English

THE HAPPIER GIFT .

Divinest words that ever singer said
Would hardly lend your mouth a sweeter red;
Her aureole, even hers whose book you hold,
Could give your head no goldener charm of gold.

Ah me! you have the only gift on earth
That to a woman can be surely worth
Breathing the breath of life for. Keep your place.
Even she had given her fame to have your face.

" TO BE DEAD . "

I F I should have void darkness in my eyes
While there were violets in the sun to see;
If I should fail to hear my child's sweet cries,
Or any bird's voice in our threshold tree;

If I should cease to answer love or wit:
Blind, deaf, or dumb, how bitter each must be!
Blind, deaf, or dumb — I will not think of it!
. . . . Yet the night comes when I shall be all three.

BROKEN PROMISE .

After strange stars, inscrutable, on high;
After strange seas beneath his floating feet;
After the glare in many a brooding eye, —
I wonder if the cry of " Land " was sweet?

Or did the Atlantic gold, the Atlantic palm,
The Atlantic bird and flower, seem poor, at best,
To the gray Admiral under sun and calm,
After the passionate doubt and faith of quest?

WORD OF COUNSEL .

Others will kiss you while your mouth is red.
Beauty is brief. Of all the guests who come
While the lamp shines on flowers, and wine, and bread,
In time of famine who will spare a crumb?

Therefore, oh, next to God, I pray you keep
Yourself as your own friend, the tried, the true.
Sit your own watch — others will surely sleep.
Weep your own tears. Ask none to die with you.

" WE WOMEN . "

H EART-ACHE and heart-break — always that or this.
Sometimes it rains just when the sun should shine;
Sometimes a glove or ribbon goes amiss;
Sometimes, in youth, your lover should be mine.

Still madam frets at life, through pearls and lace
(A breath can break her pale heart's measured beat),
And still demands the maid who paints her face
Shall find the world forever smooth and sweet.

A wit most worthy in tryed Gold to shine,
Immortal Gold! had he sung the divine
Praise of his Maker: to whom he preferr'd
Obscene, vile fancies, and prophanely marr'd
A rich, rare stile with sinful, lewd contents;
No otherwise, then if with Instruments
Of polish'd Ivory, some drudge should stir
A dirty sink, & c . —

So steel'd a forehead vice hath, that dares win,
And bribe the Father to the Childrens sin;
But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face
Did ever want these tempters? pleasing grace
Betraies it selfe; what time did Nero mind
A course, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'd
His goatish Pathick? whence then flow these joies
Of a faire issue? whom these sad annoies
Waite, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt see
Publick Adulterers, and must be
Subject to all the Curses, Plagues, and awe

But grant age lack'd these plagues; yet must they see
As great, as many: Fraile Mortalitie
In such a length of yeares, hath many falls,
And deads a life with frequent funerals.
The nimblest houre in all the span, can steale
A friend, or brother from's; there's no Repeale
In death, or time; this day a wife we mourne,
To morrowes teares a sonne, and the next Urne
A Sister fills; Long-livers have assign'd
These curses still: That with a restles mind,
An age of fresh renewing cares they buye,

And thus that soule, which through all nations hurl'd
Conquest, and warre, and did amaze the world;
Of all those glories rob'd at his last breath,
Fortune would not vouchsafe a souldiers death,
For all that bloud the field of Cannae boasts,
And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghoasts:
No other end (freed from the pile, and sword)
Then a poore Ring would Fortune him afford.
Goe now ambitious man! new plots designe,
March o're the snowie Alps, and Apennine;

Tell mighty Pompey, Crassus , and O thou
That mad'st Rome kneele to thy victorious brow,
What but the weight of honours, and large fame
After your worthy Acts, and height of name,
Destroy'd you in the end? the envious Fates
Easie to further your aspiring States,
Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and excesse
In ev'ry Act did make you thrive the lesse:
Few Kings are guiltie of gray haires, or dye
Without a stab, a draught, or trecherie:
And yet to see him, that but yesterday