XLII.

THE ASSIGNATION.

THE darkness throbbed that night with the great heat,
And my heart throbbed at thought of what should be;
The house was dumb, the lock slid silently;

I only heard the night's hot pulses beat
Around me as I sped with quiet feet

Down the dark corridors; and once the sea
Moaned in its slumber, and I stayed, but she
Came forth to meet me lily-white and sweet.

Was there a man's soul ever worth her kiss?

Silent and still I stood, and she drew near,

And her lips mixed with mine, and her sweet breath

Fanned my hot face; and afterward I wis,

What the sea said to us I did not hear;

But now I know it spake of Doom and Death.

HERBERT E. CLARKE.

XLIII.

KING OF KINGS.

O DEATH, Death, Death! Thou art the Lord of all, And at Thy darkened shrine I bow mine head

In this Thy temple, where for Thee are shed Man's blood and tears: gods, kings, and temples fall; Thy reign, O Lord, is immemorial:

Ever thou waxest stronger and more dread,

More populous grows Thy kingdom of the dead, And joy and love and hope Thou hast in thrall.

We follow vain desires and idle things,

We vex our souls with hollow hopes and fears,
We dread the future and regret the past:

Thou comest, O Almighty, King of kings,
And stillest all the tumult of the years,

And tak'st each babbler to Thy breast at last.

XLIV.

THE BIRTH OF SPEECH.

WHAT was't awakened first the untried ear
Of that sole man who was all human kind?
Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind,
Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere?
The four mellifluous streams which flowed so near,
Their lulling murmurs all in one combined?
The note of bird unnamed? The startled hind
Bursting the brake, in wonder, not in fear,
Of her new lord? Or did the holy ground
Send forth mysterious melody to greet
The gracious pressure of immaculate feet?
Did viewless seraphs rustle all around

Making sweet music out of air as sweet?
Or his own voice awake him with its sound?

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

XLV.

SIN.

IF I have sinned in act, I may repent ;
If I have erred in thought, I may disclaim

My silent error, and yet feel no shame;
But if my soul, big with an ill intent,

Guilty in will, by fate be innocent,

Or being bad yet murmurs at the curse

And incapacity of being worse,

That makes my hungry passion still keep Lent

In keen expectance of a Carnival,

Where, in all worlds that round the sun revolve And shed their influence on this passive ball, Abides a power that can my soul absolve? Could any sin survive and be forgiven,

One sinful wish would make a hell of heaven.

XLVI.

PRAYER.

THERE is an awful quiet in the air,

And the sad earth, with moist imploring eye,
Looks wide and wakeful at the pondering sky,
Like Patience slow subsiding to Despair.
But see, the blue smoke as a voiceless prayer,
Sole witness of a secret sacrifice,

Unfolds its tardy wreaths, and multiplies.
Its soft chameleon breathings in the rare

Capacious ether, so it fades away,

And nought is seen beneath the pendent blue,

The undistinguishable waste of day.

So have I dreamed!-oh, may the dream be true!That praying souls are purged from mortal hue, And grow as pure as He to whom they pray.