Yet , even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour,
There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;
And there are tears, too—tears that Memory sheds
Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads.
When her heart misses one lamented guest,
Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest!
There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task,
And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom—forgive this joyless strain,
Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train.
But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter,

You love a legend. Here is one:
When Joseph warned in dreams by night
Took Mary and her Blessed Son
And they to Egypt made their flight,

As through the desert wild they went
By angels led and undismayed,
A flower sprang up of sweetest scent
Where'er the Virgin's steps were stayed.

'T is fabled that this flower since then
Blooms only on some feast-day high,
And chiefly when comes round again
The Feast of Christ's Nativity.

Be this sweet legend true or no,
'T is true that Mary went that way,
And true the Rose of Jericho

Yamato's land, that still with pow'r imperial
Our monarchs rule in undivided sway,
Since first the gods came down from realms ethereal
Hath never ceas'd those monarchs to obey.

Wherefore methought that while, in grand succession,
Prince after prince should rule earth's wide domain,
Throughout the myriad age's long procession
From Nara's palace would they choose to reign.

Sweet Nara! still in Mount Mikasa's bowers,
When circling mists proclaimed the pow'r of Spring,
Dark'ning the forest bloomed the cherry-flowers,

Ye airs of sunny spring, that softly blow
With whisp'ry breathings o'er the grasses blade;
Ye grass-bespangling flow'rs—too soon to fade—
That now with gemlike brightness round me grow;
Ye saplings small and green-bough'd trees, that throw
Your waving shadows on the sunny glade;
Thou lowland stream, whose winding waters flow
Like molten silver to the hoarse cascade:

Give vice the noisy town, and let the great
Ride mighty o'er the earth with pride and pow'r;
Give avarice his gold: but let me flee

Where cold and selfish hearts live not to hate

Ye that when surges covered the stars
Spat at the soaring sea
Captains bold, to a bolder heart
Gather and bow the knee.

See in his eyes a stranger star
Of peril and prowess done
Last night he made him a narrow bed
And laid him down thereon.

He gave his limbs to the starry laws
To swathe and guard and keep
He gave his soul to the unknown God
And dared to be asleep.

One long glad day to blow and shine
Given—and left behind
Hope—look ye that seek a sign—
Look, ye fools and blind.

Yes, you are weary, and it is most right—
This is a blessed light
Wherein you ask to sleep:
How soft it falls! How delicately creep
The perfumed airs upon your breast!
Sleep on! sleep on! rest! rest!

Ah, it was glorious fun up there,
You little devil-may-care!
Such flowers to kiss, such pebbles to chide,
Such crabbed old carls of roots to deride,
Flouting them with your saucy riot!
Yes, yes! But now be quiet!

For after all the stones were rough,
And you've had fun enough.
See! it is O, so peaceful here!

You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb.
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.

You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
--I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,

Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came

You go to my head
And you linger like a haunting refrain,
And I find you spinning 'round in my brain
Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne.
You go to my head
Like a sip of sparkling Burgundy brew,
And I find the very mention of you
Like the kicker in a julep or two.
The thrill of the thought
That you might give a thought
To my plea
Casts a spell over me.
Still, I say to myself,
“Get ahold of yourself,
Can't you see
That it never can be.”
You go to my head
With a smile that makes my temp'rature rise,

You sneer at me, and cry forsooth—
Because within my heart I hold
This visage grim, and form uncouth,
Better than beauty, or than gold.

Why prate of things that have no charm
To stay the withering breath of age?
Lo, here within this brawny arm,
I hold what can all griefs assuage.

The subtle mechanism of thought,
That grows to fruitage in the brain,
By this strong hand to shape is wrought,
Until it stands complete and plain.

I know that beauty gladdens life,
That wealth and comfort are allied,

You were dressed in leather pants,
With moccasins upon your feet,
And on your head a round
Coon-skin cap stood, and the tails
Of the cap dropped to your back.
You had a flint-lock rifle in your hands,
And a powder-horn hung from your belt.
Kindness and savageness
Rested on your rough and hairless face,
And the paradox resembled
The wilderness through which you strode.
Something variable, strong,
And irresistible was held
By your hooked nose, eyes, and wide, close lips:
Something like the weather—
Wind, and rain, and sun,