Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him,
With his liberal mouth of gold;
And your Basil, you upraised him
To the height of speakers old:
And we both praised Heliodorus
For his secret of pure lies;-
Who forged first his linked stories
In the heat of ladies' eyes.

Do you mind that deed of Até
Which you bound me to so fast,-
Reading "De Virginitate,"

From the first line to the last?
How I said at ending, solemn,

As I turned and looked at you, That St. Simeon on the column

Had had somewhat less to do?

For we sometimes gently wrangled;
Very gently, be it said,—
Since our thoughts were disentangled
By no breaking of the thread!
And I charged you with extortions
On the nobler fames of old-
Ay, and sometimes thought your Porsons
Stained the purple they would fold.

For the rest-a mystic moaning
Kept Cassandra at the gate,

With wild eyes the vision shone in-
And wide nostrils scenting fate.
And Prometheus, bound in passion
By brute force to the blind stone,
Showed us looks of invocation
Turned to ocean and the sun.

WINE OF CYPRUS.

And Medea we saw burning

At her nature's planted stake; And proud Edipus fate-scorning

While the cloud came on to breakWhile the cloud came on slow-slower, Till he stood discrowned, resigned!But the reader's voice dropped lower When the poet called him BLIND!

Ah, my gossip! you were older,
And more learned, and a man!-
Yet that shadow-the enfolder
Of your quiet eyelids-ran
Both our spirits to one level,

And I turned from hill and lea,
And the summer-sun's green revel,——
To your eyes that could not see.

Now Christ bless you with the one light
Which goes shining night and day!
May the flowers which grow in sunlight
Shed their fragrance in your way!
Is it not right to remember

All your kindness, friend of mine,
When we two sate in the chamber
And the poets poured us wine?

So, to come back to the drinking
Of this Cyprus,-it is well-
But those memories, to my thinking,
Make a better œnomel;

And whoever be the speaker,

None can murmur with a sighThat, in drinking from that beaker, I am sipping like a fly.

THREE fishers went sailing down to the west,

Away to the west as the sun went down;

Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town:
For men must work, and women must weep,
And here's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ;

And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, While the night rack came rolling up, ragged and brown;

But men must work, and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lie out on the shining sands,

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,

THE SANDS OF DEE.

For those who will never come home to the town.
But men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

THE SANDS OF DEE.

"Oп, Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands o' Dee;"

The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam.

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came down and hid the land—
And never home came she.

"Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-
A tress o' golden hair,

O' drowned maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel, crawling foam,

The cruel, hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea:

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home.

Across the sands o' Dee.

THE DAY OF THE LORD.

THE Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand!
Its storms roll up the sky:

A nation sleeps starving on heaps of gold;
All dreamers toss and sigh;

The night is darkest before the dawn-
When the pain is sorest the child is born,
And the Day of the Lord is at hand.

Gather you, gather you, angels of God-
Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth;

Come! for the Earth is grown coward and old--
Come down and renew us her youth.
Wisdom, Self-sacrifice, Daring, and Love,
Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above,
To the Day of the Lord at hand.

Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell-
Famine, and Plague, and War;
Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule,

Gather, and fall in the snare!

Hirelings and Mammonites, Pedants and Knaves,
Crawl to the battle-field-sneak to your graves,
In the Day of the Lord at hand.

Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold,
While the Lord of all ages is here?

True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God,
And those who can suffer, can dare.

Each age of gold was an iron age too,

And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do, In the Day of the Lord at hand.