But once beheld by any man, no more;
And then with such wild tumult in his brain
He may not recollect the look it wore,
Or if 'twas pleasure that he felt, or pain,
When those strange eyes sent fire to his heart's core.

But who can grasp the maze of sad delight
That music weaves, its memory dying never?
And who can read the Face of Love aright,
With all its mystic meanings, shifting ever,
That stir life's deepest springs, yet cheat the sight?

A face of godlike glory, such as men
Might well misdeem the majesty of heaven,

I SING to you
A song of Spring,
For Youth and Spring go well together,
A song of soft and sunny weather,
A song of birds upon the wing,
A song of green against the blue,
This is the wayward song I sing
To you.

I sing to you
A song of Hope,
For surely Hope is Youth's first lover,
And all his rainbows arch above her,
And all his dreams a shining rope
Of sun and mist, of light and dew,
Are wound about her willing feet,
And all his ways are wild and sweet.
I sing a song of Hope
To you.

A song of Love
I sing to you,

Queen-Beauty of the Night—pale and alone—
Eye not so coldly Love's brief happiness;
But look as once when thou didst leave thy throne,
In garb and gait a sylvan hunteress,
And with bright, buskined limbs, through dew and flowers,
Lightly, on sprightly feet and agile, bounded,
With fawn-like leaps, among the Latmian bowers;
While the wide dome of farthest heaven resounded
With the shrill shouts of thee and thy nymph-rovers,
When the hard chace of victory was won,
And changed Actæon by his hounds was torn.
But then thou hadst not seen Endymion,

'Tis sweet, so sweet, when work is o'er,
At eve, to hear the voice of love
Shout welcome from the cottage door,
Embowered on the hill above.

From furrowed field, where all the day
You toil and sweat for little bread,
'Tis sweet to see the child at play
Drop toys and come with arms outspread.

'Tis sweet, so sweet, when work is o'er,
At eve, to hear the voice of love
Shout welcome from the cottage door,
Embowered on the hill above.

From furrowed field, where all the day
You toil and sweat for little bread,

I ask no more of life than sunset's gold;
A cottage hid in songbird's neighborhood,
Where I may sing and do a little good,
For love and pleasant mem'ries when I'm old.

If life hath this in store for me—
A spot where coarse souls enter not,
Or strife—I'm sure there cannot be
On earth a fairer heaven sought.

I ask no more of life than sunset's gold;
A cottage hid in songbird's neighborhood,
Where I may sing and do a little good,
For love and pleasant mem'ries when I'm old.

If life hath this in store for me—

Her lap is full of dead; the tears
Wash down her graying cheek;
Unto her riven heart the years
No comfort speak.

She holds them close, the flowers, the leaves,
Her yearly loved and dead;
The universal Rachel grieves

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers,
Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,
To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,
Till Passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew,
To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,
Till, lo, one touch his art defies;
The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,
But who could dare to paint those eyes?
'Twas all in vain the painter strove;
So turning to that boy divine,

T HERE'S a song of the olden time,
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear.
And even amidst the grand and gay,
When Music tries her gentlest art
I never hear so sweet a lay,
Or one that hangs so round my heart,
As that song of the olden time,
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear,

And when all of this life is gone,—
Even the hope, lingering now,
Like the last of the leaves left on
Autumn's sere and faded bough,—

At Derby Haven, in the sweet Manx land,
A little girl had written on the sand
This legend:—“God is love.” But when I said:—
“What means this writing?” thus she answered:—
“It's father that's at say,
And I come here to pray,
And. . . . God is love.” My eyes grew dim—
Blest child! in Heaven above
Your angel sees the face of Him
Whose name is Love!

He loves! If in the bygone years
Thine eyes have ever shed
Tears—bitter, unavailing tears,
For one untimely dead—
If in the eventide of life
Sad thoughts of her arise,
Then let the memory of thy wife
Plead for my boy—he dies!

He dies! If fondly laid aside
In some old cabinet,
Memorials of thy long-dead bride
Lie, dearly treasured yet,
Then let her hallowed bridal dress—
Her little dainty gloves—
Her withered flowers—her faded tress—
Plead for my boy—he loves!