DON QUIXOTE

B'

EHIND thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack,

Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro, Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe, And doubtful Sancho trudging at thy back, Thou wert a figure strange enough, good lack! To make wiseacredom, both high and low, Rub purblind eyes, and (having watched thee go) Dispatch its Dogberrys upon thy track: Alas! poor Knight! Alas! poor soul possest! Yet would to-day, when Courtesy grows chill, And life's fine loyalties are turned to jest, Some fire of thine might burn within us still! Ah, would but one might lay his lance in rest, And charge in earnest

were it but a mill.

AIN would I flee, when thou unkindest art,

From Life-a Fury, frenzied with despair,

To Death, young Death, not armed with any dart,
But crowned with poppies, who is mild and fair:
But when, by late remorsefulness subdued,
Thou look'st contrition on some graceless deed,
And, all with sweet submissive tears bedewed,
Thy penitential eyes for pardon plead-
Then, while thy kind looks kindle the bright air,
And purple earth with paradisal blooms,
Life, changed to loveliness, looks mild and fair,
And Death, grown terrible, his dart resumes:
What can I name thee but Enchantress still,
Who Life and Death dost beautify at will?

TO ONE IN BEDLAM

WITH delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,

Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;
Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line
His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares,
Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars
With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine
Lift his long laughing reveries like enchaunted wine,
And make his melancholy germane to the stars?

O lamentable brother! If those pity thee,
Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;
Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,
All their days vanity? Better than mortal flowers,
Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,
The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!

AIN would I flee, when thou unkindest art,

FA

From Life-a Fury, frenzied with despair,

To Death, young Death, not armed with any dart,
But crowned with poppies, who is mild and fair:
But when, by late remorsefulness subdued,
Thou look'st contrition on some graceless deed,
And, all with sweet submissive tears bedewed,
Thy penitential eyes for pardon plead—
Then, while thy kind looks kindle the bright air,
And purple earth with paradisal blooms,
Life, changed to loveliness, looks mild and fair,
And Death, grown terrible, his dart resumes:
What can I name thee but Enchantress still,
Who Life and Death dost beautify at will?

AD MATREM

Hi

OW many a year hath Time, with felon hand, Filch'd from the sum of my allotted days (Alas! with no performance that may stand In warrant of a well-earn'd meed of praise!) Time hath the forehead of my life belined, And clipt my youth with his accursed shears, Hath made companionable Joy unkind, And taught mine eyes the fellowship of tears; His false hands falsely have my mind assail'd, Thence stealing many a secret of sweet pleasure; But his foil'd fingers nothing have prevail'd, Against my heart-the casket of my treasure. My love of thee preserved in its fresh prime, I, robb'd, left rich; how poor a thief is Time!