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SELECTIONS.

SONG FROM "PARACELSUS."

I.

HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes
Of labdanum, and aloe-balls,
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes
From out her hair: such balsam falls
Down sea-side mountain pedestals,
From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,
Spent with the vast and howling main,
To treasure half their island-gain.

II.

And strew faint sweetness from some old
Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud
Which breaks to dust when once unrolled;
Or shredded perfume, like a cloud
From closet long to quiet vowed,
With mothed and dropping arras hung,
Mouldering her lute and books among,
As when a queen, long dead, was young.

SONGS FROM "PIPPA PASSES."

THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING.

THE year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven ;

The bill-side's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn :

God's in his heaven

All's right with the world!

GIVE HER BUT A LEAST EXCUSE.

I.

GIVE her but a least excuse to love me!
When-where-

How

can this arm establish her above me, If fortune fixed her as my lady there, There already, to eternally reprove me? ("Hist!" said Kate the Queen;

་་

But Oh!"-cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'Tis only a page that carols unseen, Crumbling your hounds their messes !")

II.

Is she wronged?-To the rescue of her honour,
My heart!

Is she poor?-What costs it to be styled a donor?
Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part.

But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!

("Nay, list!"-bade Kate the Queen;

And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'Tis only a page that carols unseen,

Fitting your hawks their jesses !'')

HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY.

I ONLY knew one poet in my life:

And this, or something like it, was his way.

You saw go up and down Valladolid,

A man of mark, to know next time you saw.

His very serviceable suit of black

Was courtly once and conscientious still,

And many might have worn it, though none did:

The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads,

Had purpose, and the ruff, significance.

He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane,
Scenting the world, looking it full in face,

An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels.

They turned up, now, the alley by the church,

That leads nowhither; now, they breathed themselves
On the main promenade just at the wrong time:
You'd come upon his scrutinizing hat,

Making a peaked shade blacker than itself
Against the single window spared some house
Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work,-
Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick

Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks
Of some new shop a-building, French and fine.
He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade,
The man who slices lemons into drink,
The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys
That volunteer to help him turn its winch.

He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye,
And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string,
And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall.
He took such cognizance of men and things,
If any beat a horse, you felt he saw ;
If any cursed a woman, he took note;

Yet stared at nobody,-you stared at him,
And found, less to your pleasure than surprise,
He seemed to know you and expect as much.
So, next time that a neighbour's tongue was loosed,
It marked the shameful and notorious fact,
We had among us, not so much a spy,

As a recording chief-inquisitor,

The town's true master if the town but knew!

We merely kept a governor for form,
While this man walked about and took account
Of all thought, said and acted, then went home,
And wrote it fully to our Lord the King

Who has an itch to know things, he knows why,
And reads them in his bedroom of a night.
Oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch,
A tang of . . . well, it was not wholly ease
As back into your mind the man's look came.
Stricken in years a little,-such a brow
His eyes had to live under !-clear as flint

On either side the formidable nose

Curved, cut and coloured like an eagle's claw.
Had he to do with A.'s surprising fate?
When altogether old B. disappeared

And young C. got his mistress,—was't our friend,
His letter to the King, that did it all?

What paid the bloodless man for so much pains?
Our Lord the King has favourites manifold,
And shifts his ministry some once a month;
Our city gets new governors at whiles,-
But never word or sign, that I could hear,
Notified to this man about the streets
The King's approval of those letters conned
The last thing duly at the dead of night.

Did the man love his office? Frowned our Lord,
Exhorting when none heard-"Beseech me not!
Too far above my people,-beneath me!

I set the watch,-how should the people know?
Forget them, keep me all the more in mind!"
Was some such understanding 'twixt the two?

I found no truth in one report at least-
That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes
Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace,
You found he ate his supper in a room
Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall,
And twenty naked girls to change his plate!
Poor man, he lived another kind of life

In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge,
Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise!
The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat,
Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back,
Playing a decent cribbage with his maid
(Jacynth, you're sure her name was) o'er the cheese
And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears,
Or treat of radishes in April.

Nine,

Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he.

My father, like the man of sense he was,
Would point him out to me a dozen times;
"'St-'St," he'd whisper, "the Corregidor! "
I had been used to think that personage
Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous beit,
And feathers like a forest in his hat,

Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news,
Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn,
And memorized the miracle in vogue!

He had a great observance from us boys;
We were in error; that was not the man.

I'd like now, yet had haply been afraid,

To have just looked, when this man came to die,
And seen who lined the clean gay garret-sides

And stood about the neat low truckle-bed,

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