malign

The satin softness of thy plumed seed,
Nor so profane thee as to call thee weed,
Thou tuft of ermine down, fit to entwine
About a queen; or, fitter still, to line
The nest of birds of strange exotic breed.
The orient cunning, and the somnolent speed
Of looms of dusky Ind weave not so fine
A gossamer... Ah me! could he who sings,
On such adventurous and aërial wings
Far over lands and undiscovered seas
Waft the dark seeds of his imaginings,
That, flowering, men might say, Lo! look

on these

Wild Weeds of Song- not all ungracious things!

TO A MAPLE SEED

ART thou some winged Sprite, that, flutter

ing round,

Exhausted on the grass at last doth lie, Or wayward Fay? Ah, weakling, by and by

Thyself shalt grow a giant, strong and sound,

When, like Antaeus, thou dost touch the ground.

O happy Seed! it is not thine to die;
Thy wings bestow thine immortality,
And thou canst bridge the deep and dark
profound.

said!

He sits within the desert, carved in stone;
Inscrutable, colossal, and alone,
And ancienter than memory of things.
Graved on his front the sacred beetle
clings;

Disdain sits on his lips; and in a frown
Scorn lives upon his forehead for a crown.
The affrighted ostrich dare not dust her
wings

Anear this Presence. The long caravan's Dazed camels stop, and mute the Bedouins

THE BLAZING HEART

WHO are ye, spirits, that stand

In the outer gloom,

Each with a blazing heart in hand,
Which lighteth the dark beyond the tomb?

"Oh, we be souls that loved

Too well, too well!

Yet, for that love, though sore reproved, (Oh, sore reproved!) have we 'scaped hell.

Happy Francesca ! thine

Is the fairer lot.

Better with him in hell to pine

Than stand in cool shadows by him forgot!

MY ENEMY

I

My foe was dark, and stern, and grim,
I lived my life in fear of him.

I passed no secret, darkened nook
Without a shuddering, furtive look,
Lest he should take me unawares
In some one of his subtle snares.
Even in broad noon the thought of him
Turned all the blessed sunlight dim,
Stole the rich color from the rose,
The perfume from the elder-blows.

I saw him not, I heard no sound;
But traces everywhere I found
Of his fell plotting. Now, the flower
Most prized lay blasted by his power;
From the locked casket, rent apart,
The jewel dearest to my heart
Was stolen; or, from out the dark,
Some swift blow made my heart its
mark.

Sweet eyes I loved grew glazed and dim
That had but caught a glimpse of him;
And ears, were wont to hear each sigh
Of mine, were deafened utterly,
Even to my shrieks; and lips I pressed
Struck a cold horror to my breast.

This hath he done, my enemy.
From him, O God, deliver me!

II

I reached but now this place of gloom
Through yon small gateway, where is room
For only one to pass. This calm
Is healing as a Sabbath psalm.
A sound, as if the hard earth slid
Down-rattling on a coffin-lid,
Was in mine ears. Now all is still,
And I am free to fare at will
Whither? I seem but tarrying
For one who doth a message bring.