827.

But yet, now living, fain would I
That some one then should testify,
Saying 'He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust.'
Will none? Then let my memory die
In after days!

1841-1882

HENRY CLARENCE KENDALL

Mooni

HE that is by Mooni now

Sees the water-sapphires gleaming

Where the River Spirit, dreaming,
Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming
Under lute of leaf and bough!-
Hears what stamp of Storm with stress is,
Psalms from unseen wildernesses

Deep amongst far hill-recesses—

He that is by Mooni now.

Yea, for him by Mooni's marge
Sings the yellow-hair'd September,
With the face the gods remember,
When the ridge is burnt to ember,

And the dumb sea chains the barge!
Where the mount like molten brass is,
Down beneath fern-feather'd passes
Noonday dew in cool green grasses
Gleams on him by Mooni's marge.

Who that dwells by Mooni yet, Feels in flowerful forest arches Smiting wings and breath that parches Where strong Summer's path of march is, And the suns in thunder set! Housed beneath the gracious kirtle Of the shadowy water-myrtle Winds may kiss with heat and hurtle, He is safe by Mooni yet!

Days there were when he who sings (Dumb so long through passion's losses) Stood where Mooni's water crosses Shining tracks of green-hair'd mosses, Like a soul with radiant wings: Then the psalm the wind rehearses Then the song the stream disperses— Lent a beauty to his verses,

Who to-night of Mooni sings.

Ah, the theme-the sad, gray theme! Certain days are not above me, Certain hearts have ceased to love me, Certain fancies fail to move me,

Like the effluent morning dream. Head whereon the white is stealing, Heart whose hurts are past all healing, Where is now the first, pure feeling? Ah, the theme-the sad, gray theme!

Still to be by Mooni coolWhere the water-blossoms glister,

828.

And by gleaming vale and vista
Sits the English April's sister,

Soft and sweet and wonderful!
Just to rest beneath the burning
Outer world-its sneers and spurning-
Ah, my heart-my heart is yearning
Still to be by Mooni cool!

ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR

O'SHAUGHNESSY

Ode

1844-1881

WE are the music-makers,

WE

And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.

829.

We, in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,

And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

I

Song

MADE another garden, yea,
For my new Love:

I left the dead rose where it lay
And set the new above.

Why did my Summer not begin?
Why did my heart not haste?
My old Love came and walk'd therein,
And laid the garden waste.

She enter'd with her weary smile,

Just as of old;

She look'd around a little while

And shiver'd with the cold:

Her passing touch was death to all,
Her passing look a blight;
She made the white rose-petals fall,
And turn'd the red rose white.

Her pale robe clinging to the grass
Seem'd like a snake

That bit the grass and ground, alas!
And a sad trail did make.

830.

She went up slowly to the gate,
And then, just as of yore,

She turn'd back at the last to wait
And say farewell once more.

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.