That charm remains; and he who knows
The root and stock of freedom's laws,
Unscared by frenzied nations' throes,
And hugging yet the good old cause,
Finds in the shade these beeches cast
The wit, the fragrance of the past.

Octave of St. Bartholomew, 1862.

A SKETCH AFTER BRANTOME

The door hath closed behind the sighing priest,
The last absolving Latin duly said,
And night, barred slowly backward from the East,
Lets in the dawn to mock a sleepless bed;

The bed of one who yester even took
From scented aumbries store of silk and lace,
From caskets beads and rings, for one last look,
One look, which left the teardrops on her face;

A lady, who hath loved the world, the court,
Loved youth and splendour, loved her own sweet
soul,
And meekly stoops to learn that life is short,
Dame Nature's pitiful gift, a beggar's dole.

Sweet life, ah! let her live what yet remains.
Call, quickly call, the page who bears the lute;
Bid him attune to descant of sad strains
The lily voice we thought for ever mute.

The sorrowing minstrel at the casement stands
And bends before the sun that gilds his wires,
And prays a blessing on his faltering hands,
That they may serve his lady's last desires.

"Play something old and soft, a song I knew;
Play _La defaite des Suisses,_" Then pearly notes
Come dropping one by one, and with the dew
Down on the breath of morning music floats.

He played as far as _tout est perdu_ and wept.
"_Tout est perdu_ again, once more," she sighed;
And on, still softer on, the music crept,
And softly, at the pause, the listener died.

1862.

ON LIVERMEAD SANDS

For waste of scheme and toil we grieve,
For snowflakes on the wave we sigh,
For writings on the sand that leave
Naught for to-morrow's passer-by.

Waste, waste; each knoweth his own worth,
And would be something ere he sink
To silence, ere he mix with earth,
And part with love, and cease to think.

Shall I then comfort thee and me,
My neighbour, preaching thus of waste?
Count yonder planet fragments; see,
The meteors into darkness haste.

Lo! myriad germs at random float,
Fall on no fostering home, and die
Back to mere elements; every mote
Was framed for life as th