Low on her knees herself she cast, Before Our Lady murmur'd she; Complaining," Mother, give me grace To help me of my weary load." And on the liquid mirror glow'd The clear perfection of her face.

"Is this the form," she made her moan,

"That won his praises night

and morn?"

And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone,

I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn."

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat,

Nor any cloud would cross the vault, But day increased from heat to heat,

On stony drought and steaming salt; Till now at noon she slept again,

And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass,

And heard her native breezes pass, And runlets babbling down the glen. She breathed in sleep a lower moan,

And murmuring, as at night and morn,

She thought, "My spirit is here alone,

Walks forgotten, and is forlorn."

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream:

She felt he was and was not there. She woke the babble of the stream

Fell, and, without, the steady glare Shrank one sick willow sear and small. The river-bed was dusty-white; And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall.

She whisper'd, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn,

"Sweet Mother, let me not here alone

Live forgotten, and die forlorn."

And, rising, from her bosom drew

Old letters, breathing of her worth, For "Love," they said, "must needs be true,

II.

Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou art perfect in love-lore.
Revealings deep and clear are thine
Of wealthy smiles: but who may know
Whether smile or frown be fleeter?
Whether smile or frown be sweeter,
Who may know ?

Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow
Light-glooming over eyes divine,
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are
thine,

Ever varying Madeline.
Thy smile and frown are not aloof
From one another,

Each to each is dearest brother;
Hues of the silken sheeny woof
Momently shot into each other.

All the mystery is thine; Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in love-lore, Ever varying Madeline.

III.

A subtle, sudden flame,

By veering passion fann'd,

About thee breaks and dances:
When I would kiss thy hand,
The flush of anger'd shame

O'erflows thy calmer glances,
And o'er black brows drops down
A sudden-curved frown:
But when I turn away,
Thou, willing me to stay,.

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest;
But, looking fixedly the while,
All my bounding heart entanglest
In a golden-netted smile;
Then in madness and in bliss,
If my lips should dare to kiss
Thy taper fingers amorously,
Again thou blushest angerly;
And o'er black brows drops down
A sudden-curved frown.

SONG: THE OWL.

I.

WHEN cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

II.

When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay,

And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch

Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

SECOND SONG.

TO THE SAME.

I.

THY tuwhits are lull'd, I wot,
Thy tuwhoos of yesternight,
Which upon the dark afloat,
So took echo with delight,
So took echo with delight,
That her voice untuneful grown,
Wears all day a fainter tone.

II.

I would mock thy chant anew;
But I cannot mimic it;
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo,
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,

With a lengthen'd loud halloo,
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-

0-0.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE
ARABIAN NIGHTS.
WHEN the breeze of a joyful dawn
blew free

In the silken sail of infancy,
The tide of time flow'd back with me,

The forward-flowing tide of time;
And many a sheeny summer-morn,
Adown the Tigris I was borne,
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold,
High-walled gardens green and old ;
True Mussulman was I and sworn,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Anight my shallop, rustling thro'
The low and bloomed foliage, drove
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and
clove

The citron-shadows in the blue:
By garden porches on the brim,
The costly doors flung open wide,
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim,
And broider'd sofas on each side:
In sooth it was a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Often, where clear-stemm'd platans
guard

The outlet, did I turn away

The boat-head down a broad canal
From the main river sluiced, where all
The sloping of the moon-lit sward
Was damask-work, and deep inlay
Of braided blooms unmown, which
crept

Adown to where the water slept.
A goodly place, a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

A motion from the river won
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm,
Until another night in night

I enter'd, from the clearer light,
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm,
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they
clomb

Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the

dome

Of hollow boughs. A goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Still onward; and the clear canal
Is rounded to as clear a lake.
From the green rivage many a fall
Of diamond rillets musical,
Thro' little crystal arches low
Down from the central fountain's flow
Fall'n silver-chiming, seemed to shake
The sparkling flints beneath the prow.