Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.”

She ended with such passion that the tear, She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl Lost in her bosom: but with some disdain Answered the Princess, "If indeed there haunt About the mouldered lodges of the Past

So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men,

Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool
And so pace by: but thine are fancies hatched
In silken-folded idleness; nor is it

Wiser to weep a true occasion lost,

But trim our sails, and let old bygones be

While down the streams that float us each and all
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice,
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste
Becomes a cloud: for all things serve their time
Toward that great year of equal mights and rights,
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end
Found golden let the past be past; let be

Their cancelled Babels: though the rough kex break
The starred mosaic, and the wild goat hang
Upon the shaft, and the wild fig-tree split

Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear

A trumpet in the distance pealing news
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns
Above the unrisen morrow: " then to me;

66

Know you no song of your own land,” she said,
"Not such as moans about the retrospect,

But deals with the other distance and the hues
Of promise; not a death's head at the wine."

Then I remembered one myself had made What time I watched the swallow winging south From mine own land, part made long since, and part Now while I sang; and maidenlike as far As I could ape their treble, did I sing.

"O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee.

"O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North.

"O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light

Upon her lattice, I would pipe and thrill,

And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

"O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

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Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays

To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ?

"O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made.

"O tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

"O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee."

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each,

Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time,

Stared with great eyes, and laughed with alien lips, And knew not what they meant; for still my voice Rang false but smiling, "Not for thee," she said,

:

"O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan

Shall burst her veil: marsh-divers, rather, maid,
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass and this
A mere love-poem! O for such, my friend,
We hold them slight: they mind us of the time
When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are men,
That lute and flute fantastic tenderness,

And dress the victim to the offering up,
And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise,
And play the slave to gain the tyranny.
Poor soul! I had a maid of honor once;
She wept her true eyes blind for such a one,
A rogue of canzonets and serenades.

I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead.
So they blaspheme the muse! but great is song
Used to great ends: ourself have often tried
Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dashed
The passion of the prophetess: for song
Is duer unto freedom, force, and growth

Of spirit, than to junketing and love.

Love is it? Would this same mock-love and this Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats,

Till all men grew to rate us at our worth,

Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes

To be dandled, no, but living wills, and sphered
Whole in ourselves, and owed to none. Enough!
But now to leaven play with profit, you,

Know you no song, the true growth of your soil,
That gives the manners of your countrywomen?"

She spoke, and turned her sumptuous head with eyes
Of shining expectation fixt on mine.

Then while I dragged my brains for such a song,
Cyril, with whom the bell-mouthed flask had wrought,
Or mastered by the sense of sport, began
To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch
Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him,

I frowning; Psyche flushed and wanned and shook;
The lily-like Melissa drooped her brows;

"Forbear," the Princess cried; "Forbear, Sir," I;

And heated through and through with wrath and love,
I smote him on the breast; he started up;
There rose a shriek as of a city sacked;

Melissa clamored, "Flee the death!" "To horse!"
Said Ida; "home! to horse!" and fled, as flies
A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk,
When some one batters at the dovecote-doors,
Disorderly the women. Alone I stood

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