No bigger than a glowworm shone the tent
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean'd on

me,

Descending; once or twice she lent her hand,

And blissful palpitations in the blood
Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell.

But when we planted level feet, and dipt
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in,
There leaning deep in broider'd down we sank
Our elbows; on a tripod in the midst
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow'd
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold.

Then she, Let some one sing to us; lightlier

move

The minutes fledged with music;' and a maid,
Of those beside her, smote her harp and sang.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the

eyes,

In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!'

She ended with such passion that the tear She sang of shook and fell, an erring pearl Lost in her bosom; but with some disdain Answer'd the Princess: If indeed there haunt About the moulder'd lodges of the past

So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men,

Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool
And so pace by. But thine are fancies hatch'd
In silken-folded idleness; nor is it

Wiser to weep a true occasion lost,

But trim our sails, and let old bygones be,

While down the streams that float us each and all To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice, Throne after throne, and molten on the waste Becomes a cloud; for all things serve their time Toward that great year of equal mights and rights. Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end Found golden. Let the past be past, let be

Their cancell❜d Babels; tho' the rough kex break
The starr'd mosaic, and the beard-blown goat
Hang on the shaft, and the wild fig-tree split
Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear
A trumpet in the distance pealing news
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns
Above the unrisen morrow.'
Then to me,

'Know you no song of your own land,' she said, 'Not such as moans about the retrospect,

But deals with the other distance and the hues
Of promise; not a death's-head at the wine?'

Then I remember'd one myself had made,
What time I watch'd the swallow winging south
From mine own land, part made long since, and
part

Now while I sang, and maiden-like as far
As I could ape their treble did I sing.

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying south,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

O, tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,

And dark and true and tender is the North.

6

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,

And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

'O, were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart

Would rock the snowy cradle till I died!

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays

To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O, tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown;\ Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,

But in the North long since my nest is made.

O, tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.'

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each, Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time,

Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd with alien lips, And knew not what they meant; for still my voice

Rang false. But smiling, Not for thee,' she said,

'O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan

Shall burst her veil; marsh-divers, rather, maid, Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake Grate her harsh kindred in the grass - and this

A mere love-poem! O, for such, my friend,

We hold them slight; they mind us of the time When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are

men,

That lute and flute fantastic tenderness,

And dress the victim to the offering up,
And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise,
And play the slave to gain the tyranny.
Poor soul! I had a maid of honor once;
She wept her true eyes blind for such a one,
A rogue of canzonets and serenades.

I loved her.

Peace be with her. She is dead. So they blaspheme the muse! But great is song Used to great ends; ourself have often tried Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dash'd The passion of the prophetess; for song Is duer unto freedom, force and growth Of spirit, than to junketing and love. Love is it?

this

Would this same mock-love, and

Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats,
Till all men grew to rate us at our worth,
Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes

To be dandled, no, but living wills, and sphered
Whole in ourselves and owed to none. Enough!
But now to leaven play with profit, you,

Know you no song, the true growth of your soil,

That gives the manners of your countrywomen?'