I feel no more the pulse's strife,-
The tides of Passion's ruddy sea,
But live the sweet, unconscious life
That breathes from yonder jasmine-tree.

Upon the glittering pageantries

Of gay Damascus streets I look As idly as a babe that sees

The painted pictures of a book.

Forgotten now are name and race;

The Past is blotted from my brain; For memory sleeps, and will not trace The weary pages o'er again.

I only know the morning shines,

And sweet the dewy morning air;
But does it play with tendrill'd vines?
Or does it lightly lift my hair?

Deep-sunken in the charm'd repose,
This ignorance is bliss extreme :
And whether I be Man, or Rose,
O, pluck me not from out my dream!
B. Taylor.-Born 1825.

1930.-HASSAN TO HIS MARE. Come, my beauty! come, my desert darling! On my shoulder lay thy glossy head! Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty,

Here's the half of Hassan's scanty bread. Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty! And thou know'st my water-skin is free: Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, And my strength and safety lie in thee.

Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses! Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye: Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle

Thou art proud he owns thee: so am I.

Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses,

Prancing with their diamond-studded reins; They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness When they course with thee the desert plains!

Let the Sultan bring his famous horses,

Let him bring his golden swords to meBring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem; He would offer them in vain for thee.

We have seen Damascus, O my beauty!
And the splendour of the Pashas there;
What's their pomp and riches? Why, I would

not

Take them for a handful of thy hair! Khaled sings the praises of his mistress, And because I've none he pities me: What care I if he should have a thousand, Fairer than the morning? I have thee.

He will find his passion growing cooler
Should her glance on other suitors fall:
Thou wilt ne'er, my mistress and my darling,
Fail to answer at thy master's call.
By-and-by some snow-white Nedjid stallion
Shall to thee his spring-time ardour bring;
And a foal, the fairest of the Desert,

To thy milky dugs shall crouch and cling.

Then, when Khaled shows to me his children,
I shall laugh, and bid him look at thine;
Thou wilt neigh, and lovingly caress me,
With thy glossy neck laid close to mine.
B. Taylor.-Born 1825.

In the summers that are past,

And the willow trails its branches lower

Than when I saw them last.

They strive to shut the sunshine wholly
From out the haunted room;

To fill the house, that once was joyful,
With silence and with gloom.

And many kind, remember'd faces
Within the doorway come-
Voices, that wake the sweeter music
Of one that now is dumb.
They sing, in tones as glad as ever,
The songs she loved to hear;
They braid the rose in summer garlands,
Whose flowers to her were dear.

And still, her footsteps in the passage,
Her blushes at the door,
Her timid words of maiden welcome
Come back to me once more.
And all forgetful of my sorrow,
Unmindful of my pain,

I think she has but newly left me,
And soon will come again.

She stays without, perchance, a moment,
To dress her dark-brown hair;

I hear the rustle of her garments-
Her light step on the stair!

O, fluttering heart! control thy tumult,
Lest eyes profane should see
My cheeks betray the rush of rapture
Her coming brings to me!

She tarries long: but lo, a whisper
Beyond the open door,

And, gliding through the quiet sunshine,
A shadow on the floor!

Ah! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me,
The vine, whose shadow strays;
And my patient heart must still await her,
Nor chide her long delays.

But my heart grows sick with weary waiting,
As many a time before :

Her foot is ever at the threshold,

Yet never passes o'er.

B. Taylor.-Born 1825.

1932.-LEONATUS.

The fair boy Leonatus, The page of Imogen:

It was his duty evermore

To tend the Lady Imogen;

By peep of day he might be seen
Tapping against her chamber door,
To wake the sleepy waiting-maid;
She woke, and when she had array'd
The Princess, and the twain had pray'd,
(They pray'd with rosaries of yore,)

They call'd him, pacing to and fro;
And cap in hand, and bowing low,
He enter'd, and began to feed

The singing birds with fruit and seed.

The brave boy Leonatus,

The page of Imogen:

He tripp'd along the kingly hall,

From room to room, with messages; He stopp'd the butler, clutch'd his keys, (Albeit he was broad and tall,)

And dragg'd him down the vaults, where wine

In bins lay beaded and divine,
To pick a flask of vintage fine;
Came up, and clomb the garden wall,

And pluck'd from out the sunny spots
Peaches, and luscious apricots,
And fill'd his golden salver there,
And hurried to his Lady fair.

The gallant Leonatus,
The page of Imogen:

He had a steed from Arab ground,

And when the lords and ladies gay
Went hawking in the dews of May,
And hunting in the country round,
And Imogen did join the band,
He rode him like a hunter grand,
A hooded hawk upon his hand,
And by his side a slender hound:

But when they saw the deer go by,
He slipp'd the leash, and let him fly,
And gave his fiery barb the rein,
And scour'd beside her o'er the plain.

