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O God, it is a terrible thing to die Into the inextinguishable life;

"WHOм the gods love die young." The thought To leave this known world with a feeble cry,

is old;

And yet it soothed the sweet Athenian mind.

I take it with all pleasure, overbold,
Perhaps, yet to its virtue much inclined
By an inherent love for what is fair.

This is the utter poetry of woe,—

That the bright-flashing gods should cure despair

B love, and make youth precious here below. I die, being young; and, dying, could become A pagan, with the tender Grecian trust. Let Death, the fell anatomy, benumb

The hand that writes, and fill my mouth with dust,

Chint no funereal theme, but, with a choral Hymn, O ye mourners! hail immortal youth au

roral!

II.

Sweetly, my mother! Go not yet away,-
I have not told my story. Oh, not yet,
With the fair past before me, can I lay

My cheek upon the pillow to forget.

O sweet, fair past, my twenty years of youth
Thus thrown away, not fashioning a man ;

But fashioning a memory, forsooth!

More feminine than follower of Pan.

O God! let me not die for years and more! Fulfill Thyself, and I will live then surely Longer than a mere childhood. Now heart

sore,

Weary, with being weary,-weary, purely. In dying, mother, I can find no pleasure Except in being near thee without measure.

III.

Hew Atlas for my monument! upraise

A pyramid for my tomb, that, undestroyed By rank oblivion, and the hungry void, My name shall echo through prospective days. O careless conqueror! cold, abysmal Grave! Is it not sad-is it not sad, my heartTo smother young Ambition, and depart Unhonored and unwilling, like Death's slave? No rare, immortal remnant of my thought

Embalms my life; no poem, firmly reared
Against the shock of time, ignobly feared,-
But all my life's progression come to naught.

Hew Atlas! build a pyramid in a plain !
Oh, cool the fever burning in my brain!

All its poor jarring and ignoble strife. O that some shadowy spectre would disclose The Future, and the soul's confineless hunger Satisfy with some knowledge of repose!

For here the lust of avarice waxeth stronger, Making life hateful; youth alone is true, Full of a glorious self-forgetfulness: Better to die inhabiting the new

Kingdom of faith and promise, and confess, Even in the agony and last eclipse, Some revelation of the Apocalypse!

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1

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

PENELOPE.

(Born 1841.)

WHITHER, Ulysses, whither dost thou roam, Rolled round with wind-led waves that render dark

The smoothly-spinning circle of the sea?
Lo! Troy has fallen, fallen like a tower,
And the mild sunshine of degenerate days
Drops faintly on its ruins. One by one,
Swift as the sparkle of a star, the ships
Have dipped up moistly from the under-world,
And plumed warriors, standing in their prows,
Stretching out arms to wives and little ones
That crowd with seaward faces on the beach,
Have flung their armor off, and leaped and swum
Ere yet the homeward keels could graze the sand,
And these the gaunt survivors of thy peers-
Have landed, shone upon by those they love,
And faded into happy, happy homes ;
While I, the lonely woman, hugging close
The comfort of thine individual fame,
Still wait and yearn and wish towards the sea;
And all the air is hollow of my joy:
The seasons come and go, the hour-glass runs,
The day and night come punctual as of old;
But thy deep strength is in the solemn dawn,
And thy proud step is in the plumed noon,
And thy grave voice is in the whispering eve ;
And all the while, amid this dream of thee,
In restless resolution oceanward,

I sit and ply my sedentary task,

And fear that I am lonelier than I know.

Yea, love, I am alone in all the world; The past grows dark upon me where I wait, With eyes that hunger seaward, and a cheek Grown like the sampler, coarse-complexioned. For in the shadow of thy coming home I sit and weave a weary housewife's web, Pale as the silkworm in the cone; all day I sit and weave this weary housewife's web, And in the night, with fingers swift as frost, Unweave the weary labor of the day. Behold how I am mocked!-Suspicion

To these cold ears that bend above the web
Whispers that thou, no wiser than thy peers,
Hast plucked upon the windy plain of Troy
A flower thou shrinest in a distant land,
A chambered delicacy, drowsy-eyed,
Pink-lidded wanton, like the queen who witched
The fatal apple out of Paris' palm.

And I—and I-ah me! I rise my height,
In matron majesty that melts in tears,
And chide them from me with a tongue that long
Hath lost the trick of chiding: what avails?
They heed me not, rude men, they heed me not
And he thou leftest here to guard me well,
He, the old man, is helpless, and his eyes
Are yellow with the money-minting lie
That thou are dead. O husband, what avails?
They gather on me, till the sense grows cold
And huddles in upon the steadfast heart;
And they have dragged a promise from my lips
To choose a murderer of my love for thee,
To choose at will from out the rest one man
To slay me with his kisses in the dark,
Whene'er the weary web at which I work
Be woven so, all day, I weave the web;
And in the night, with fingers like a thief's,
Unweave the silken sorrow of the day.

The years wear on. Telemachus, thy son, Grows sweetly to the height of all thy hope: More woman-like than thee, less strong of limb, Yet worthy thee; and likest thy grave mood, When, in old time, among these fields, thine eye Would kindle on a battle far away, And thy proud nostrils, drinking the mild breath Of tanned haycocks and of slanted sheaves, Swell suddenly, as if a trumpet spake. Hast thou forgotten how of old he loved To toy with thy great beard, and sport with thee, And how, in thy strong grasp, he leaped, and seemed

A lambkin dandled in a lion's paw?

