I

I F from the Lustre of the Sun,
To catch your fleeting Shade you run,
In vain is all your Haste, Sir;
But if your Feet reverse the Race,
The Fugitive will urge the Chace,
And follow you as fast, Sir.

II

Thus, if at any Time, as now,
Some scornful Chloe you pursue,
In Hopes to overtake Her;

In Bourgueil Gardens more than one of yore
Engraved upon the bark names fondly sweet,
And many a heart 'neath Louvre's gold ceilings beat,
At flash of smile, with pride which thrilled to soar.

What matters it? — their joy or grief is o'er;
They lie in stillness where four oak boards meet
Beneath the sighing grass, with none to greet
Their voiceless dust that feeds oblivion's shore.

All die. Mary, Helen, Cassandra bold,
Your lovely forms would be but ashes cold,
— Nor rose nor lily sees the morrow's land —

A SCARECROW in a field of corn,
A thing of tatters all forlorn,
Once felt the influence of Spring
And fell in love — a foolish thing,
And most particularly so
In his case — for he loved a crow!

" Alack-a-day! it's wrong, I know,
It's wrong for me to love a crow;
An all-wise man created me
To scare the crows away, " cried he;
" And though the music of her " Caw"
Thrills through and through this heart of straw,

" My passion I must put away
And do my duty, come what may!
Yet oh, the cruelty of fate!

The Christ is far, the Christ is far away.
But thou, my love, art near Thy fondling hands
I feel, and through the dark see eyes that say:
" My love is here. My love a bulwark stands
Against life's sorrows stern and loud demands "
O Love, my soul in answer lifts its voice:
" While love I hold, how should I not rejoice?
While thee I hold, beneath thy ample sway,
Easy shall be that strait path of my choice,
Although the Christ, the Christ is far away. "

My lady is not fair, but a clear light
Shines in her eyes from morning until night.

My lady is not learned, but she knows
The way to every heart, — straight there she goes.

Though neither fair nor learned, she is one
To love and love, and never to have done.

O H ! this illicit passion, —
'Tis ardent for a season, yet 'twill waste,
Like a wide-flaring and ill-guarded flame,
By its own vehemence; while real Love,
Like the mysterious bush which Moses saw,
Burns — yet is not consumed!

Hate is the thing that will save mankind;
We love too much in our witless way,
Pulpit, sinner and state allied,
We are far too smug in our peace and pride,
Nation of blind men leading blind
We are all too dull in the psalms we say
In the hymns we sing and the prayers we pray —
Insults flung in the face of Him
And His flaming cherubim.
Hate is the call we are waiting for,
Trumpeting high o'er the boom of war,
A hate so strong and a hate so wide
No wrong can stand in its ruthless tide.
Hate of tyranny, hate of lies,

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED TALE .

For thee, love, for thee, love,
I'll brave fate's sternest storm;
She cannot daunt or chill the hearts
Which love keeps bold and warm:
And when her clouds are blackest, nought
But thy sweet self I'll see,
Nor hear, amidst the tempest, aught
But thee, love, only thee.

For thee, love, for thee, love,
My fond heart would resign
The brightest cup that pleasure fills,

But to have hung enamoured on those lips
To drink the passion of those beaming eyes!
Yet, yet to feel th'intoxicating power
Which stole into my heart at every word
Of that soft voice that vibrates in my ear —
Thus to have loved and loved to extasy
And be beloved again — Oh rapturous bliss!
Destroyed and lost! Yes all on earth conspired
Against the voice of Heaven; against my hopes;
And must I never more indulge the dreams
That love to call thee by a name even yet
More fond more sacred more endeared than lover?

Back in those days ere I thought of love,
Kissing at games in a picnic grove,
Cried one lass as she made a spring:
" Make me a Lap! you stingy thing! "
Down in my lap sat the tired madcap
And in a snap she had " made her a Lap. "

Lissome, pliant, innocent vine,
Still to my heart I can feel her twine,
Trustfully as my kitten's play,
Light as the birds in that greenwood day;
Sweet as the sap in the fruit tree's tap,
Vine-like her wrap as I " made her a Lap. "

Country heart! there is no mishap, —