

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range

Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance

From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change

Of liveliest utterance.

When she made pause I knew not for delight;

Because with sudden motion from the ground

She raised her piercing orbs, and fill'd with light

The interval of sound.

Still with their fires Love tipt his keen

est darts:

As once they drew into two burning rings

All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts

Of captains and of kings.

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard

A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn,

And singing clearer than the crested bird,

That claps his wings at dawn. "The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israei From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon,

Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell,

Far-heard beneath the moon. "The balmy moon of blessed Israel Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine:

All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell

With spires of silver shine."

As one that museth where broad sunshine laves

The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door

Ilearing the holy organ rolling waves Of sound on roof and floor

Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and tied

To where he stands, -so stood I, when that flow

Of music left the lips of her that died To save her father's vow;

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, A maiden pure; as when she went

along

From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light,

With timbrel and with song.

My words leapt forth: "Heaven heads the count of crimes With that wild oath."

answer high:

She render'd

"Not so, nor once alone: a thousand

times

I would be born and die.

"Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root

Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath,

Feeding the flower; but cre my flower to fruit

Changed, I was ripe for death.

"My God, my land, my father-these did move

Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave,

Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love

coarse and poor!

Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor Do hunt me, day and night."

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust:

To whom the Egyptian: "O, you tamely died!

You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust

The dagger thro' her side."

With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams,

Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery

Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams

Ruled in the castern sky.

Morn broaden'd on the borders of tho
dark,

Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her
last trance

Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of

A light of ancient France;

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death,

Who kneeling, with one arm about her king,

Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath,

Sweet as new buds in Spring.

No memory labors longer from the
deep

Gold-mines of thought to lift the
hidden ore

That glimpses, moving up, than I from
sleep

To gather and tell o'er

Each little sound and sight. With
what dull pain

Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to
strike

Into that wondrous track of dreams
again!

But no two dreams are like.

As when a soul laments, which hath
been blest,

Desiring what is mingled with past
years,

In yearnings that can never be exprest
By signs or groans or tears;
Because all words, tho' cull'd with
choicest art,

Failing to give the bitter of the
sweet,

Wither beneath the palate, and the
heart

Faints, faded by its heat.

MARGARET.

OSWEET pale Margaret,
O rare pale Margaret,

What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a falling shower?
Who lent vou, love, your mortal dower

Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn

Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves.

THE BLACKBIRD.

O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well:

While all the neighbors shoot theo round,

I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground,

Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park:

The unnetted black-hearts ripen
dark,

All thine, against the garden wall.
Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring,
Thy sole delight is, sitting still,
With that cold dagger of thy bill,
To fret the summer jenneting.
A golden bill! the silver tongue,
Cold February loved, is dry:
Plenty corrupts the melody
That made thee famous once, when
young:

And in the sultry garden-squares,

Now thy flute-notes are changed to

coarse,

I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning! he that will not sing

While you sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are

new,

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing:

Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low
For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,

Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still he doth not move :
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.

He gave me a friend, and a true true love,

And the New-year will take 'em away.
Old year, you must not go;
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die;

We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die, across the waste

His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend,

And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,

Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro :

The cricket chirps: the light burns low:

"Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin,
Alack our friend is gone.
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,

And a new face at the door, my friend,

A new face at the door.

TO J. S.

THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows

Moro softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould, And me this knowledge bolder made, Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe, 'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed,

Fall into shadow, soonest lost:

Those we love first are taken first, God gives us love. Something to love

He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. This is the curse of time. Alas!

In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass;

One went, who never hath return'd. He will not smile-not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is

seen

Empty before us. That was he

Without whose life I had not been.

Your loss is rarer; for this star

Rose with you thro' a little arc
Of heaven, nor having wander'd far
Shot on the sudden into dark.

I knew your brother: his mute dust
I honor and his living worth:
A man more pure and bold and just
Was never born into the earth.

I have not look'd upon you nigh,

Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep.

Great Nature is more wise than I:
I will not tell you not to weep.

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew,
Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain,
I will not even preach to you,

"Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain."

Let Grief be her own mistress still.
She loveth her own anguish deep
More than much pleasure. Let her wili
Be done-to weep or not to weep.

I will not say, "God's ordinance
Of Death is blown in every wind;"
For that is not a common chance
That takes away a noble mind.

His memory long will live alone

In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,

And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace! Memory standing near

Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote.

I wrote I know not what. In truth, How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth? Yet something I did wish to say: For he too was a friend to me:

Both are my friends, and my true

breast