A strange square house, all battered, used to stand
Upon the Gascon coast, where sparse pines keep
A doubtful footing, as the salt winds sweep
The restless hillocks of ill-bladed sand.

A house? it was the bell-loft, Norman-plann'd,
Of long-lost Soulac's minster, buried deep
In sand, which Ocean never ceased to heap
In its eternal battle with the land.

All else was gone: fit image of the fate
That overtakes the rich and stately pile
Which, arch on arch, life's early dreams create.

The real slowly clogs it, nave and aisle,

As one who follows a departing friend,
Destined to cross the great, dividing sea,
I watch and follow these departing days,
That go so grandly, lifting up their crowns
Still regal, though their victor Autumn comes.
Gifts they bestow, which I accept, return,
As gifts exchanged between a loving pair,
Who may possess them as memorials
Of pleasures ended by the shadow — Death.
What matter which shall vanish hence, if both
Are transitory — me, and these bright hours —
And of the future ignorant alike?
From all our social thralls I would be free.

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As one who dreams, in a light sleep, may hear
Sounds through his dream, — bells, or passing steps
On the floor above him, or in the street below, —
Rhythmic, precise and clear:
Or voices muttering in an adjacent room,
Lifting a moment, to die again; —
Yet all the while he will pursue his dream,
Guessing a sinister purport in well-known sounds,
And still in his own deep silent world remain:
So now I guess the world from which I came,
In flares of light, ghosts of remembered sound,
Which haunt me here ... A voice, a street, a bell ...

As one that for a weary space has lain
Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine
In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where that AEaean isle forgets the main,
And only the low lutes of love complain,
And only shadows of wan lovers pine,
As such an one were glad to know the brine
Salt on his lips, and the large air again,--

So gladly, from the songs of modern speech
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free
Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers,
And through the music of the languid hours,

As one advances up the slow ascent
Along the pathway in the woods, the trees
Change aspect, nor alone in this, but change
In stature and in power till Solitude
Seems cut out of the ancient forest. Here
Was Solitude! where man had lived of old,
Loved, serving God, and built himself a home.
Man smooths an acre on the rolling earth,
Turns up the mould and reaps the gifts of God;
Plucks down the apple from the tree, the tree
From empire in the forest, builds a home;
Turns for a bout among his brothers, wins
A sister to his wife and gets an heir;

1
As once, if not with light regard
I read aright that gifted bard
(Him whose school above the rest
His loveliest Elfin Queen has blessed),
One, only one, unrivalled fair
Might hope the magic girdle wear,
At solemn tourney hung on high,
The wish of each love-darting eye;
Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,
As if, in air unseen, some hov'ring hand,
Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin fame,
With whispered spell had burst the starting band,
It left unblest her loathed, dishonoured side;
Happier, hopeless fair, if never

As oft as I behold and see
The sovereign beauty that me bound,
The nigher my comfort is to me,
Alas, the fresher is my wound.

As flame doth quench by rage of fire,
And running streams consume by rain,
So doth the sight that I desire
Appease my grief and deadly pain.

Like as the fly that seeth the flame
And thinks to play her in the fire,
That found her woe, and sought her game
Where grief did grow by her desire,

When first I saw these crystal streams
Whose beauty made this mortal wound;

To Minister and Mrs. Lincoln, on the death of their son A. Lincoln.

As o'er thy loved one now in grief ye bendeth,
 A Nation bows with thee, its sorrow lendeth,
That ye, grief-stricken should's not weep alone,
 Above the shrouded form of thy dear one.

But, as we shed with thee our silent tears,
 For him who bore himself beyond his years,
Hope bids us cease and banisheth our pain,
 And pleads your loss, his soul's eternal gain.

The reaper cuts the grain and lovely flowers,
 Transplants them in a fairer land than ours.

As o'er the hill we roam'd at will,
My dog and I together,
We mark'd a chaise, by two bright bays
Slow-moved along the heather:

Two bays arch-neck'd, with tails erect,
And gold upon their blinkers;
And by their side an ass I spied;
It was a travelling tinker's.

The chaise went by, nor aught cared I;
Such things are not in my way:
I turned me to the tinker, who
Was loafing down a byway:

I ask'd him where he lived — a stare
Was all I got in answer,
And on he trudged; I rightly judged

As o'er my latest book I pored,
Enjoying it immensely,
I suddenly exclaimed " Good Lord!"
And gripped the volume tensely.
" Golly!" I cried. I writhed in pain.
" They've done it on me once again!"
And furrows creased my brow.
I'd written (which I thought quite good)
" Ruth, ripening into womanhood,
Was now a girl who knocked men flat
And frequently got whistled at",
And some vile, careless, casual gook
Had spoiled the best thing in the book