I long for scenes where man has never trod-
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept-
There to abide with my Creator, God,

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,
The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.

J. Clare

CLXXI

THE BOURNE

Underneath the growing grass,
Underneath the living flowers,
Deeper than the sound of showers:
There we shall not count the hours

By the shadows as they pass.

Youth and health will be but vain,
Beauty reckon'd of no worth:
There a very little girth

Can hold round what once the earth

Seem'd too narrow to contain.

C. G. Rossetti

CLXXII

SONG

When I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree :

Be the green grass above me

With showers and dewdrops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,

I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain :

And dreaming through the twilight

That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember,

And haply may forget.

C. G. Rossetti

CLXXIII

THE FOUNTAIN OF TEARS

If you go over desert and mountain,
Far into the country of sorrow,
To-day and to-night and to-morrow,
And maybe for months and for years;

You shall come, with a heart that is bursting
For trouble and toiling and thirsting,
You shall certainly come to the fountain
At length,-to the Fountain of Tears.

Very peaceful the place is, and solely
For piteous lamenting and sighing,
And those who come living or dying
Alike from their hopes and their fears;
Full of cypress-like shadows the place is,
And statues that cover their faces:
But out of the gloom springs the holy
And beautiful Fountain of Tears.

And it flows and it flows with a motion
So gentle and lovely and listless,
And murmurs a tune so resistless
To him who hath suffer'd and hears-

You shall surely-without a word spoken,

Kneel down there and know your heart broken,

And yield to the long curb'd emotion

That day by the Fountain of Tears.

For it grows and it grows, as though leaping
Up higher the more one is thinking;
And ever its tunes go on sinking
More poignantly into the ears:

Yea, so blessed and good seems that fountain,
Reach'd after dry desert and mountain,
You shall fall down at length in your weeping
And bathe your sad face in the tears.

Then, alas! while you lie there a season,
And sob between living and dying,
And give up the land you were trying
To find 'mid your hopes and your fears;
-O the world shall come up and pass o'er you ;
Strong men shall not stay to care for you,

Nor wonder indeed for what reason
Your way should seem harder than theirs.

But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting
Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses,
Nor caring to raise your wet tresses
And look how the cold world appears,-

O perhaps the mere silences round youAll things in that place grief hath found you, Yea, e'en to the clouds o'er you drifting, May soothe you somewhat through your tears. You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes Your face, as though some one had kiss'd you, Or think at least some one who miss'd you Hath sent you a thought,-if that cheers; Or a bird's little song, faint and broken, May pass for a tender word spoken: -Enough, while around you there rushes That life-drowning torrent of tears.

And the tears shall flow faster and faster,

Brim over, and baffle resistance,

And roll down blear'd roads to each distance

Of past desolation and years;

Till they cover the place of each sorrow,
And leave you no Past and no morrow:
For what man is able to master
And stem the great Fountain of Tears?

But the floods of the tears meet and gather;

The sound of them all grows like thunder:
-O into what bosom I wonder,

Is pour'd the whole sorrow of years?
For Eternity only seems keeping

Account of the great human weeping:
May God, then, the Maker and Father-
May He find a place for the tears!

A. O'Shaughnessy

CLXXIV

THE WRECK

Hide me, Mother! my Fathers belong'd to the church of old,

I am driven by storm and sin and death to the ancient

fold,

I cling to the Catholic Cross once more, to the Faith

that saves,

My brain is full of the crash of wrecks, and the roar of waves,

My life itself is a wreck, I have sullied a noble name, I am flung from the rushing tide of the world as a waif of shame,

I am roused by the wail of a child, and awake to a livid light,

And a ghastlier face than ever has haunted a grave by night,

I would hide from the storm without, I would flee from the storm within,

I would make my life one prayer for a soul that died in his sin,

I was the tempter, Mother, and mine was the deeper

fall;

I will sit at your feet, I will hide my face, I will tell you all.

He that they gave me to, Mother, a heedless and

innocent bride

I never have wrong'd his heart, I have only wounded his pride

Spain in his blood and the Jew-dark-visaged, stately

and tall

A princelier-looking man never stept thro' a Prince's hall.

And who, when his anger was kindled, would venture to give him the nay?

And a man men fear is a man to be loved by the women they say.

And I could have loved him too, if the blossom can doat on the blight,

Or the young green leaf rejoice in the frost that sears it at night;

He would open the books that I prized, and toss them away with a yawn,

Repell'd by the magnet of Art to the which my nature was drawn,

The word of the Poet by whom the deeps of the world are stirr'd,

The music that robes it in language beneath and beyond the word!

My Shelley would fall from my hands when he cast a contemptuous glance

From where he was poring over his Tables of Trade and Finance;

My hands, when I heard him coming, would drop from the chords or the keys,

But ever I fail'd to please him, however I strove to please-

All day long far-off in the cloud of the city, and there Lost, head and heart, in the chances of dividend, consol, and share

And at home if I sought for a kindly caress, being woman and weak,

His formal kiss fell chill as a flake of snow on the cheek: And so, when I bore him a girl, when I held it aloft

in my joy,

He look'd at it coldly, and said to me 'Pity it isn't a

boy.'

The one thing given me, to love and to live for, glanced at in scorn!

The child that I felt I could die for-as if she were basely born!