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Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,

Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.

She only said, “ My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !”

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,

The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay

Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.

Then said she, “ I am very dreary,

He will not come,” she said ; She wept, “ I am aweary, aweary,

Oh God, that I were dead !”

ΤΟ

1. CLEAR-HEADED friend, whose joyful scorn, Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain

The knots that tangle human creeils,
The wounding cords that bind and strain

The heart until it bleeds,
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn

Roof not a glance so keen as thine:

If aught of prophecy be mine,
Thou wilt not live in vain.

2.
Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit;

Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow :

Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit.
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords

Can do away that ancient lie;

A gentler death shall Falsehood die,
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words.

3.
Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch,

Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need,
Thy kingly intellect shall feed,

Until she be an athlete boll,
And weary with a finger's touch
Those writhed limbs of lightning speed;

Like that strange angel which of old,
Until the breaking of the light,
Wrestled with wandering Israel,

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night,
And heaven's mazed signs stood still
In the dim tract of Penuel.

MADELINE.

1.
Thou art not steep'd in golden languors,
No tranced summer calm is thine,

Ever varying Madeline.
Thro' light and shadow thou dost range,

Sudden glances, sweet and strange,
Delicious spites and darling angers,
And airy forms of flitting change.

2.
Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou art perfect in love-lore.
Revealings deep and clear are thine
Of wealthy smiles : but who may know
Whether smile or frown be tleeter?
Whether smile or frown be sweeter,

Who may know?
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow
Light-glooming over eyes divine,
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine,

Ever varying Madeline.
Thy smile and frown are not aloof

From one another,
Each to each is dearest brother ;

Hues of the silken sheeny woof
Momently shot into each other.

All the mystery is thine ;
Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou art perfect in love-lore,
Ever varying Madeline.

3.
A subtle, sudden flame,
By veering passion fann'd,

About thee breaks and dances;
When I would kiss thy hand,
The flush of anger'd shame

O’erflows thy calmer glances,
And o'er black brows drops down
A sudden-curved frown:
But when I turn away,
Thou, willing me to stay,
Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest ;

But, looking fixedly the while,
All my bounding heart entanglest

In a golden-netted smile ;
Then in madness and in bliss,
If my lips should dare to kiss
Thy taper fingers amorously,
Again thou blushest angerly;
And o'er black brows drops down
A sudden-curved frown.

SONG. – THE OWL.

1. Whey cats run home and light is come,

And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

2.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,

And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch

Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

SECOND SONG.

TO THE SAME.

1.
Tuy tuwhits are lull'd I wot,

Thy tuwhoos of yesternight,
Which upon the dark atloat,

So took echo with delight,
So took echo with delight,

That her voice untuneful grown,
Wears all day a fainter tone.

2.
I would mock thy chant anew;

But I cannot mimic it ;
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo,

Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,

With a lengthen'd loud halloo,
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o.

RECOLLECTIONS

OF

THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free
In the silken sail of infancy,
The tide of time flow'd back with me,

The forward-flowing tide of time;

And many a sheeny suminer-morn,
Adown the Tigris I was borne,
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted golu,
High-walled gardens green and old ;
True Mussulman was I and sworn,
For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Anight my shallop, rustling thro'
The low and bloomed foliage, drove
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove
The citron-shadows in the blue :
By garden porches on the brim,
The costly doors flung open wide,
Gold glittering thro’ lamplight dim,
And broider'd sofas on each side:

In sooth it was a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard
The outlet, did I turn away
The boat-head down a broad canal
From the main river sluiced, where all
The sloping of the moon-lit sward
Was damask-work, and deep inlay
Of braided blooms unmown, which crept
Adown to where the water slept.

A goodly place, a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

A motion from the river won
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm,
Until another night in night
I enter'd, from the clearer light,
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm,
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome

Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

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