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Barbara Gray

A mourning woman, robed in black,
Stands in the twilight, looking back;
Her hand is one her heart, her head
Bends musingly above the Dead,
Her face is plain, and pinch'd, and thin,
But splendour strikes it from within.

I.

" B ARBARA Gray !
Pause, and remember what the world will say,"
I cried, and turning on the threshold fled,
When he was breathing on his dying bed;
But when, with heart grown bold,
I cross'd the threshold cold,
Here lay John Hamerton, and he was dead.

II.

And all the house of death was chill and dim,
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The First Day

( RENAISSANCE .)

The morrow came; and, when the sun was high,
Beneath a silken awning rosy-hued
Sat Barbara, smiling on her happy court;
The Graces near her, Midas at her side,
And all the Sciences and all the Arts,
In decent black or motley summer suits,
Gathered around her; modern Muses too,
From Sappho Syntax in her spectacles
To Jennie Homespun, Clapham's idyllist,
Called " Wordsworth's daughter" by the small reviews.
Nor lacked we grace of stately company
From Sappho Syntax in her spectacles
Which turn the small beer of the Senate sour:
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The Widow: A War Song

" Stand, Watchman, on the Castle height,
And southward gaze for me,
Beyond the day, across the night,
And say — What dost thou see?"
" I see the clouds of battle lower,
Our hosts flock forth to slay! ...
The Widow, in her Palace bower,
Stood listening, old and gray.

" Oh, Watchman, is it well with those
Who 'neath my banners stand,
Whose swords are drawn to smite my foes
In yonder far-off Land?"
" Lady, their camps are red with blood,
Their kinsmen's and their own ...
As pale as Death the Widow stood,
Sad-hearted and alone.
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Cloudland

Uunder green branches I lie,
Pensive, I know not why;
All is dead calm down here;
But yonder, tho' heaven smiles clear,
Bright winds blow, and silent and slow
The vaporous Clouds sail by.

For the branches, that here and there
Grow yellow in autumn air,
Are parted; and through the rent
Of a flower-enwoven tent,
The round blue eye of the peaceful sky
Shows tearless, quiet, and fair.

Face upward, calmly I rest
As the leaf that lies dead on my breast;
And the only sound I hear
Is a rivulet tinkling near,
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The Last Bivouac

At hush of night, when all things seem
To sleep, I waken and look forth,
And lo! I hear, or else I dream,
The tramp of Legions o'er the earth!
And in the dark
Hush'd heavens I mark
Sentinel lights that flash o'erhead
From lonely bivouacs of the Dead!

Then, while the spectral Hosts sweep by,
Unseen yet heard in the under gloom,
I see against the dim blue sky
A Skeleton in cloak and plume;
Beneath him crowd,
Like cloud on cloud,
Sleeping on that great plain of dread,
Dark countless legions of the Dead.
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Ode

Now each creature joys the other,
Passing happy days and hours;
One bird reports unto another
In the fall of silver showers;
Whilst the earth, our common mother,
Hath her bosom decked with flowers.

Whilst the greatest torch of heaven
With bright rays warms Flora's lap,
Making nights and days both even,
Cheering plants with fresher sap;
My field, of flowers quite bereaven,
Wants refresh of better hap.

Echo, daughter of the Air,
Babbling guest of rocks and hills,
Knows the name of my fierce Fair,
And sounds the accents of my ills.
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A Dirge For Kings

Strange are the bitter things
God wreaks on cruel Kings;
Sad is the cup drunk up
By Kings accurst.
In secret ways and strong
God doth avenge man's wrong.
The least, God saith, is Death,
And Life the worst.

Sit under the sweet skies;
Think how Kings set and rise,
Think, wouldst thou know the woe
In each proud breast?
Sit on the hearth and see
Children look up to thee—
Think, wouldst thou own a throne,
Or lowly rest?

Ah, to grow old, grow old,
Upon a throne of gold—
Ah, on a throne, so lone,
To wear a crown;
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The Book Of The Visions Seen By Orm The Celt

There is a mortal, and his name is Orm,
Born in the evening of the world, and looking
Back from the sunset to the gates of morning.

And he is aged early, in a time
When all are aged early,—he was born
In twilight times, and in his soul is twilight.

O brother, hold me by the hand, and hearken,
For these things I shall phrase are thine and mine,
And all men's,—all are seeking for a sign.

Thou wert born yesterday, but thou art old,
Weary to-day, to-morrow thou wilt sleep—
Take these for kisses on thy closing eyelids.
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Troths

Yellow dust on a bumble
bee's wing,
Grey lights in a woman's
asking eyes,
Red ruins in the changing
sunset embers:
I take you and pile high
the memories.
Death will break her claws
on some I keep.

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Translation of Petrarch's Rima, Sonnet 134

I FIND no peace, and all my war is done;
I fear and hope; I burn and freeze like ice;
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I seize on;
That looseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not, yet can I 'scape nowise;
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device, [by my own choice]
And yet of death it giveth none occasion.
Withouten eyen, I see; and without tongue I plain; [lament]
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health;
I love another, and thus I hate myself;

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