Save the all-seeing Gods, who, knowing good

And knowing evil, have created me Such as I am, and filled me with desire

Fever of the heart and brain,
Sorrow, pestilence, and pain,
Moans of anguish, maniac laughter,
All the evils that hereafter
Shall afflict and vex mankind,
All into the air have risen
From the chambers of their prison;
Only Hope remains behind.

VIII.

IN THE GARDEN.

EPIMETHEUS.

THE storm is past, but it hath left behind it

Ruin and desolation. All the walks Are strewn with shattered boughs; the birds are silent;

The flowers, downtrodden by the wind, lie dead;

The swollen rivulet sobs with secret pain, The melancholy reeds whisper together

As if some dreadful deed had been committed

They dare not name, and all the air is heavy

With an unspoken sorrow! Premonitions,

Foreshadowings of some terrible disaster Oppress my heart. Ye Gods, avert the omen !

PANDORA, coming from the house.

selves.

To lift mine eyes to thine, nor hear thy

OF HORN.

I.

THE lights are out, and gone are all the

guests That thronging came with merriment and jests To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane into the night are

In the new house,
gone;
But still the fire upon the hearth burns on,
And I alone remain.

O fortunate, O happy day,

When a new household finds its place
Among the myriad homes of earth,
Like a new star just sprung to birth,
And rolled on its harmonious way
Into the boundless realms of space!

So said the guests in speech and song,
As in the chimney, burning bright,
We hung the iron crane to-night,
And merry was the feast and long.

II.

AND now I sit and muse on what may be, And in my vision see, or seem to see, Through floating vapors interfused with light,

Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade,

As shadows passing into deeper shade
Sink and elude the sight.

For two alone, there in the hall,
As spread the table round and small;
Upon the polished silver shine
The evening lamps, but, more divine,
The light of love shines over all;
Of love, that says not mine and thine,
But ours, for ours is thine and mine.

They want no guests, to come between
Their tender glances like a screen,
And tell them tales of land and sea,
And whatsoever may betide

The great, forgotten world outside;
They want no guests; they needs must
be

Each other's own best company.

Seated, I see the two again,
But not alone; they entertain
A little angel unaware,

With face as round as is the moon ;
A royal guest with flaxen hair,
Who, throned upon his lofty chair,
Drums on the table with his spoon,
Then drops it careless on the floor,
To grasp at things unseen before.

Are these celestial manners? these
The ways that win, the arts that please?
Ah yes; consider well the guest,
And whatsoe'er he does seems best;
He ruleth by the right divine
Of helplessness, so lately born
In purple chambers of the morn,
As sovereign over thee and thine.
He speaketh not; and yet there lies
A conversation in his eyes;
The golden silence of the Greek,
The gravest wisdom of the wise,
Not spoken in language, but in looks
More legible than printed books,
As if he could but would not speak.
And now, O monarch absolute,
Thy power is put to proof; for, lo!
Resistless, fathomless, and slow,
The nurse comes rustling like the sea,
And pushes back thy chair and thee,
And so good night to King Canute.

IV.

As one who walking in a forest sees A lovely landscape through the parted trees,