But change hath come; Troy is an old wife's tale,
And sorrow stealeth early on thy son,
Whom sojourn with my weeping womanhood

Mumbles my name between his toothless gums; Hath taught too soon a young man's gentleness.

And while I ply my sedentary task

They come to me, mere men of hollow clay, Gross-mouthed and stained with wine they come

to me,

And whisper odious comfort, and upbraid
The love that follows thee where'er thou art,
That follows, and, perchance, with thy moist cheek,
Tips on the watery bottom of the world.
They come, Ulysses, and they seek to rob
Thy glory of its weaker, wearier half.

Behold now how his burning boy-face turns
With impotent words beyond all blows of arm
| On those rude men that rack thy weary wife!
Then turns to put his comfort on my cheek,
While sorrow brightens round him-as the gray
Of heaven melts to silver round a star!

Return, Ulysses, ere too late, too late:
Return, immortal warrior, return:
Return, return, and end the weary web!
For day by day I look upon the sea,

They tell me thou art dead; nay, they have brought And watch each ship that dippeth like a gull

Across the long straight line afar away
Where heaven and ocean meet; and when the
winds

Swoop to the waves, and lift them by the hair,
And the long storm-roar gathers, on my knees
I pray for thee. Lo, even now, the deep
Is garrulous of thy vessel tempest-tossed;
And.on the treeless upland gray-eyed March,
With blue and humid mantle backward blown,
Plucks the first primrose in a blustering wind.
The keels are wheeled unto the ocean-sand,
And eyes look outward for the homeward-bound.
And not a marinere, or man, or boy,
Scummed and salt-blooded from the boisterous

sea,

Touches these shores, but straight I summon him,
And bribe with meat and drink to tell good news,
And question him of thee. But what avails?
Thou wanderest; and my love sits all alone,
Upon the threshold of an empty hall.

My very heart has grown a timid mouse,
Peeping out, fearful, when the house is still.
Breathless I listen through the breathless dark,
And hear the cock counting the leaden hours,
And, in the pauses of his cry, the deep
Swings on the flat sand with a hollow clang;
And, pale and burning-eyed, I fall asleep
When, with wild hair, across the weary wave
Stares the sick Dawn that brings thee not to me.
Ulysses, come! Ere traitors leave the mark
Of spread wine-dripping fingers on the smooth
And decent shoulders that now stoop for thee!
I am not young and happy as of old,

In sunset regions, where the still seas rot,
And stretching out great arms, whose shadows
fall

Gigantic on the glassy, purple sea;
And ever, evermore, thou comest slow,
And evermore thy coming far away
Aches on the burning heart-strings,-evermore
Thou comest not, and I am tired and old.

PYGMALION THE SCULPTOR.

UPON the very morn I should have wed
Jove put his silence in a mourning house;
And, coming fresh from feast, I saw her lie
In stainless marriage samite, white and cold,
With orange blossoms in her hair, and gleams
Of the ungiven kisses of the bride
Playing about the edges of her lips.

Then I, Pygmalion, kissed her as she slept,
And drew my robe across my face, whereon
The midnight revel lingered dark, and prayed;
And the sore trouble hollowed out my heart
To hatred of a harsh unhallowed youth
As I glode forth. Next, day by day, my soul
Grew conscious of itself, and of its fief
Within the shadow of her grave: therewith
Wakened a thirst for silence such as dwells
Under the ribs of death; whence slowly grew
Old instincts which had tranced me to tears
In mine unsinewed boyhood; sympathies
Full of faint odors and of music faint
Like buds of roses blowing, till I felt

When, awed by thy male strength, my face grew Her voice come down from heaven on my soul,

dark

At thy grave footfall, with a serious joy,

And stir it as a wind that droppeth down
Unseen, unfelt, unheard, until its breath

Or when, with blushing, backward-looking face, Trembles the shadows in a sleeping lake.

I came a bride to thine inclement realm,
Trembling and treading fearfully on flowers.
I am not young and beauteous as of old;
And much I fear that when we meet, thy face
May startle darkly at the work of years,
And turn to hide a disappointed pang,
And then, with thy grave pride, subdue itself
Into such pity as is love stone-dead.

But thou, thou too, art old, dear lord―thy hair
Is threaded with the silver foam, thy heart
Is weary from the blows of cruel years ;
And there is many a task thy wife can do
To soothe thy sunset season, and make calm
Thy journey down the slow descent to Sleep.
Return, return, Ulysses, ere I die!
Upon this desolate, desolate strand I wait,
Wearily stooping o'er the weary web-
An alabaster woman, whose fixed eyes
Stare seaward, whether it be storm or calm.
And ever, evermore, as in a dream,
I see thee gazing hither from thy ship

And the voice said, "Pygmalion," and "Behold,"

I answered, “I am here;" when thus the voice :

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'Put men behind thee, take thy tools, and choose

A rock of marble, white as is a star;
Cleanse it and make it pure, and fashion it
After mine image; heal thyself; from grief
Comes glory, like a rainbow from a cloud,
For surely life and death, which dwell apart
In grosser human sense, conspire to make
The breathless beauty and eternal joy
Of sculptured shapes in stone. Wherefore thy life
Shall purify itself, and heal itself

In the long toil of love ma le meek by tears."
I barred the entrance-door to this my tower
Against the hungry world; I hid above
The mastiff-murmur of the town, I prayed
In my pale chamber. Then I wrought, and chose
A rock of marble white as is a star,
And to her silent image fashioned clay,
And purified myself, and healed myself,
In the long toil of love made meek by tears.

THE END.

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