Tby worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit.

As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port, His guardian sea-god to commemorate, Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort,

And vibrant tail, within the templegate.

XXXvitt.

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write,

And ever since it grew more clean and

white, . . . Slow to world-greetings . . quick with

its 'Oh, list,' When the angels speak. A ring of

ametbyst

I could not wear here plainer to my sight,

Than that first kiss. The second passed in height

The first, and sought the forehead, and

half missed, Half falling on the hair. O beyond

meed!

That was the chrism of love with love's own crown,

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.

The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state! since when, indeed,

I have been proud and said, 'My Love, my own.'

XXXiX,

Because thou hast the power and own'st the grace

To look through and behind this mask of me,

(Against which years have beat thus

blanchingly With their rains!) and beheld my soul's

true face,

The dim and dreary witness of life's race :—

Because thou hast the faith and love to see,

Through that same soul's distracting lethargy,

I The patient angel waiting for his place ! In the new Heavens: because nor sin nor woe.

Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighborhood.

Nor all which others viewing, turn to

e°, • • .

Nor all which makes me tired of all,

self-viewed, . . Nothing repels thee, . . Dearest, teach

me so

To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!

XL.

Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours l

I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth,

I have heard love talked in my early youth,

And since, not so long back but that the flow ers

Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and Giaours

Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth

For any weeping. Polyphenie's white tooth

Slips on the nut, if after frequent showers

The shell is oversmooth; and not so much

Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate,

Or else to oblivion. But thou art not such

A lover, my Beloved! thou canst wait Through sorrow and sickness, to bring

souls to touch, And think it soon when others cry * Too

late.'

Xlt.

I Thank all who have loved me in their hearts,

With thanks and love from mine. Deep

thanks to all Who paused a little near the prison-wall, To hear my music in its louder parts. Ere they went onward, each one to the

mart's

Or temple's occupations, beyond all.

But thou, who in my voice's sink and fall,

When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot,

To hearken what I said between my tears, . .

Instruct me how to thank thee !—Oh, to shoot

My soul's full meaning into future years. That they should lend it utterance, and salute

Love that endures! with Life that disappears!

XLH.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth

and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of

sight

For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from
Praise;

I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my child-
hood's faith;
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with

the Dreath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if

God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

XL1t.

Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers

Plucked in the garden, all the summer through

And winter, and it seemed as if they grew

In this close room, nor missed the sun

and showers. So, in the like name of that love of ours. Take hack these thoughts which here

unfolded too,

And which on warm and cold days I withdrew

From my heart'sground. Indeed, those

beds and bowers Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue, And wait thy weeding: yet here's

eglantine,

Here's ivy !—take them, as I used to do Thy flowers, and keep them where they

shall not pine; Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours

true.

And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

My future will not copy fair my past.
I wrote that once; and thinking at my
side

My ministering life-angel justified
The word by his appealing look upcast
To the white throne of God, I turned at
last

And there, instead, saw thee; not unallied

To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried

By natural ills, received the comfort fast. While budding at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff

Gave out green leaves with morning

dews impearled. —I seek no copy now of life's first half! Leave here the pages with long musing

curled.

And write me new my future's epigraph. New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

PARAPHRASES ON HEINE.

Rome, tS60.
I.
t.

Out of my own great woe

I make my little songs.

Which rustle their feathers in throngs.

And beat on her heart even so.

These Translations wore only intended, many years ago, to accompany and explain certain Kngravingaafter ancient Gema, hi the projected work or a friend, by whose klndnenn they are now recovered ; but as two of the original series 1the "Adonis;" of Bton. and "Bong to tin, Rose," from Achlllea Talius had already been included in these poems, it la presumed that the remainder may not improperly appear. A single recent version la added.

PARAPHRASE ON THEOCRI-
TUS.

THE CYCLOPS.
(Idyl XI.)

And So an easier life our Cyclops drew. The ancient Polyphemus, who in youth

Loved Galatea, while the manhood grew Adown his cheeks and darkened round his mouth, No jot he cared for apples, olives, roses: Love made him mad: the whole world was neglected. The very sheep went backward to their closes

From out the fair green pastures, selfdirected.

And singing Galatea, thus, he wore The sunrise down along the weedy shore,

And pined alone, and felt the cruel wound

Beneath his heart, which Cypris's arrow bore. With a deep pang ; but, so, the cure was found;

And sitting on a lofty rock he cast His eyes upon the sea, and sang at last :—

'O whitest Galatea, can it-be

That thou shouldst spurn me off who

love thee so? More white than curds, my girl, thou

art to see.

More meek than lambs, more full of leaping glee Than kids, and brighter than the early glow

On grapes that swell to ripen,—sour like thee!

Thou comest to me with the fragrant sleep.

And with the fragrant sleep thou goest from me;

Thoufliest. . fliest, as a frightened sheep Flies the gray wolf!—yet Love did

overcome me, So long;—I loved thee, maiden, first

of all

When down the hills (my mother fast beside thee) I saw thee stray to pluck the summerfall

Of hyacinth bells, and went myself to guide thee: And since my eyes have seen thee, they can leave thee No more, from that day's light! But thou . , by Zeus, Thou wilt not care for that to let it grieve thee! I know thee, fair one, why thou spring est loose From my arm round thee. Why? I tell thee, Dear! One shaggy eyebrow draws its smudging road

Straight through my ample front, from ear to ear,— One eye rolls underneath ; and yawning, broad

Flat nostrils feel the bulging lips too near.

Yet . . ho, ho I—/,—whatever I appear,—

Do teed a thousand oxen! When I

have done, I milk the cows, and drink the milk

that's best! I lack no cheese, while summer keeps

the sun;

And after, in the cold, it's ready prest! And then, I know to sing, as there is none

Of all the Cyclops can, . . a song of thee.

Sweet apple of my soul, on love's fair tree.

And of myself who love thee . . till the West

Forgets the light, and all but I have rest. I feed for thee, besides, eleven fair does,

And all in fawn-; and four tame whelps of bears. Come to me, Sweet! thou shalt have all of those In change for love! I will net halve the shares. Leave the blue sea, with pure white arms extended To the dry shore; and in my cave's recess,

Thou shalt be gladder for the noonlight

ended,— For here be laurels, spiral cypresses. Dark ivy, and a vine whose leaves

enfold

Most luscious grapes ; and here is water cold.

The wooded ./Etna pours down through the trees From the white snows,—which gods were scarce too bold To drink in turn with nectar. Who

with these Would choose the salt wave of the lukewarm seas 1 Nay, look on me? If I am hairy and rough,

I have an oak's heart in me; there's a fire

In these gray ashes which burns hot enough;

And when I burn for thee, I grudge the pyre

No fuel . . not my soul, nor this one eye,—

Most precious thing I have, because thereby

I see thee, Fairest! Out, alasl I wish My mother had borne me finned like a fish,

That I might plunge down in the ocean near thee, And kiss thy glittering hand between the weeds, If still thy face were turned; and I would bear thee Each lily white, and poppy fair that bleeds

Its red heart down its leaves!—one gift, for hours

Of summer,. . one, for winter ; since, to cheer thee, I could not bring at once all kinds of flowers.