y freshness, where her murmurous lips
Bubbling make merry 'neath the rocky tide.

III.

Oft do we meet the Oread whose eyes
Are dew-drops where twin heavens shine confessed;
She, all the maiden modesty's surprise
Blushing her temples,--to deep loins and breast
Tempestuous, brown bewildering tresses pressed,--
Stands one scared moment's moiety, in wise
Of some delicious dream, then shrinks distressed,
Like some weak wind that, haply heard, is gone,
In rapport with shy Silence to make sound;
So, like storm sunlight, bares clean limbs to bound
A thistle's flashing to a woody rise,
A graceful glimmer up the ferny lawn.

IV.

Hear Satyrs and Sylvanus in sad shades
Of dozy dells pipe: Pan and Fauns hark dance
With rattling hoofs dim in low, mottled glades:
Hidden in spice-bush-bowered banks, perchance,
Mark Slyness waiting with an animal glance
The advent of some Innocence, who wades
Thro' thigh-deep flowers, naked as Romance,
In braided shadows, when two hairy arms
Hug her unconscious beauty panting white;
Till tearful terror, struggling into might,
Beats the brute brow resisting; yields and fades,
Exhausted, to the grim Lust her rich charms.

THE LAST SCION OF THE HOUSE OF CLARE.

_Year 13--._

Barbican, bartizan, battlement,
With the Abergavenny mountains blent,
Look, from the Raglan tower of Gwent,
My lord Hugh Clifford's ancient home
Shows, clear morns of the Spring or Summer,
Thrust out like thin flakes o' a silver foam
From a climbing cloud, for the hills gloom glummer,
Being shaggy with heath, yon.--I was his page;
A favorite then; and he of that age
When a man will love and be loved again,
Or die in the wars or a monastery:
Or toil till he stifle his heart's hard pain,
Or drink, drug his hopes and his lost love bury.
I was his page; and often we fared
Thro' the Clare desmene in Autumn hawking--
If the baron had known how he would have glared
From their bushy brows eyes dark with mocking!
--That of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean--
Had growled to his yeomen, "A score! mount, Keene!
Forth and spit me this Clifford, or hang
With his crop-eared page to the closest oak!"
For he and the Cliffords had ever a fang
In the other's side,... but I see him choke
And strangle with wrath when his hawker told--
If he told!--how we met on that flowery wold
His daughter, swe