The darkness of his eyes: now, mine they mock,

Blinded in turn by tears: now, mur

murous

Sad echoes of my young voice, years agone

Entoning from these leaves the Græcian phrase,

Return and choke my utterance. Books, lie down

In silence on the shelf there, within gaze!

And thou, clock, striking the hour's pulses on,

Chime in the day which ends these parting days!

LOVED ONCE.

I CLASSED, appraising once, Earth's lamentable sounds; the well-aday,

The jarring yea and nay,

The fall of kisses on unanswering clay, The sobbed farewell, the welcome mournfuller ;

But all did leaven the air

With a less bitter leaven of sure despair,

Than these words 'I loved ONCE.'

And who saith 'I loved ONCE?' Not angels, whose clear eyes, love, love foresee,

Love through eternity,

And by To Love do apprehend To Be. Not God, called Love, his noble crown-name,-casting

A light too broad for blasting! The great God changing not from everlasting,

Saith never, I loved ONCE.'

Oh, never is 'Loved ONCE,' Thy word, thou Victim-Christ, misprized friend

Thy cross and curse may rend; But having loved Thou lovest to the end!

It is man's saying-man's. Too weak

to move

One sphered star above,

Man desecrates the eternal God-word, Love

With his No More, and Once.

How say ye, 'We loved once, Blasphemers? Is your earth not cold

enow,

Mourners, without that snow?

Ah, friends! and would ye wrong each other so?

And could ye say of some whose love is known,

Whose prayers have met your own, Whose tears have fallen for you, whose smiles have shone

So long, We loved them ONCE?'

Could ye, 'We loved her once,' Say calm of me, sweet friends, when out of sight?

When hearts of better right

Stand in between me and your happy light?

And when, as flowers kept too long in the shade,

Ye find my colors fade,

And all that is not love in me, decayed?

Such words-Ye loved me ONCE!

Could ye, We loved her once,' Say cold of me when further put away In earth's sepulchral clay? When mute the lips which deprecate to-day?

Not so! not then-least then! When Life is shriven,

And Death's full joy is given,— Of those who sit and love you up in Heaven,

Say not, 'We loved them once.'

Say never, ye loved ONCE!

God is too near above, the grave, beneath,

And all our moments breathe Too quick in mysteries of life and death,

For such a word. The eternities avenge Affections light of range

There comes no change to justify that change,

Whatever comes-loved ONCE!

"Fill all the stops of life with tuneful breath." Poems on Man, by Cornelius Matthews.*

WE are borne into life-it is sweet, it is strange!

We lie still on the knee of a mild Mystery,

Which smile with a change!

But we doubt not of changes, we know not of spaces;

The Heavens seem as near as our own mother's face is,

And we think we could touch all the stars that we see ;

And the milk of our mother is white on our mouth!

And, with small childish hands, we are turning around

The apple of Life which another has found;

It is warm with our touch, not with sun of the south,

And we count, as we turn it, the red side for four

Then we leap on the earth with the armor of youth,

And the earth rings again: And we breathe out, O beauty,'-we cry out, 'O truth,'

And the bloom of our lips drops with wine;

And our blood runs amazed 'neath the calm hyaline,

The earth cleaves to the foot, the sun burns to the brain,

What is this exultation, and what this despair ?-

The strong pleasure is smiting the nerves into pain,

And we drop from the Fair as we climb to the Fair,

And we lie in a trance at its feet; And the breath of an angel cold-piercing the air

Breathes fresh on our faces in swoon; And we think him so near, he is this

Help us, God, trust us, man, love us, woman! I hold

Thy small head in my hands,-with its grapelets of gold

Growing bright through my fingers,like altar for oath,

'Neath the vast golden spaces like witnessing faces

That watch the eternity strong in the troth

I love thee, I leave thee, Live for thee, die for thee! I prove thee, deceive thee, Undo evermore thee! Help me, God, slay me, man!-one is mourning for both !'

And we stand up though young near the funeral-sheet

Which covers the Cæsar and old Pharamond;

And death is so nigh us, Life cools from its heat

O Life, O Beyond,

Art thou fair,-art thou sweet?

Then we act to a purpose-we spring up erect

We will tame the wild mouths of the

wilderness steeds:

We will plough up the deep in the ships double decked;

We will build the great cities, and do the great deeds,

Strike the steel upon steel, strike the soul upon soul.

Strike the dole on the weal, overcoming the dole,

Let the cloud meet the cloud in a grand thunder-roll!

While the eagle of Thought rides the tempest in scorn,

Who cares if the lightning is burning the corn?

Let us sit on the thrones

In a purple sublimity,
And grind down men's bones
To a pale unanimity!

Speed me, God!--serve me, man!—I am god over men!

When I speak in my cloud, none shall answer again

'Neath the stripe and the bond,
Lie and mourn at my feet!'-
O thou Life, O Beyond,
Thou art strange, thou art sweet!

Then we grow into thought,-and with inward ascensions,

Touch the bounds of our Being! We lie in the dark here, swathed doubly around

With our sensual relations and social conventions,

Yet are 'ware of a sight, yet are 'ware of a sound

Beyond Hearing and Seeing,Are aware that a Hades rolls deep on all sides

With its infinite tides

About and above us,-until the strong

Such as children wish to climb, Following their own prayers.

In the mutest of the house,

I will have my chamber: Silence at the door shall use Evening's light of amber, Solemnising every mood, Softening in degree, Turning sadness into good As I turn the key.

Be my chamber tapestried
With the showers of summer,
Close, but soundless,-glorified
When the sunbeams come here;
Wandering harper, harping on
Waters stringed for such,
Drawing colour for a tune,
With a vibrant touch.

Bring a shadow green and still
From the chestnut forest,
Bring a purple from the hill,
When the heat is sorest;
Spread them out from wall to wall,
Carpet-wove around,
Whereupon the foot shall fall
In light instead of sound.

Bring the fantastic cloudlets home
From the noontide zenith;
Range for sculptures round the room
Named as Fancy weeneth:
Some be Junos, without eyes;
Naiads, without sources;
Some be birds of paradise,
Some, Olympian horses.

Bring the dews the birds shake off,
Waking in the hedges,-
Those too, perfumed for a proof,
From the lilies' edges:

From our England's field and moor,
Bring them calm and white in;
Whence to form a mirror pure
For love's self-delighting.

Bring a grey cloud from the east
Where the lark is singing;
Something of the song at least,
Unlost in the bringing:
That shall be a morning chair,
Poet-dream may sit in,