ekness.

Born were ye to these strange uses,
To brief joy and crushing ill,
To small good and great abuses;
Yet oh, yield not, till they kill.
The stag wounded runneth steady
With his blood in streams a-gushing;
Soul and spirit, be ye ready
For the arrows toward ye rushing.

SPIRIT OF THE FLOWERS.

Now what ails our gentle friend?
In his eye a meaning double,
Sorrow and defiance blend--
Let us soothe him of his trouble.
Poet! do not pass us by:
See how we are robed to meet you;
Heed you not our perfumed sigh?
Heed you not how sweet we greet you?
Ever since the breath of morn
We have waited for your coming,
Fearing when the bee's dull horn
Round our quiet bower was humming:
We have kept our sweets for thee--
Poet, do not pass us by:
Place us on thy breast, for see!
By the sunset we must die.

SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM.

Bathe thy pale face in the flood
Which overflows this crystal fountain,
Then to rouse thy sluggish blood,
Seek its source far up the mountain.
Note thou how the stream doth sing
Its soft carol, low and light,
To the jagged rocks that fling
Mildew shadows, black and blight.
Learn a lesson from the stream,
Poet! though thy path may lie
Hid forever from the gleam
Of the blue and sunny sky,--
Though thy way be steep and long,
Sing thou still a cheerful song!

SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

Come sister spirits, touch his eyelids newly,
With that rare juice whose magic power it is,
To give the rose-hue to those things which truly
Wear the sad livery of ugliness.
Oh, dignify the office of the meanest
Of all God's manifold created things;
And sprinkle his heart's wounds with the serenest
Waters of sweetness, from our fabled springs.
Oh, close him round with visions of all rareness,
Make him see everything with smiling eye;
Let all his dreams be unsurpassed for fairness,
And what we feign out-charm reality.
Come, sister spirits, up and do your duty;
When the Poet pines, feast his soul with beauty.

SPIRIT OF THE TREES.

Let us wave our branches gently
With a murmur low and loving;
He will say we sang him quaintly
Some old ballad, sweetly moving.
'Tis of all the ways the sur