ANTO I.)

"_O mystic Lady; Thou in whom alone
Our human race surpasses all that stand
In Paradise the nearest round the throne!
So eagerly I wait for thy command
That to obey were slow though ready done._"

How oft I read. How agonized the turning,
In those my earlier days of loss and pain,--
Of eyes to space and night as though by yearning--
Some wall might yield and I behold again
A certain angel, fled beyond discerning;
In vain I chafed and sought--alas, in vain,
From spurring though my heart's dark world returned
To Dante's page, those wearied thoughts of mine;
Again I read, again my longing burned.--
A voice melodious spake in every line,
But from sad pleasure sorrow fresh I learned:
Strange was the music of the Florentine.

LINES ON HEINE.

I saw a crowded circus once:
The fool was in the middle.
Loud laughed contemptuous Common-sense
At every frisk and riddle.

I see another circus now--
(The world a circus call I),--
But in the centre laughs the sane;
Round sit the sons of folly.

IMITATED FROM THE JAPANESE.

"..........................
I have forgotten to forget."--Japanese Song.
Tr. by R.H. Stoddard.

The morning flies, the evening dies;
The heat of noon, the chills of night,
Are but the dull varieties
Of Phoebus' and of Phoebe's flight--
Are but the dull varieties
Of ruined night and ruined day;
They bring no pleasure to mine eyes,
For I have sent my soul away.

I am the man who cannot love,
Yet once my heart was bright as thine,
The suns that rove, the moons that move,
No longer make its chambers shine;
No more they light the spirit face
That lit my night and made my day;
No maiden feet with mine keep pace
For I have sent my soul away.

O, lost! I think I see thee stand,
By Mary's ivied chapel door,
Where once thou stood'st, and with thy hand
Wring pious pain, as once before.
Impatient, crude philosopher,
I scorned thy gentle wisdom's ray.
All vain thy moistened eyelids were;
I sent my soul and thee away.

A causeless wrath, a mood of pride,
Some tears of thine, and all was done;
On alien plains I travelled wide
And thou wert soon a veiled nun.
Not long a veiled nun, but soon
Unveiled of linen and of clay;
But I am March while thou art June,
For I have sent my soul away.

And now when I would love thee well,
There sits alone within my breast
Calm guilt that dare no