The strange boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen:
Sometimes he used to stand for hours
Within her room, behind her chair;
The soft wind blew his golden hair
Across his eyes, and bees from flowers

Humm'd round him, but he did not stir. He fix'd his earnest eyes on her, A pure and reverent worshipper, A dreamer building airy towers: But when she spoke he gave a start, That sent the warm blood from his heart To flush his cheeks, and every word The fountain of his feelings stirr❜d.

The sad boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen:
He lost all relish and delight,

For all things that did please before;
By day he wish'd the day was o'er,
By night he wish'd the same of night:
He could not mingle in the crowd,
He loved to be alone, and shroud
His tender thoughts, and sigh aloud,
And cherish in his heart its blight.
At last his health began to fail,
His fresh and glowing cheeks to pale;
And in his eyes the tears unshed
Did hang like dew on violets dead.

The timid Leonatus,
The page of Imogen:
"What ails the boy!" said Imogen:
He stammer'd, sigh'd, and

"Naught."

answer'd

She shook her head, and then she thought What all his malady could mean ;

It might be love; her maid was fair,
And Leon had a loving air;

She watch'd them with a jealous care,

And play'd the spy, but naught was seen:
And then she was aware at first,
That she, not knowing it, had nursed

His memory till it grew a part-
A heart within her very heart!

The dear boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen:
She loved, but own'd it not as yet;
When he was absent she was lone,
She felt a void before unknown,
And Leon fill'd it when they met ;

She call'd him twenty times a day,
She knew not why, she could not say;
She fretted when he went away,

And lived in sorrow and regret ;

Sometimes she frown'd with stately mien,
And chid him like a little queen;
And then she soothed him meek and mild,
And grew as trustful as a child.

The neat scribe Leonatus,
The page of Imogen:
She wonder'd that he did not speak,
And own his love, if love indeed
It was that made his spirit bleed;
And she bethought her of a freak

To test the lad; she bade him write
A letter that a maiden might,
A billet to her heart's delight;
He took the pen with fingers weak.
Unknowing what he did, and wrote,
And folded up and sealed the note:

She wrote the superscription sage, "For Leonatus, Lady's Page!"

The happy Leonatus,

The page of Imogen:

The page of Imogen no more,

But now her love, her lord, her life,
For she became his wedded wife,
As both had hoped and dream'd before.
He used to sit beside her feet,

And read romances rare and sweet,
And, when she touch'd her lute, repeat
Impassion'd madrigals of yore,

Uplooking in her face the while,
Until she stoop'd with loving smile,
And press'd her melting mouth to his,
That answer'd in a dreamy bliss-

The joyful Leonatus,
The lord of Imogen!

R. H. Stoddard.-Born 1825.

1933. THE SHADOW OF THE HAND.

You were very charming, Madam,
In your silks and satins fine;
And you made your lovers drunken,
But it was not with your wine!
There were court gallants in dozens,
There were princes of the land,
And they would have perish'd for you
As they knelt and kiss'd your hand-
For they saw no stain upon it,
It was such a snowy hand!

But for me I knew you better,

And, while you were flaunting there, I remember'd some one lying,

With the blood on his white hair! He was pleading for you, Madam,

Where the shriven spirits stand;
But the Book of Life was darken'd,
By the Shadow of a Hand!

It was tracing your perdition,
For the blood upon your hand!
R. H. Stoddard.-Born 1825.

Wave thy poppies round her, Sleep! Touch her eyelids, flood her brain; Banish Memory, Thought, and Strife, Bar the portals of her life,

Till the morning comes again!

Let no enemy intrude

On her helpless solitude:

Fear and Pain, and all their train

Keep the evil hounds at bay,

And all evil dreams away!

Thou, thyself, keep thou the key,

Or intrust it unto me,

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!

A lover's eyes are bright

In the darkest night;

And jealous even of dreams, almost of thee, dear Sleep!

I must sit, and think, and think,
Till the stars begin to wink:
(For the web of song is wrought
Only in the looms of Thought!)
She must lie, and sleep, and sleep,
(Be her slumbers calm and deep!)
Till the dews of morning weep;
Therefore bind your sweetest sprite
To her service and delight,

All the night,

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!

And I'll whisper in her ear,

(Even in dreams it will be dear!)
What she loveth so to hear,
Tiding sweeter than the flowers,
All about this love of ours,

And its rare increase:
Singing in the starry peace,
Ditties delicate, and free,
Dedicate to her, and thee,
Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
For I owe ye both a boon,

And I mean to grant it soon,

In my golden numbers that breathe of Love and Sleep!

