EVENING

A

LREADY evening! In the duskiest nook

Of yon dusk corner, under the Death's-head,
Between the alembics, thrust this legended,
And iron-bound, and melancholy book,

For I will read no longer. The loud brook
Shelves his sharp light up shallow banks thin-spread;
The slumbrous west grows slowly red, and red:
Up from the ripen'd corn her silver hook
The moon is lifting: and deliciously

Along the warm blue hills the day declines:

The first star brightens while she waits for me, And round her swelling heart the zone grows tight: Musing, half-sad, in her soft hair she twines

The white rose, whispering "He will come to-night!”

FIONA MACLEOD (WILLIAM SHARP)

THE UNBORN CHILD

C

HILD of no mortal birth, that yet doth live,

Where loiterest thou, O blossom of our joy? Unsummon'd hence, dost thou, knowing all, forgive? Thy rainbow-rapture, doth it never cloy?

O exquisite dream, dear child of our desire,
On mounting wings flitt'st thou afar from here?
We cannot reach thee who dost never tire,—
Sweet phantom of delight, appear, appear!
How lovely must thou be, wrought of her womb,
With eyes as proud as hers and face as fair,
And round about thee as a fragrant gloom
The falling twilight of her shadowy hair,
And all the love and passion of thy sire
With hers re-wed in thy white heart of fire!

TO A FAVOURITE EVENING RETREAT

O

LOVED wild hill-side, that hast been a power

Not less than books, greater than preacher's art, To heal my wounded spirit, and my heart, Retune to gentle thoughts, that hour on hour Must languish in the city, like a flower In wayside dust, while on the vulgar mart We squander for scant gold our better part From morn till eve, in frost, and sun, and shower! My soul breaks into singing as I haste, Day's labour ended, towards thy sylvan shrine Of rustling beech, hawthorn, and eglantine; And, wandering in thy shade, I dream of thee As of green pastures 'mid the desert waste, Wells of sweet water in the bitter sea.

FIRST AND LAST KISS

HY lips are quiet, and thine eyes are still;
Cold, colourless, and sad thy placid face;
Thy form has only now the statue's grace;
My words wake not thy voice, nor can they fill
Thine eyes with light. Before fate's mighty will,
Our wills must bow; yet for a little space
I sit with thee and death, in this lone place,
And hold thy hands that are so white and chill.

I always loved thee, though thou didst not know;
But well he knew whose wedded love thou wert:
Now thou art dead, I may raise up the fold
That hides thy face, and, o'er thee bending low,
For the first time and last before we part,
Kiss the curved lips-calm, beautiful, and cold!

LOVE'S QUEST

L

OVE walks with weary feet the upward way, Love without joy and led by suffering. Love's unkissed lips have now no song to sing, Love's eyes are blind and cannot see the day; Love walks in utter darkness, and I say:

"O, Love, 'tis summer," or, "Behold the spring, Or, "Love, 'tis autumn, and leaves withering," And "Now it is the winter bleak and gray,”

"

And still Love heedeth not. "O, Love," I cry,
"Wilt thou not rest? the path is over steep:'
Love answers not, but passeth all things by;
Nor will he stay, for those who laugh or weep.
I follow Love who follows Grief; but lo,

Where the way ends, not Love himself can know.