A cloud passed kindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it,

Yet hid its face, as if it said, "Come, now or never! do it! do it!"

My lips till then had only known

The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow, full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, — I kissed her!

Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still,
O listless woman, weary lover!
To feel once more that fresh, wild
thrill

I'd give-but who can live youth over?

THE DISCOVERER.

I HAVE a little kinsman.
Whose earthly summers are but
three,

And yet a voyager is he
Greater than Drake or Frobisher,
Than all their peers together!
He is a brave discoverer,
And, far beyond the tether

Of them who seek the frozen Pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll,

Ay, he has travelled whither
A winged pilot steered his bark
Through the portals of the dark,
Past hoary Mimir's well and tree,

Across the unknown sea.

Suddenly, in his fair young hour, Came one who bore a flower, And laid it in his dimpled hand

With this command: "Henceforth thou art a rover! Thou must make a voyage far, Sail beneath the evening star, And a wondrous land discover." - With his sweet smile innocent Our little kinsman went.

Since that time no word

From the absent has been heard. Who can tell

How he fares, or answer well

What the little one has found Since he left us, outward bound: Would that he might return! Then should we learn

From the pricking of his chart How the skyey roadways part. Hush! does not the baby this way bring,

To lay beside this severed curl,
Some starry offering
Of chrysolite or pearl?

Ah, no! not so!
We may follow on his track,
But he comes not back,
And yet I dare aver

He is a brave discoverer
Of climes his elders do not know,
He has more learning than appears
On the scroll of twice three thou-
. sand years,

More than in the groves is taught,
Or from furthest Indies brought;
He knows, perchance, how spirits
fare,

What shapes the angels wear, What is their guise and speech In those lands beyond our reachAnd his eyes behold Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.

SEEKING THE MAYFLOWER.

THE Sweetest sound our whole year round

'Tis the first robin of the spring! The song of the full orchard choir Is not so fine a thing.

Glad sights are common: Nature draws [year, Her random pictures through the But oft her music bids us long

Remember those most dear.

To me, when in the sudden spring
I hear the earliest robin's lay,
With the first trill there comes again
One picture of the May.

The veil is parted wide, and lo,

A moment, though my eyelids close,

THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH.

THERE are gains for all our losses,

There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,

Under manhood's sterner reign:
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain:
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth, and in the air,
But it never comes again.

AN OLD SONG REVERSED.

"THERE are gains for all our losses." So I said when I was young. If I sang that song again, 'Twould not be with that refrain,

Which but suits an idle tongue.

Youth has gone, and hope gone with it,

Gone the strong desire for fame. Laurels are not for the old.

Take them, lads. Give Senex gold. What's an everlasting name?

When my life was in its summer

One fair woman liked my looks: Now that Time has driven his plough In deep furrows on my brow,

I'm no more in her good books. "There are gains for all our losses?"

Grave beside the wintry sea, Where my child is, and my heart, For they would not live apart,

What has been your gain to me?

No, the words I sang were idle,

And will ever so remain: Death, and age, and vanished youth, All declare this bitter truth,

"There's a loss for every gain!"

Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won;

Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen.

Chosen for large designs, he had the

art

Of winning with his humor, and he

went

Straight to his mark, which was the human heart;

Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent.

Upon his back a more than Atlasload,

The burden of the Commonwealth, was laid;

He stooped, and rose up to it, though the road

Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed.

Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give place

To this dear benefactor of the race.

HOW ARE SONGS BEGOT AND BRED.

How are songs begot and bred ?
How do golden measures flow?
From the heart, or from the head,
Happy poet, let me know.

Tell me first how folded flowers
Bud and bloom in vernal bowers;
How the south wind shapes its tune,
The harper, he, of June.

None may answer, none may know, Winds and flowers come and go, And the selfsame canons bind Nature and the poet's mind.

RATTLE THE WINDOW.

RATTLE the window, winds,
Rain, drip on the panes;
There are tears and sighs in our
hearts and eyes,

And a weary weight on our brains.

The gray sea heaves and heaves, On the dreary flats of sand;

And the blasted limb of the church yard yew,

It shakes like a ghostly hand.

The dead are engulfed beneath it,
Sunk in the grassy waves:
But we have more dead in our hearts
to-day

Than earth in all her graves!

SONGS UNSUNG.

LET no poet, great or small,
Say that he will sing a song;
For song cometh, if at all,

Not because we woo it long,
But because it suits its will,
Tired at last of being still.

Every song that has been sung

Was before it took a voice, Waiting since the world was young For the poet of its choice. Oh, if any waiting be,

May they come to-day to me!

I am ready to repeat

Whatsoever they impart;
Sorrows sent by them are sweet,
They know how to heal the heart
Ay, and in the lightest strain
Something serious doth remain.
What are my white hairs, forsooth,
And the wrinkles on my brow?
I have still the soul of youth,

Try me, merry Muses, now.
I can still with numbers fleet
Fill the world with dancing feet.

No, I am no longer young,

Old am I this many a year;
But my songs will yet be sung,
Though I shall not live to hear.
O my son that is to be,
Sing my songs, and think of me!

WHEN THE DRUM OF SICKNESS BEATS.

WHEN the drum of sickness beats The change o' the watch, and we are old,

Farewell, youth, and all its sweets, Fires gone out that leave us cold!