R. H. Stoddard.-Born 1825.

1934.-INVOCATION TO SLEEP Draw the curtains round your bed, And I'll shade the wakeful light; "Twill be hard for you to sleep,

If you have me still in sight:

But you must though, and without me,
For I have a song to write:
Then sleep, love, sleep!

The flowers have gone to rest,
And the birds are in the nest :

'Tis time for you to join them beneath the wings of Sleep!

1935.-AT REST.

With folded hands the lady lies
In flowing robes of white,
A globèd lamp beside her couch,
A round of tender light.

With such a light above her head,
A little year ago,
She walk'd adown the shadowy vale,
Where the blood-red roses grow!

A shape or shadow join'd her there,
To pluck the royal flower,
But from her breast the lily stole,
Which was her only dower.

That gone, all went : her false love first,

And then her peace of heart;

The hard world frown'd, her friends grew cold, She hid in tears apart:

And now she lies upon her couch,

Amid the dying light :

Nor wakes to hear the little voice
That moans throughout the night!

R. H. Stoddard.-Born 1825.

1936. THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

A youth would marry a maiden,
For fair and fond was she;

But she was rich, and he was poor,
And so it might not be.

A lady never could wear

Her mother held it firm

A gown that came of an Indian plant,
Instead of an Indian worm!

And so the cruel word was spoken;
And so it was two hearts were broken.

A youth would marry a maiden,
For fair and fond was she;
But he was high, and she was low,
And so it might not be.

A man who had worn a spur,

In ancient battle won,

Had sent it down with great renown,
To goad his future son!-

And so the cruel word was spoken;
And so it was two hearts were broken.

A youth would marry a maiden,

For fair and fond was she;

But their sires disputed about the Mass,
And so it might not be.

A couple of wicked Kings

Three hundred years agone,

Had play'd at a royal game of chess,
And the church had been a pawn!-

And so the cruel word was spoken;
And so it was two hearts were broken.

And yet he toileth all ye while
His merrie catches rolle;
As true unto ye needle as
Ye needle to ye pole.

What cares ye valiant tailyor-man
For all ye cowarde feares?
Against ye scissors of ye Fates

He pointes his mightie sheares.

He heedeth not ye anciente jests
That witlesse sinners use;
What feareth ye bolde tailyor-man
Ye hissinge of a goose?

He pulleth at ye busie threade,
To feede his lovinge wife

And eke his childe; for unto them
It is ye threade of life.

He cutteth well ye riche man's coate,
And with unseemlie pride

He sees ye little waistcoate in
Ye cabbage bye his side.

Meanwhile ye tailyor-man his wife,
To labour nothinge loth,

Sits bye with readie hands to baste
Ye urchin and ye cloth.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man,
Yet is he often tried,

Lest he, from fullnesse of ye dimes,
Wax wanton in his pride.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man,
And yet he hath a foe,
A cunninge enemie that none
So well as tailyors knowe.

It is ye slipperie customer

Who goes his wicked wayes, And weares ye tailyor-man his coate, But never, never payes!

J. G. Saxe

J. G. Saxe.

1937-YE TAILYOR-MAN.

A CONTEMPLATIVE BALLAD.

Right jollie is ye tailyor-man,
As annie man may be ;

And all ye daye upon ye benche
He worketh merrilie.

And oft ye while in pleasante wise
He coileth up his lymbes,
He singeth songs ye like whereof
Are not in Watts his hymns.

1938.-BROKEN FAITH.

Buds on the apple-boughs,

And robins in every tree;

Brown on the children's sun-kiss'd brows

A softer blue on the tender sea,

Ah me!

Bees in the maples murmuring,

Brooks on the hillsides ;-and yet, O Spring, Thou hast broken thy faith with me!

Broken thy faith with me,

Who have pined for thee so long,

Waiting and waiting patiently

Through all the Winter's cruel wrong,
Ah me!

Climbing the rugged, desolate hills
To watch the sky for the faintest thrills
Of the azure yet to be.

1940.-ENDURANCE.

How much the heart may bear, and yet not break!

How much the flesh may suffer, and not die! I question much if any pain or ache

Of soul or body brings our end more nigh: Death chooses his own time; till that is

sworn,

All evils may be borne.

We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife, Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life,

Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal, That still, although the trembling flesh bo torn,

This also can be borne.

We see a sorrow rising in our way,

And try to flee from the approaching ill; We seek some small escape; we weep and

pray ;

But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still;

Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn,
But that it can be borne.

We wind our life about another life;

We hold it closer, dearer than our own : Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife,

Leaving us stunn'd, and stricken, and alone; But ah! we do not die with those we mourn,— This also can be borne.

Behold, we live through all things,-famine, thirst,

Bereavement, pain; all grief and misery, All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst On soul and body,-but we cannot die. Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and